Return to Honor (18 page)

He glanced at his watch. At touchdown minus fifteen minutes the second pre-attack canister launched from Vandenberg should pop above the airfield, releasing the biological agents. The “little buggies,” as the troops called them, had a genetic defect that, once exposed to air, gave them a half-life of two minutes. By the time the TAV landed, over ninety-nine point nine percent of the little buggies should be dead. Good thing, too, as the little buggies had a voracious appetite for rubber. Things like wheels, plugs, gaskets, and seals would all be “eaten,” or at least damaged beyond use, by the time they landed.

And according to plan, their own silicon-coated rubber wouldn’t be affected.

According to plan.

Ojo-1: Cockpit

Gould’s contact with Base Ops through AEHF and BIGEYE was disrupted as the TAV nosed back down into the atmosphere. The parabolic path took the vehicle back into the depths of the atmosphere where, because of the TAV’s speed, electrons were stripped from air molecules. The resulting plasma covered the TAV, preventing any radio signals from leaving or entering the craft. It was an eerie feeling for Gould, even though he’d experienced the radio blackout on every other TAV training flight he’d flown.

He was operating alone now. He was totally in charge of the craft, not dependent on any calls from Base Ops or the White House to tell him what to do. The marines in the back didn’t count. He was the aircraft commander, having the same authority on board his craft as any naval commander would have while at sea. It didn’t matter that there was a marine lieutenant colonel who outranked him in the back of the TAV. As long as they were in the air, it was his ball game.

He didn’t usually think about the responsibility, the authority, because every other flight had been for practice—just a rigidly controlled test. But now it was for real. If he screwed up, he could kill twenty-five people: Twenty-four marines’ lives, and his own life, were riding on his judgment.

And what if he was waved off the landing field, told to scrub the mission at the last moment by that nervous Nellie in the White House? Would he do it?
Could
he scrub the mission if so ordered?

Gould felt uneasy in his seat and tried to shift his weight to make things more bearable. He didn’t like the answers he kept coming up with. He didn’t care for the responsibility. The macho image he flaunted, the image that Delores had so easily cut through, wouldn’t hold up under the pressure.

It was common knowledge that fighter jocks, and now TAV pilots, were tolerated only because their egos had to be stroked. If they weren’t incessantly told they were the greatest humans on earth and that their crap didn’t stink, would they really strap themselves into screaming hunks of metal and meet almost impossible odds head-on?

Gould started to doubt it—but he also started to see that he couldn’t put up with being two-faced about it. There had to be more to it than putting on a facade to boost his ego.

The TAV’s computer screen started to flicker, then flash the red-blue-red-blue on-and-off sequence, indicating that contact with BIGEYE was reestablished. With their speed sufficiently slowed they popped out of radio blackout, and communications were up and working. The speed indicator finally made sense—Mach 20—and by the timetable, the landing wasn’t more than eleven minutes away.

The screen confirmed that his mother ship was on its way to Dulles International, near Washington, D.C. He only hoped he would be able to meet it back there in the two hours allotted the mission. If the mission continued going the way it was, he shouldn’t have any trouble meeting the deadline.

The cockpit canopy reconfigured to IR mode. In the far distance he could make out a scattering of dwellings, lighting up in the infrared as wavering, ghostly objects. They’d be going in on a steep glide angle, and there’d be only one chance at landing.

The mission was still a go and the no-return point was coming up fast. The best the White House could do now was to have him ditch in the desert if they decided to scrub.

Things were going to start happening fast, and he sure didn’t need some chair-ridden politician breathing down his neck while he worked. He jabbed at the screen, allowing a message from BIGEYE to come through, then shut the communications gear down. He’d pass on to the marines the news he had just received, but as far as he was concerned now, nothing short of a crash on landing would prevent him from carrying out the rescue.

He only wished he could talk to Delores and make sure she would do the same thing he planned to do. But then again, he realized, she had probably already made the decision herself.

Ojo-1: Crew Compartment

Balcalski swam back to his seat and strapped in. Krandel leaned over and started to speak when the intercom came back on.

“Five minutes to touchdown. Marines, prepare for deceleration. As soon as things slow down up here I’ve got some news for you from BIGEYE.”

Krandel barely had time to lock his body back against the webbing before the TAV gave a gut-lurching jolt. He grabbed the checklist and scanned it. The third canister, the runway clearer, should have popped over the runway. If it survived the landing, the runway clearer—a miniature tank-like robot—would be waiting to shoot the stuffing out of everything within a thousand meters by now.

The runway clearer’s main arsenal had railguns, excimer lasers, fuel-air vapor explosives—all kinds of nasty devices designed to clear the landing strip of any living or moving objects for a kilometer around. But first the runway clearer would deploy a high power microwave burst that would destroy all electronics around the airport. The runway clearer was controlled through the command sensor dropped in the first canister and would be activated only if the President had been moved—so if the President was anywhere nearby, the tank would be dormant, and they’d be landing on a live field.

The intercom crackled, abruptly pulling him from his concentration. “Three minutes till landing. The door will swing open as soon as we’ve slowed to fifty knots. When we’ve reached ten knots I want you marines to
move.
I’m turning this baby around as soon as you’re off.

“Once refueled, we’ll be ready to rotate. Those of you on the left side are to come back to this TAV. Those on the right go to the other TAV, dividing the President’s party between the two TAVs.”

Sergeant Balcalski yelled over the buffeting. “He means those on the
starboard
side go to the other plane. Those on the port side get your butts back here.” He shook his head and caught Krandel’s eye. Grinning, Balcalski gave Krandel a thumbs-up.

Krandel returned it; the sergeant was on top of everything. Now if only he could do as well.

Slowly the shaking stopped, and the noise seemed to abate. “This is Major Gould again. Sixty seconds to touchdown. Word just relayed from the command post verified that the President has been triangulated to the airfield. They think he’s been moved to a 787, not Air Force One. It’s the only plane there, so you won’t have any trouble finding it. Canister two, the bio-degrader, was not—repeat,
not
—successful”—a groan went up among the men—“but the good news is that we think they don’t know we’re coming. They’ve been hit with the sleepy gas, and we haven’t detected any activity around the plane. But the runway clearer has not been activated.”

Silence, then: “We’re coming up on five seconds.…four …

“Three …

“Two …

“One … and
bingo.”
The craft greased down on the runway.

Krandel silently praised the air force pilot. He had more finesse than the navy pilots who routinely bounced down bone-jarring landings on carriers.

The pilot continued. “We’re at two hundred knots. Doors will open at fifty knots. Good luck, gentlemen.”

The intercom squawked off. Krandel flipped down his IR goggles, ripped at the release locks, reached under the webbing for his rifle, and shuffled to the hatch. He stretched his legs to get out the cramps. Twenty-three men stood and made their way behind him, holding the strapping for support. After what seemed to be an endless time, a klaxon blared, causing Krandel to jump. Up to now he’d reacted; he hadn’t had time to be nervous. As he crouched first in line at the hatch, now he felt like throwing up.

A red light popped on above the hatch, and the door rotated open. In the darkness the ground rushed by, and Krandel froze.

Balcalski swatted him on the butt and barked, “Ready, sir!”

Krandel swallowed; no time to tie up now! “Ready.” He grabbed the edges of the door. The IR goggles gave a ghostly tint to the runway.

Hot air tumbled into the TAV, bringing with it a potpourri of smells: urine, JP-4, and a dusty dry-hotness of the night. He knew the sleepy gas was there—at least the remnants of it—but he couldn’t detect it. It was safe for them now, but had it worked?

A muffled voice came over the onrushing air, “Twenty-five knots.…get ready, the plane will be right in front of you!” Sweat on Krandel’s hands evaporated directly from the pores. “Twenty … fifteen …
go!”

Krandel leapt from the craft, deciding at the last moment against falling to the ground in a PLF, and instead tried to keep his balance. Landing on his feet he raced toward the lone plane, keeping low but swinging out toward the side.

He caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye of the remainder of the men scurrying to his left, surrounding the craft. To his right burned the lights of the terminal. Cars were parked near the flight line; a low hum of activity filled the background as trucks creaked in the distance. The rest of the airfield was unaffected by the gas.

The TAV swung silently around to the left, keeping its distance from the plane. In the darkness his men stood out like burning ghosts; flipping up his IR goggles, Krandel assured himself that the men were undetectable.

No sound. There was no resistance from either outside or inside the plane.

The lone crack of a gun caused him to sprawl to the ground. A solitary figure on the top of the distant terminal was yelling. The voice was barely audible over the roar of the airport.

The marines kept their cool, remembering their orders not to fire. Several other shots followed, discernible only by the pinging of bullets off the concrete runway. They hadn’t been detected until moments before, or the place would have been inundated with bullets.

Krandel waved a fist toward the man and pointed at Corporal Morales. Morales lifted his rifle, then shot the man down. No sound came from Morales’ sonically shielded rifle.

They waited as Krandel listened for other noises. Satisfied they hadn’t been detected, Krandel nodded to Balcalski, who waved the men forward. Without a word they continued to the plane.

Guards were sprawled near the base of the stairway. Krandel flattened himself against a wheel.

Balcalski huffed up and spoke in a whisper, catching his breath. “I don’t think anyone else saw us.”

Krandel nodded. Clutching his rifle, Balcalski acknowledged the hand signals from the squad leaders as they positioned their men. Krandel tried to keep the excitement from his voice as he whispered, “Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the count of three, have Morales and his squad follow me up. You stay here with Henderson’s squad and keep it clear for us.”

“But,
sir,
we can’t risk you—”

“That’s an order, Sergeant. We’re counting on you as a backup if I don’t make it.
Your first
priority is to make sure the President gets back alive. Understand?” At Balcalski’s nod Krandel jerked his head toward Morales. The corporal scurried over; when he motioned with his hands the rest of the squad followed.

Krandel drew in a breath; this was it. He whispered, half to himself,
“One, two, three.
”

He was up the ladder, three steps at a time, and through the hatch. Scanning the compartment, he raced down the aisle, not taking care to avoid fallen guards. As he approached the rear the fear he kept in the back of his mind reared its head: “He’s not aboard!”

Crap. Disgusted, he banged against a partition on his way back up to the front as Morales’ squad only confirmed what he had suspected. Thoughts of botched rescues roared through his mind: Sontay, Tehran, Mexico City … why couldn’t they do anything
right?
After his initial adrenaline rush, the empty plane left him exhausted. He trotted down the stairs and moved below the plane.

Balcalski asked quietly, “Now what, Colonel?”

Krandel thought for a moment. This is the thing you’ll never find in
Lee’s Lieutenants,
he told himself. “Our first priority is still to bring the President back. We stay here until they show up with him.”

Balcalski looked emotionless with his goggles on in the darkness. “Shouldn’t we inform the Command Center?”

Krandel understood what he had said: Listen, dummy, don’t blow the ball game by taking things into your own hands. There are too many things at stake; cover your ass first! And of course, as usual, Balcalski was right.

But Krandel hesitated. He was the commander, not Balcalski. Nor was some paper pusher at the National Emergency Command Center who didn’t have any operational experience.

Like Krande … until now.

If only he had spent less time on staff jobs and more time in the field, where it counted. But he knew what he had to do.

He turned to Balcalski. “The Command Center can wait. Get your men who speak Arabic into those guards’ uniforms. When the President arrives, the ALH should be unable to tell our men from the guards in the dark. Tell them not to speak unless spoken to, and if they do speak, keep it to an absolute minimum. We can’t afford to be discovered until we make our move.”

Balcalski remained stony-faced. “The rest of the men, sir?”

“I want them on the plane. No, put only Morales’ squad on the plane. Have Henderson’s return to the TAVs as support. You go with him. I’m going to the flight deck. And send up someone who can speak Arabic. Now speed out!”

“Yes, sir.” Balcalski whirled and was moving the men as Krandel raced back up the ladder.

Stepping over a slumped guard, Krandel cracked open the door to the flight deck. It was empty, awaiting the arrival of the flight crew. Through the cockpit Krandel could barely make out the TAVs. The second TAV had landed while they stormed the plane and was now transferring fuel from its fuel bladder to the TAV on which they had arrived.