Assault on Alpha Base Page 13

  “I said, get rid of them.”

  “What!” Vikki looked incredulous.

  Harding stared down Vikki. “We can’t let a bunch of damn kids ruin this.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Anthony? You’ve got four kids in that van, crapping in their pants, scared out of their wits we’re going to kill them. If we tie them up, there’s no way they’re going to get loose in less than an hour. By then we’ll be smack in the middle of Alpha Base—”

  Harding cut her off with a wave. “And what happens if in two minutes after we leave they’re found by a security police patrol? We can’t afford to screw up.”

  “But these are just kids …”

  “What’s more important, dammit? This operation or a couple of kids’ lives?” Harding whirled and pointed at Renault. “Get rid of them.” He stomped off toward the APC.

  Vikki stood in a daze. She couldn’t believe her ears. It was one thing for her to kill Britnell—the poor slob didn’t deserve to live, the way he’d used her, leeched off her, but killing four kids?

  Twenty years ago it could have been her.

  The girls must have been shot first, because it was a male scream that pierced the dark.

  She walked numbly to the personnel carrier. Men rushed past her, climbing back into the APC through the back access.

  Renault passed her, then slowed, allowing her to catch up. He pulled on a short cigarette. “Welcome to the club, Ms. Osborrn.” She didn’t answer. Renault continued, “Dr. Harding’s decision to kill those kids was just as hard as yours to kill that airman earlier tonight. Don’t damn him because of it.”

  “But that security police fascist deserved to die—”

  “Nobody deserves to die, Ms. Osborrn. So don’t go playing God. That airman wasn’t some roach you step on, grinding out of existence without a thought. People kill for different reasons—because the victim ‘deserves to die’ isn’t one of them. On my team, my men kill because I tell them.”

  “What about you, Colonel? Why do you kill?” Vikki asked coolly.

  Renault threw his cigarette down and ground it out with a heel. “I kill for money, so I guess that makes me a capitalist. What’s your excuse?”

  He unshouldered his rifle and walked faster, leaving her behind him.

  Vikki drew in several breaths. Reaching the APC, she swung up, adrenaline pumping her full of newfound energy. She tossed her rifle to the men inside. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ve got a crater full of nukes waiting.”

  Sealing the hatch above her, she wiggled to a free spot. Renault squeezed in the driver’s compartment. She ignored him.

  Renault flipped up the television screen. The ground around them glowed an eerie hue, shown as black-on-white contrast from infrared sensors mounted outside the APC. Piped in through optic fibers, the IR imaging highlighted everything around the APC for hundreds of yards.

  Vikki watched the IR screen as Renault started off across the desert. He kept away from the access road and other hot spots showing up on the screen. Harding tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Do you want to man the IFF?”

  “Sure.” Vikki exchanged places with him. Sitting that close to Renault had made her self-conscious. Moments before, he had struck at a nerve she couldn’t quite define.

  The Identification Friend or Foe unit kept her busy, making the trip to Alpha Base seem shorter. Harding crammed next to Renault, listening to Alpha Base radio frequencies.

  Vikki looked over Renault’s shoulder at the map Britnell had given her. She spoke up. “We’re entering the active zone, five miles from Alpha Base.”

  Renault replied without looking at her. “Just keep us away from the sensors and we’ll worry about everything else.”

  A light on the IFF flickered faintly. “Try heading north,” Vikki said. Renault responded instantly. The light on the IFF disappeared.

  Harding turned and shot her a glance. She couldn’t read his eyes—they were still glazed from the killing he had ordered not five minutes ago. Vikki set her mouth. She was still in this—she hadn’t changed her views. Renault had reminded her of that. But now she wondered if Harding had changed, and what he was doing this for.

  2242 local

  Wendover AFB

  McGriffin ground the jeep’s transmission as he tried to shift into second. Finally finding the gear, he immediately changed to third. He blasted away from the command post and sped toward the flight line. Cutting across a parking lot, he bypassed the loop that normally would have taken him on a path running by base operations.

  He flipped on the jeep radio and tried to raise the command post while driving with one hand. “CP, this is Mobile One—can you get me cleared for the flight line?”

  Chief Zolley’s voice came over the airwaves. “Roger that, Mobile One. They’ll be keeping an eye out for you. The security police will provide an escort. Do you wish to call an on-base emergency at this time?”

  McGriffin ran a stop sign. Punching the accelerator, he sped on through the intersection, just missing a Ford Bronco. Calling an on-base emergency would be the equivalent thing to calling an in-flight emergency if he were flying. Basically, the crap would hit the fan and he’d have immediate, unqualified support from all units on base. And everybody and his brother breathing down his neck.

  McGriffin keyed the microphone. “Hold that call, Chief. But if anything happens, then don’t hesitate hitting the panic button.”

  McGriffin steered past the helicopter squadron. Bursting across the invisible boundary that delineated the parking pad from the apron, McGriffin shot onto the taxiway.

  He threw the microphone in the passenger seat and grasped the steering wheel. If he’d been on an operational flying base, he’d have been spotted by now, challenged by an M-16-toting security policemen who guarded the birds on the flight line. As it was, he was all alone except for an escort that should be catching up with him.

  He didn’t have to worry about hitting an aircraft—they’d be so brightly lit it would be impossible to miss. Once on the active runway, he wouldn’t have to worry about colliding with one of the helicopters.

  The C-130 sat at the end of the runway, a mile and a half away.

  A jet screamed overhead—a T-38 supersonic trainer—followed by another. They pulled a landing, greasing onto the runway with hardly a bounce. McGriffin guessed they were instructors from one of the undergraduate pilot training bases, off on a nighttime cross-country mission.

  The C-130’s engines roared. It started moving. McGriffin continued to race down the runway. He kept far to the edge, careful not to stray close to the lumbering craft. He needed to check the tail number, but he wasn’t stupid.

  The C-l30 roared past, its red taillight faintly illuminating the vertical stabilizer. McGriffin squinted through the darkness. The tail was painted black. He couldn’t see any numbers or identifying marks. As the plane receded from him, McGriffin downshifted and watched it lift into the air.

  Something struck him. The C-l30 was stretched, longer than the typical AMC birds. He wasn’t sure if the special ops planes were stretched or not. He hit the steering wheel as he drew to a stop.

  “Great.” Fumbling for the radio, McGriffin keyed the mike. “Command Post, this is Mobile One. I couldn’t get a visual on them.”

  “That’s a rog, Mobile One.” A security police car pulled up beside him, lights flashing. Two armed enlisted men decked out in their camouflaged battle-dress uniforms stepped from the car. McGriffin quickly spoke into the radio. “Chief, you got a positive ID on my actions out here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. We gave the SP’s everything but the code words, which we could not say over open channels. Is there anything wrong?”

  “I don’t think so. In any case, I’ll be heading back as soon as I’m through. Stand by.” He looked up at the security policemen.

  They saluted. “Evening, sir. Can we see an ID?” They stood warily back. One of them held his M-16 at a ready angle.
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br />   “Sure.” McGriffin returned their salute and pulled out his white military common access card.

  One of the men studied it then handed it back. “We received a request to escort a command post vehicle out to the flight line, Major. The NCOIC wants to know what the hell—sorry, sir—what in the world is going on.”

  McGriffin pocketed his card. “Nothing now, I’m afraid. I was just following up on something hot.”

  McGriffin slumped against the back of his seat and looked up at the stars. Wheeling high overhead, they burned bright in the crisp night.

  The sergeant jerked his head at his partner, then turned back to McGriffin. “You’ll have to follow us off the flight line, sir.”

  “What? Sure.” McGriffin straightened in his seat. Things still didn’t seem right. He knew what he should do: head back to the CP and find out what in the heck was going on. No bombs bursting in air, no ORI—everything is calm. Except for that activity near the chopper squadron, the C-130 might never have been here. It didn’t make sense. He picked up the microphone. “Are you still there, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir. Everything all right?”

  “Salubrious and copacetic.” He had a sudden twinge in his gut; might as well combine pleasure with business, he thought. “Chief, I’m going to swing by the chopper squadron and check things out, then hit the Hole in the Ground before coming back. Want me to bring back a grease burger?”

  “You know how I feel about those things, sir.”

  “Right. I promise to finish eating it before I get back.” He clicked off and looked up to the security policemen. “Mind if we head out by the chopper squadron? Base ops reported some activity near there.”

  “If you want, Major, but we’ve already checked it out.”

  “I’d like to see for myself.”

  The security policeman shrugged. “Whatever you want, sir.”

  As they drove off, McGriffin whistled, his mind racing, wondering about the mysterious C-130. His stomach growled, turning his mind away from the problem at hand. Beef Stroganoff an AAFES burger was not, but at least it was nearby.

  2242 local

  Wendover AFB

  Pablo Lesueur gripped the Bronco’s steering wheel. Colonel Renault was a stickler for details. And because the colonel scrutinized the little things, his men carried out their instructions with zeal.

  Pablo intently watched the road and turned at the cutoff. The other three members of the team quietly went over the map in their heads as well. If he took a wrong turn, he would be quickly admonished and set straight as to where he was heading.

  He slowed for an intersection. A jeep squealed through a stop sign. Pablo watched the vehicle head off, then proceeded through the intersection.

  He finally reached the building Renault had carefully pointed out to them. Antennas pricked the top of the low-slung building. Lesueur recognized the antennas from his past work in communications: ultra-high frequency, extremely high frequency, very low frequency. Seven satellite dishes and microwave relay, all anchored to the roof, sat beside the antennas.

  The building didn’t look penetrable. Thick glass covered what few windows it had, and bars poked through the openings. But then again, they didn’t have to take the building. They just had to ensure they severed communications so the base was shut off from the rest of the world.

  Lesueur parked by an old white Corvette, so he was well away from the building but still in a position to see what was going on. He checked his watch and conferred quickly with the others in the Bronco. Another ten minutes. Lesueur sat back and picked his teeth. He chose the best spots to lay the explosives. The first satchel of explosives would go by the front entrance—directly under the sign that said

  Wendover AFB Command Post.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, 18 June, 2251 local

  Alpha Base

  The five miles to Alpha Base took ten minutes to traverse. Gunning the APC at speeds up to forty-five miles an hour, Vikki Osborrn navigated the crew to the nuclear weapons storage area. She kept her eyes glued on the IFF—every time it flashed, she barked an order to change direction.

  Renault steered by an image projected from a forward-looking television camera mounted at the top of the personnel carrier. The image came back in ghostly white and gray contrast, as the infrared processing amplified the low light around them.

  Bushes, ravines, cactus, and boulders all showed up in eerie detail. Every now and then a brilliant white splotch would bound across the screen as the APC disturbed a jackrabbit from its hole.

  They crossed the narrow road leading to Alpha Base and swung south. Harding studied Britnell’s map and directed Renault back toward the picnic grounds outside of Alpha Base.

  The base loomed in the background as a white shimmer, growing brighter with every minute. Periodically Renault switched the forward-looking camera off the ground and scanned Alpha Base. The screen automatically reconfigured to adjust for the base’s bright glow.

  This is almost too easy, Vikki thought. There has to be something more to it.

  She glanced down at the IFF. “Sensor!” Renault jerked the craft to the right. An instant later the light faded. Vikki waited until the flicker disappeared, then breathed, “All clear.”

  Renault steered back to his original path, not looking back.

  Vikki watched the IFF. She felt flushed, caught up in Renault’s drive to Alpha Base. It was almost like a drug—a yearning to get out and do something. She felt ready.

  Alpha Base grew brighter, until it dominated everything on the screen. Slowing to a stop, Renault switched the image from infrared to normal lighting.

  The screen blinked. They stopped a quarter mile from the four fences circling Alpha Base. The storage facility lay sprawled in the crater, lights splashing down on every bunker—the five miles across the complex seemed to stretch on forever. To their right lay the main gate. The picnic area was directly in front of them.

  Renault turned and struggled from the cramped seat. Standing, he wiped his hands on his pants. “All right, listen up—we’re running behind.” The admonishment was unnecessary; no one spoke. “Mortar squad, half your shells should take out the road to Alpha Base and be ready to hit any vehicles they’ll throw at us. We want to prevent a counterattack. They won’t be able to get a fix on you, so don’t worry about being spotted—the APC will draw them out.

  “Once you expend your mortars, fall back to the baseball diamond in the picnic area. Your helicopter is not going to stick around and wait for you. If you’re not there, that’s it. We’re not a damned rescue unit—the nukes come first. So if you want to get back alive, make sure you’re there. Any questions?”

  Renault looked around the APC. Most men kept their gaze fixed to the floor. Renault glanced at his watch. “All right, move it. Six minutes.”

  He turned back to the control panel and jabbed at the screen. The monitor reconfigured itself in a flash of red and blue. Renault pressed the touch-sensitive display and the rear ramp whirred open. Vikki sat back and watched the men hand out boxes of mortar shells and rifles. The whole process took less than two minutes.

  When they finished, the mortar team dispersed. Renault closed the ramp and turned to Vikki and Harding. “Ready?”

  Vikki set her mouth. “What now?”

  “We wait. Two and a half minutes. And then we go.

  2252 local

  Wendover Command Post

  Pablo Lesueur let his eyes dwell on the clock before it hit him: ten fifty-two—eight minutes! He struggled upright in the driver’s seat. Punching the man next to him, he grunted, not speaking lest someone near the Bronco might overhear them. The colonel had warned them about the various motion and sound sensors around Alpha Base—nothing prevented the Americans from planting sensors over the rest of the base.

  The men stirred. Motioning with his hands, Pablo directed the others to shoulder their satchels of explosives.

  A minute had transpired: 2253.

  Pablo eye
d the command post. The satellite and microwave antennas were easy to destroy. The structures were relatively unhardened against anything more than a high wind.

  The short, needle-thin, extremely high frequency antennas covered the building, looking like prickly pears. Optical data lines ran from the building and plunged underground, intertwining with the other optical fibers connecting all base communications. They were buried, but a five-pound explosive tossed down the access hole would prevent any signals from leaving Wendover.

  Stupid Americans, thought Pablo. Colonel Renault was right. They pay out the nose to harden their expensive equipment against all sorts of nuclear electromagnetic pulse, but totally discount a strike in their own backyard.

  He checked the clock again: 2254.

  Pablo nodded for the men to disperse. Shifting the weight of the explosives higher on his shoulder, he grabbed the blanket from underneath his feet and slipped from the van. Once the men were out, they silently split up and went to their various stations.

  Pablo raced to the barbed wire. He tossed the blanket on top of the ten-foot-high fence and scaled it.

  By the time he was on top of the roof, it was 2256. Four minutes. He set the timer, gave it a quick pat, and peeled out.

  2252 local

  Wendover AFB Flight Line

  Frank Koch moved from one helicopter to another. The choppers weren’t hangared, but left out in the open. As Koch ran, the cool desert air blew through his open shirt, rippling against his flesh. Any other night he would have been chilled.

  Tonight he sweated.

  Koch’s men had dragged the bodies of five security policemen into the shadows. The pad was isolated, ideal for setting up the charges and hotwiring the helicopters for their assault. Except for a jeep driving past every few minutes, and the guards out by the end of the taxi way, Koch and his men were left alone. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.

  But things weren’t going right at all.

  Koch personally supervised the installation of the first three explosives, checking the wires and ensuring the timers were set for 2300.