Assault on Alpha Base Page 12

  Vikki shivered from a sudden gust of cool wind. Swinging up onto the APC, she took a final glance around before dropping her rifle down into the hatch.

  Her ears still rang from the C-130’s close passing. She thought she could still make out the engine’s droning.

  She hesitated. The plane should have been long gone by now.

  She heard something. “Anthony. Anthony!”

  Harding stuck his head up through the hatch. “What?”

  Vikki pointed to the access road. A pair of headlights bore straight toward them. The sound she heard moments before cascaded. “We’ve got visitors.”

  2238 local

  Inside the C-130

  The APC’s electric motor whirred into motion as the C-130 turned away from the deserted hangar. The cargo ramp hit the runway with a thump, bouncing as the APC roared down the ramp. Once the APC exited, the ramp lifted and fit smoothly onto the back of the C-130 tail section.

  Frank Koch pushed forward to the cockpit. Wendover’s runway stretched out in front of him. The lights lining the runway seemed to go on forever.

  The lights brought back the memories. Since meeting Colonel Renault, Koch got to fly nearly all he wanted. He was checked out in so many helicopters, he’d lost count; everything from British Westland Commandos to Soviet Mi-24 Hinds.

  And the beauty was that Renault paid him, doing all the dirty little jobs that a country itself could not afford to be connected with. It was a good life: in the army without the army bull.

  Koch squinted through the darkness and made out a score of lumps parked by the side of the runway. One of the lumps was lit well enough to see—an HH-53 helicopter squatted on the asphalt, its blades almost touching the ground. An auxiliary power unit stood just inside the perimeter of light. The soft glow of two cigarettes pinpointed the technicians responsible for keeping the helicopter on alert.

  As the C-130 taxied down the runway, Koch nudged the pilot. The man, also a member of Renault’s legion, slid his headset down around his neck. Koch shouted over the din, “Swing closer to the helicopters.”

  The pilot shook his head. “Too risky. We’re being tracked by the ground control.”

  “You don’t have to run the helicopters over—just get closer to them. Thirty-six men are depending on you not to blow their cover.”

  “I’ve got my own cover to worry about. What the hell do you think they’re going to do if they find out I’m not from Peterson Field?”

  Koch glanced out the cockpit window. “Don’t worry about it—just get us close to the helicopters.”

  “What will I tell the tower?”

  “I don’t know. You figure it out. Tell them you lost hydraulic pressure on one of your rudders or something. And don’t forget to slow down when you get there.”

  The pilot straightened the headset on his ears. Koch waited momentarily to see if the man would do what he said. When the aircraft swerved toward the helicopters, Koch hurried to the cargo bay. They had to hurry—the C-130 from Peterson AFB would be here in the next twenty minutes.

  The men sat alert on the webbed seating, rifles on their knees. Their entire focus was on capturing the helicopters and flying into Alpha Base. Koch jerked his head toward the jump master door at the rear of the craft.

  “Let’s get a move on—when the 130 slows, get the hell out of here. The choppers will be directly in front of you. One more time: set the timers for 2300 and make sure the last five choppers on the right are clean. I don’t want anybody’s chopper blowing up because one of you nippleheads got too enthusiastic. Got it?”

  Grim faces stared back at him.

  “All right—let’s go.”

  Koch scooted to the side and started handing out satchels, five to a man. Koch opened the top bag and did a random check: five pounds of plastique explosive, a timer, and a fuse. He slapped the satchel shut. Twenty-five pounds of explosives for each man—more than enough to take out the helicopters in the Wendover fleet.

  Koch pushed his way to the rear. Laying down the explosives, he struggled with the jump master door. A red light burned above the door, signifying “don’t jump.”

  Dry air spilled into the C-130 when the hatch swung open. JP-4 and diesel fuel raced through his nostrils. The HH-53 parking area was to his left and coming up fast. The C-130’s engines seemed to back off a bit, and the craft actually slowed. The pilot tapped the brakes and the craft slowed further.

  Koch jerked his head at the hatch. “Get ready—he may not have a chance to stop. I’ll go first.”

  He looked down at the runway whizzing by and tried to judge the speed. A parachute-landing fall would be a piece of cake; but if he jumped out now, he’d risk landing on the satchel. He decided that falling on twenty-five pounds of explosives wasn’t too swift an idea.

  The C-130 turned slightly. Koch wet his lips and squinted at the runway. It was hard to tell how fast they were going, but they didn’t have much time left. The pilot was being too careful, not slowing any further, so Koch decided they had to go. He drew in a deep breath and leaped out of the craft.

  He landed running, nearly tripped, and caught himself. Slowing to a jog, he crouched and waited for the others to exit. One after another the thirty-five men leaped from the C-130.

  The plane seemed to linger too long after they egressed.

  Koch waited. He wondered if the pilot even knew that they had jumped. If he stays any longer, he’ll draw attention to us, he thought.

  The C-130 turned a wing away from the row of helicopters and revved its engines. Koch silently cursed the pilot, hoping he hadn’t blown their cover. He decided to wait a moment more before heading out.

  Nothing stirred around the HH-53’s. It was a dead Saturday night—no activity that might detect them. He couldn’t see the security policemen guarding the flight line, but his men would take care of them.

  He started for the helicopters. The men trailed him, each silently waiting to secure their satchels underneath the helicopters—and then to board a chopper for the assault on Alpha Base.

  2240 local

  Wendover AFB Command Post

  “Sir, they’ve landed.”

  “What?” Major McGriffin struggled up in his seat. His professional military education lay on the floor, open to a chapter entitled Canals and Interstates: America’s Strategic Byways. He rubbed at his eyes. “Who landed?”

  “Merry Zero Three, sir,” reminded Staff Sergeant Sanchez. The communications tech nodded toward the status board. “The reserve unit out of Peterson Field. They landed thirty minutes early. You wanted us to wake, er, I mean notify you when the C-130 arrived from Colorado Springs. Something about one of your classmates being on board?”

  “Oh, yeah.” McGriffin stretched. “Thanks, I’ll check in with them.” He picked up a cup of decaf sitting on his desk and took a sip.

  The coffee was cold. He forced a swallow and jammed the cup back on the desk. Yawning, he scratched and twisted his neck, taking in the command post. All the ready boards were green. Even the “threat condition” sign burned green with threatcon alpha.

  McGriffin called out to Sanchez, “Can you get base ops on the line?”

  The sergeant punched at the phone. “Line five one, Major—I’m ringing now.”

  McGriffin picked up the telephone. “Yeah, this is Major McGriffin over at the CP. Have you got a roster on that 130 from Pete—Merry Zero Three?” A moment passed. “Well, do you know if they’ll be filing a flight plan to return?” Another moment … “That’s odd. When do they plan to rotate?” McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “Okay. Thanks.”

  He hung up and stared at the desk. Chief Zolley moved to his side.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing.” McGriffin turned and folded his arms. He picked up a pencil and tapped it sporadically on the desk. Turning back to Zolley, McGriffin played with the pencil’s eraser. “Chief, something doesn’t seem right.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Zolley
perched on the side of the desk and took a sip of his coffee.

  “I’m not sure. I may be completely off base on this, but it seems peculiar that a plane would fly all the way from Colorado Springs this late at night, not remain overnight, and take off again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McGriffin sprang up from his seat and paced in front of the desk. “If I hadn’t known so many wild 130 flyers, I’d think nothing of it. Those guys are always on the prowl, and since they’re a reserve unit, they’ve signed up to do this sort of thing: go on temporary duty and party. It doesn’t make sense they would just leave.” He called out to the communications unit. “Sanchez! Get base ops at Pete Field on DSN. Find out if they’ve got a C-130, call sign Merry Zero Three, filed for Wendover—”

  “The call sign checks out, sir,” interrupted Zolley.

  “Checks out with whom?”

  “With the weekly list, sir.”

  “But not necessarily with what left Pete Field.” McGriffin placed a hand on the back of his chair.

  “What are you saying, sir?” said Zolley slowly.

  “Did you ever see A Gathering of Eagles, Chief?” Frowning, Zolley shook his head no. “I must have seen that thing a hundred times at the Academy— they were always pumping us full of that Air Force rah-rah bull during Basic summer. Anyway, there’s a spot in that movie where the wing commander loses his job because of an Operational Readiness Inspection. He wasn’t prepared for what the readiness team threw at him.” McGriffin nodded his head. “I’ll bet ten to one that’s what STRATCOM has done. They’re throwing us a ringer—probably got an ORI set up to catch us napping.”

  “Major McGriffin.” Staff Sergeant Sanchez stood and held a hand over the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, Peterson Field says no C-130 from there is anywhere near Wendover.”

  “Are they sure?”

  “Absolutely. They had planned a sortie and even scheduled an arrival time of 2300, but they’re having a freak snowstorm and all of their birds are grounded.”

  McGriffin slammed a hand against the back of his chair. The command post grew quiet at the exchange. He nodded to Sanchez. “Thanks, Sergeant; I remember it can snow in June there.” He turned to Zolley. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I kind of like your Operational Readiness Inspection idea, sir. But if the 130 said it’s from Pete Field—and yet Pete doesn’t know anything about it …” He trailed off.

  “Yeah,” said McGriffin. He spun the chair around and plopped down in the seat. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he suddenly asked Zolley, “Did base ops get a look at the tail number on that 130?”

  Chief Zolley’s brows lifted. “They didn’t say. Good idea, sir.” A minute later he put the phone down. “They can’t see anything. He took a long roll on landing, then when he taxied, lingered near the helicopter apron. When he refueled, it looked like he was all black—he insisted he could refuel for only fifteen minutes before leaving, too. He’s just been cleared for takeoff.”

  McGriffin closed his eyes. “All black. It could be a Blackbird—one of the special ops birds at Hurlburt; but those guys still play by the rules.” He opened his eyes and swiveled around. “Any chance it could have been something out of Tonopah, Area-51?”

  If the command post was silent before, it was as lively as a morgue now. Tonopah was the highly classified air base a few hundred miles north of Las Vegas, rumored to house the Air Force’s newest “black” programs—that’s where the stealth fighters and bombers started out, and other things that the Air Force never admitted existed.

  Zolley slowly shook his head. “No way, Major. We always get advance notice about anything from there coming our way. We lock the runway up so tight, not even the rattlesnakes can get in or out.”

  McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “They’re cleared to take off in five minutes—maybe I should raise Colonel DeVries …” He trailed off.

  Just having a plane land and take off was nothing to get excited about. So why should he worry?

  Because of Alpha Base.

  Wendover might be hicksville compared to Tacoma, but Wendover AFB had a heck of a lot more dangerous “assets.” Like the free world’s largest repository of nuclear weapons.

  “Chief, have base ops call the 130 back. I want to ask them some questions.”

  Zolley spoke up once he raised the tower. “The aircraft refuses to acknowledge them, Major. There is incoming traffic, two jets on final, coming up in the next four minutes—the 130 is cleared to roll after the jets land.”

  McGriffin drew in a breath. Five minutes. The command post is right on the runway—a staff car could race out to the taxi pad and get a visual on the tail number in two minutes. There’s plenty of time.

  He made up his mind. “Chief—you’ve got the command post while I’m gone. Keep in contact with me at all times. I’ll take one of the encrypted cell phones.”

  “You’ll have to use an open channel, Major. The secure units are on the blink.”

  “What else could go wrong?” No one answered the rhetorical question. “All right, I’ll use the jeep radio.” The clock blinked, showing four minutes until takeoff. “Contact the helicopter squadron. Tell them about the C-130 loitering around their apron, and have one of their guys meet me out there. I’m off.”

  As they cycled the door, he remembered leaving his hat on the desk. He fleetingly remembered a horse’s rear colonel chewing him out in front of the base gym when he had failed to put on his hat. McGriffin had thought at the time: you command what you know. Wearing a hat had been a big deal then.

  Now he didn’t even think about going back to get it.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, 18 June, 2241 local

  Wendover AFB

  Harding ducked into the personnel carrier. He instantly popped back up with two rifles. He tossed one of them to Vikki. “Get the hell out of here. Cover the APC.” He yelled down inside the personnel carrier: “Punch out the back. We’ve got visitors.”

  He pushed Vikki off the vehicle. She tumbled against the side and managed to land on her feet. She started to curse him, but realized that if they were fired upon, the APC would draw bullets like a magnet.

  Keeping low to the ground, Vikki sprinted to a small depression. Crouching, she brought her rifle up and swiveled toward the approaching headlights.

  In the dark the APC appeared as just another murky object. The headlights scared her. Maybe it’s just a random check, she thought. If it were a full-scale attempt to stop us, all hell should have broken loose.

  Unless Britnell hadn’t told her everything.

  She grew suddenly chilled at the thought. What if Britnell hadn’t played straight with her—what if he’d been leading her on, gathering snips of information, and dealing with the brass on Wendover? What if they knew about all the information she had gotten from Britnell—the map?

  She dismissed the thought. Britnell had been too open, too vulnerable with her. She knew. Besides, he couldn’t have discovered their plans.

  Vikki grasped her weapon tightly and followed the headlights through the gun sight.

  A minute passed … as the lights grew closer, she heard music blaring from the vehicle. The car weaved down the road, screeching to a halt fifty feet from the APC. Laughter, clinking bottles, and smells of pot and liquor drifted from the car.

  Vikki brought the rifle down. Kids!

  Saturday night was international date night, and Wendover AFB was not excluded, especially from military brats. Vikki relaxed. If those damn kids would only get the hell out of here...

  The laughter grew louder as car doors opened. “... I got to take a whiz. I’ll be right back.” A figure staggered to the hangar. Vikki peered through the darkness. She made out the features of two girls and a boy in the car. Two couples. It could have been her, twenty years ago, on a double date back in Colorado...

  A teenager’s voice called from the hangar. “Hey, look at this!” The laughter in the car ab
ated.

  “Hurry up. We don’t have all night.”

  “A moving van. Holy cow, it’s an abandoned party wagon!”

  The hilarity inside the car increased. The occupants spilled out and picked themselves up. Weaving to the van, they met their compatriot. They wandered around the van, inspecting the cab and giggling in low whispers.

  “Oh, wow. I don’t believe it—”

  “Do.” Colonel Renault and ten of his men materialized in front of the kids, weapons leveled.

  “Oh, shit.” One of the teenagers wavered.

  “Not another word from any of you.” Renault waved his rifle at the two couples. “Climb inside the back of the truck. Move it.”

  The men opened ranks and formed a conduit to the moving van. They roughly pushed the kids up inside. One of the girls started sobbing.

  “Shut up,” snarled Renault.

  The teenager who first climbed out of the car picked himself up and nursed an injured elbow. “Hey, what the hell do you sky cops think you’re doing? Roughing us up—who do you think you are?”

  Renault floored the youngster with his rifle butt. He glared at the rest of them and jumped from the van. Crying came from inside.

  Vikki ran up just as Harding arrived. She brushed back her hair, then looped it back into a knot so it wouldn’t get in the way. “Tie them up and get the hell out of here. We’re running late.”

  Renault remained silent. He looked at Harding.

  Harding narrowed his eyes. “Well?”

  “Your call, Dr. Harding. Ms. Osborrn is right. We’re starting to cut it close. We can’t afford to wait around here any longer.”

  Harding wet his lips. Even in the dark Vikki could tell that his face was flushed. “Let’s get going. We’ve come too far to back down.”

  Vikki turned to one of Renault’s men. “Tie up the kids and get back to the APC.”

  The man didn’t budge. “Colonel?”

  Renault raised his brows at Harding. “Well?”

  Harding nodded, seemingly oblivious to Vikki’s presence. He whispered, “Get rid of them.”

  Vikki put an edge to her voice. She addressed Renault’s men again. “You heard him, tie them up—”