Assault on Alpha Base (11 page)

For all the relaxed atmosphere, Vikki soon noticed that the men were arranged symmetrically around the truck, facing so that the entire runway and access road were covered. Most of them smoked, holding cigarettes in the cups of their hands as she had seen Harding do earlier in the night. Her first impression of them as a ragtag group of terrorists began to fade as their professional demeanor began to shine through.

As Harding approached, the men sprang easily to their feet. They gathered around as he spoke.

“I want everyone to keep hidden until Renault gets here. No one moves until I give the all-clear.”

A faint droning interrupted him. Searching the night sky, Harding spotted the strobe and landing lights of the C-130. It came in from the west, its four propellers cutting through the air.

“All right, places everyone.” Harding bolted to the moving van and gingerly placed the dismantled IFF on the front seat. He grabbed a rifle and reached into the van. “Vikki, are you armed?”

“Yeah—Britnell’s pistol.” It was missing one bullet, she thought.

Harding pulled out another rifle, smaller than the one he carried, and tossed it to her. “Use this instead. It’s an automatic. Flip up the safety, but don’t use more than single shots. You’ll run out of bullets too fast if you don’t.”

Vikki caught the weapon and turned it over. The droning grew louder, escalating to a gut-wrenching roar. The men flattened against the hangar, hiding from any light directed their way.

Vikki moved over by Harding and watched. The C-130 was clearly visible now. Its wheels bounced on the long runway, landing at the midpoint. Smoke shot out from where the wheels hit the asphalt.

The engines reversed, slowing the transport and sending a thunder of prop wash across the field. They’d find out soon if the call signs Britnell provided them worked.

The plane kept moving. As it drew closer, Vikki could make out the dim cockpit lights. The crew inside the aircraft gave no indication that they could see the moving van or hangar.

“Come on, come on.” Harding clenched his rifle tighter.

The C-130 drew abreast of them. Slowing, it rotated in a hairpin turn, back toward the taxiway. As it turned, the rear compartment opened, splitting wide, looking like an alligator’s mouth. The loading ramp bounced as it hit the ground. The C-130 stopped briefly, and a dark vehicle emerged from the gaping hole.

The APC!
Vikki ran over the APC’s characteristics in her head: bullet-proof and agile, it could reach speeds of over forty-five miles per hour, and yet carry ten men and their weapons to just about any target. Powered by an array of batteries, the APC made virtually no sound. As it sped toward them, the camouflaged titanium skin gave the APC a dull finish.

The C-130 pulled away, moving back down the runway as it closed its ramp.

Harding jumped up and ran toward the APC. With the plane departing to the opposite end of the runway, the APC’s small size surprised Vikki—filling the C-130’s cargo bay, it gave the optical illusion that the vehicle was monstrous.

Harding directed the APC to the van.

A hatch opened at the top of the vehicle. Renault pushed his head through the opening. “Glad to see everyone made it to the party.”

Harding slipped over and jumped nimbly onto the vehicle. “Stop screwing around and open the back compartment.”

Renault met his glare and nodded. A low whine came from the APC after Renault ducked down in the innards. The APC’s back end lifted open.

Harding glanced at his watch, then called out, “Get a move on. We’ve got a little less than half an hour.”

Four men transferred boxes of plastique to the Bronco. The one called Pablo Lesueur was in charge. They loaded the rear section high, then piled into the vehicle with their rifles. Colonel Renault spoke to the group before waving Harding and Vikki over.

“The communications squad is heading out. Are you going to have any trouble installing the IFF unit?”

Harding shook his head. “Not any more difficulty than putting in a cassette recorder. I’ll hook it up to the battery and run the antenna through the hatch.”

“So we can still go by our original schedule?”

“Unless something happens to the helicopter squad, we’ll go as planned.”

“Good.” Renault turned back to the Bronco and gave final instructions to the men. “Pablo—after you’re done, head off base. No one will stop you in the confusion.” They nodded, then started off. Vikki backed away from the Bronco as it left. Harding and Renault conferred for a moment before Harding broke away for the moving van.

“Vikki, I want you to operate the IFF. You’re the only one with experience.”

“What experience?”

“You used it getting here, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

Harding retrieved the IFF from the moving van and started installing it as the men finished loading the APC. For the first time since the night activities began, Vikki felt a chill. Then she realized her bra felt uncomfortable—she hadn’t noticed it until she’d let her mind wander.

Renault gathered the remainder of the men around him. Ten would be in the armored personnel carrier with Vikki, Harding, and Renault, crowding the APC; thirty-six men were with the helicopter team, still in the back of the C-130; and the four men in the Bronco rounded out the list. Fifty-three people against four times that many stationed on Alpha Base.

But they had the element of surprise—they knew what they would be doing next; the personnel on Alpha Base wouldn’t know what hit them.

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—”