Rogue Forces (28 page)

A moment later the light was extinguished…followed seconds later by a second-long burst of cannon fire from the Turkish F-16’s twenty-millimeter nose cannon. The muzzle flash was almost as brilliant as the inspection floodlight, and they could feel the fat supersonic shells beating the air around them, the shock waves reverberating off the Boeing 767’s cockpit windows just a few dozen yards away. “That was the final warning shot, Scion Seven-Seven,” the Turkish pilot said. “Follow my instructions or you will be shot down without further warning!”

“What the hell do we do now?” Whack asked. “We’re sunk.”

“We have no choice,” the copilot said. “I’m turning…”

“No, keep heading toward Nahla,” Charlie said. She reached
over and switched her rotary transmit switch from “intercom” to “UHF-2.” “Yukari One-One-Three flight, this is Charlie Turlock, one of the passengers on Scion Seven-Seven,” she radioed.

“What the hell are you doing, Charlie?” Macomber asked.

“Playing the gender and sympathy cards, Whack—they’re the only ones we have left,” Charlie said cross-cockpit. On the radio, she went on, “Yukari flight, we are an American cargo aircraft on a peaceful and authorized flight to Iraq. We are not a warplane, we are not armed, and we have no hostile intent against our allies, the people of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board this flight, including six women. Let us continue our flight in peace.”

“You will comply immediately. This is our final order.”

“We are not going to turn around,” Charlie said. “We are almost at the Iraqi border, and our transmissions on the international emergency GUARD channel are certainly being monitored by listening posts from Syria to Persia. We are an unarmed American cargo plane on an authorized overflight of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board. If you shoot us down now, the bodies and the wreckage will land in Iraq, and the world will know what you’ve done. You may think you have valid orders or a good reason to open fire, but you will be held responsible for your own judgment. If you believe your leaders and wish to follow their orders to kill all of us, fine, but
you
must pull the trigger. Our lives are in
your
hands now.”

A moment later they saw, then felt a tongue of white-hot flame zip by their left cockpit windows—the single afterburner plume from an F-16 fighter. “He’s going around, maneuvering behind us,” the copilot said. “Shit; oh
shit
…!” They could sense the presence of the jets behind them, practically taste the adrenaline and sweat emanating from the Turkish pilots’ bodies as they swung around for the kill. Seconds passed…

…then more seconds, then a minute. No one breathed for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard: “Scion Seven-Seven, this is Mosul Approach Control on GUARD frequency, we show you at your scheduled border crossing point. If you hear Mosul Approach,
squawk modes three and C normal and contact me on two-four-three-point-seven. Acknowledge immediately.”

The copilot shakily responded, and everyone else let out a collective sigh of relief. “Man, I thought we were goners,” Macomber said. He reached up and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “You did it, darlin’. You sweet-talked our way out of it. Good job.”

Charlie turned to Macomber, smiled, nodded her thanks…and promptly vomited on the cockpit floor in front of him.

A
LLIED
A
IR
B
ASE
N
AHLA
, I
RAQ

A
SHORT TIME LATER

“Are you eggheads
insane
?” Colonel Jack Wilhelm exploded as Wayne Macomber and Charlie Turlock led the other passengers and crew off the Boeing 767 freighter once it was parked at the base. “Don’t you realize what’s going on out there?”

“You must be Colonel Wilhelm,” Macomber said as he reached the bottom of the air stairs. “Thanks for the warm welcome to Iraq.”

“Who are
you
?”

“Wayne Macomber, chief of security for Scion Aviation International,” Wayne replied. He did not offer his hand to Wilhelm, a fact that made the regimental commander even angrier. The two men were about equal in height and weight, and they immediately started sizing each other up. “This is Charlie Turlock, my assistant.” Charlie rolled her eyes but said nothing. “I’m going to drain the dragon—and probably change my undies after that flight—and then I need to speak with the general and the head egghead, Jon Masters.”

“First of all, you’re not going anywhere until we inspect your papers and your cargo,” Wilhelm said. “You’re not even supposed to get off the damn plane before customs does an inspection.”

“Customs? This is an American flight sitting on an American base. We don’t do customs.”

“You’re a private aircraft sitting on an
Iraqi
base, so you need to be processed by customs.”

Macomber looked around Wilhelm. “I don’t see any Iraqis here, Colonel, just private security…and
you
.” He took a folder out of the pilot’s hands. “Here’s our paperwork, and here’s the pilot. He’ll do all the customs shit with you and whatever Iraqis want to tag along. We don’t have time for customs. Let us do our thing. You stay out of our way, and we’ll stay out of yours.”

“My orders are to inspect this plane, Macomber, and that’s what
we’ll do,” Wilhelm said. “The crew stays on board until the inspection is completed. Thompson here and his men will do the inspection, and you’d better cooperate with them or I’ll put all of you in the brig. Clear?”

Macomber looked as if he was going to argue, but he gave Wilhelm a slight nod and smile and gave the paperwork packet back to the pilot. “Ben, go with Gus.” Wilhelm was going to argue, but Macomber said, “The pilot was hurt in the flight in. He needs help. Make it quick, boys,” and motioned for the others to follow him back up the air stairs. They were followed by two of Thompson’s security officers and a German shepherd on a leather leash. A group of Thompson’s security men began opening cargo doors and baggage compartment hatches to begin their inspections.

Inside the plane, one security officer began inspecting the cockpit while the other herded Macomber and the other passengers to their seats and inspected the inside of the plane. The forward part of the Boeing 767 freighter’s interior behind the cockpit had a removable galley and lavatory on one side, and two fiberglass containers marked
LIFE RAFTS
with reinforced tape seals marked
DEPT OF DEFENSE
wrapped around them on the other beside the entry door. Behind them was the removable forward-facing passenger seat pallet, with seating for eighteen passengers. Behind them were eight semicircular cargo containers, four on each side of the plane, with narrow aisles between them, and behind them was a pallet with luggage covered by nylon netting and secured with nylon webbing.

The second security officer raised a radio to his lips: “I count eighteen crew and passengers, two life raft containers, galley and lavatory, and eight A1N cargo containers. The life raft inspection seals are secure.”

“Roger,” came the reply. “Passenger count checks. But the manifest only says six A1Ns.” The officer looked at the passengers suspiciously.

“No wonder it took so long to get here—we’re overloaded,” Macomber said. “Who brought the extra containers? Is that all your makeup back there, Charlie?”

“I thought it was your knitting, Whack,” Turlock replied.

“I’m going to pass down the aisle with the K-9,” the security officer said. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”

“Can I go pee first?” Macomber asked.

“After the lavatory has been inspected and the K-9 passes through the cabin,” the officer replied.

“How long will that be?”

“Just cooperate.” The guard began to walk the dog down the aisle, touching the seat pockets and motioning under and between the seats, indicating where he wanted the dog to sniff.

“Nice doggie,” Wayne said when the dog came to him.

“No talking to the K-9,” the officer said. Macomber smiled, then scowled in reply.

“Cockpit is clear,” the first security officer said. He began inspecting the galley and lavatory, finishing a few minutes later.

“C’mon, guy, I’m going to explode over here.”

“No talking,” the second officer said. It took another three minutes for the K-9 to finish. “You may get up and exit the plane,” the second officer announced. “You must proceed directly to the officer outside, who will match you up with your passports and identification papers. Leave all belongings on the plane.”

“Can I use the can first?”

The second security guard looked like he was going to say no, but the first guard waved a hand. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said. Macomber rushed to the lavatory while the others filed out. The second officer continued his inspection in the rear of the cabin among the cargo containers.

It was controlled bedlam outside the plane. The security officers were using forklifts to unload containers from the cargo holds underneath the plane, which K-9s sniffed around. The crew could see K-9s sitting before some of the containers; these were marked and brought to a separate area of an adjacent hangar. Another officer checked each passport with its owner, then had each person wait with the others nearby, under the watchful eye of an armed security officer.

Kris Thompson came over a short time later and looked at the group of passengers. “Where’s Macomber?”

“Still in the lavatory,” Charlie Turlock replied. “He’s not a strong flier.”

Thompson looked over to the air stairs. “Chuck? What’s going on up there?”

“A lot of grunting, groaning, and brown clouds,” the first security officer waiting for Macomber replied.

“Hurry him up.” Thompson turned back to Charlie. “Can you help me with the manifest, miss?” he asked. “There are a few discrepancies I’m hoping you can clear up for me.”

“Sure. I’m familiar with all the stuff on board.” She followed Thompson along to the various piles of containers.

Up in the cabin, the first security officer said, “Let’s go, buddy.”

“Almost done.” The officer heard sounds of flushing, then running water, and the lavatory door was unlocked. Even before the door was fully open, the unbearable odors within made the officer gasp for breath. “Jeez, buddy, what in hell were you eating on this—”

Macomber hit him once on the left temple with his right fist, knocking him unconscious without another sound. He quickly dragged the officer forward, put him on the cockpit floor, closed the door, then went back to the cabin and stripped off the security tape around the first life raft container.

Outside the plane, Thompson motioned to different piles of containers. “These are clear and match with the manifest,” he said to Charlie, “but these here don’t match.” He motioned to a large pile of containers across the taxiway in the hangar, now under armed guard. “The dogs alerted to either drugs or explosives in those, and they didn’t match the manifest either. The manifest doesn’t mention you bringing in explosives.”

“Well, they’re certainly not drugs,” Charlie said. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for all these undocumented containers.”

“Good.”

Charlie motioned to the squarish containers. “These are CID
battery packs,” she explained. “There are four pairs of battery packs in each case. Each pair attaches to recesses behind the thighs. Those other containers have battery packs, too, but they’re for Tin Man units. They’re worn in pairs on the belt.”

“CID? Tin Man? What’s that?”

“CID stands for Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Charlie said matter-of-factly. “A CID is a piloted combat robot. Tin Man is a nickname for a commando who is enclosed in a suit of armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically Reactive Process. The suit has an exoskeleton that gives the commando increased strength, and the BERP material makes him invulnerable to…well, any infantry-and squad-level weapon and even some light artillery. The stuff over there is the mission packs for the CID units, some of which contain grenade and UAV launchers.” She smiled at the shocked expression on Thompson’s face. “Are you getting all this?”

“Are…are you joking, miss?” Thompson stammered. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke,” Charlie said. “Watch. I’ll show you.” She turned to a large, irregularly shaped device about the size of a refrigerator and spoke, “CID One, activate.” Before Thompson’s disbelieving eyes, the device began to unfold piece by piece, until seconds later a ten-foot-tall robot stood before him. “That’s a CID.” She turned and motioned to the top of the air stairs. “And
that
is a Tin Man.” Thompson looked and saw a man dressed head to foot in a smooth dark gray outfit, wearing a bullet-shaped multifaceted eyeless helmet, a belt with two circular devices attached, thick knee-high boots, and gloves with thick gauntlets that extended to the elbows.

“CID One, pilot up,” she said. The robot crouched down, extended a leg and both arms backward, and a hatch popped open on its back. “Have a nice day,” Charlie said, patting Thompson on the shoulder, then climbed up the extended leg and inside the robot. The hatch closed, and seconds later the robot came to life, moving just like a person with incredible smoothness and animation.

“Now, sir”—the robot spoke in a man’s voice through a hidden speaker with a low electronically synthesized voice—“order your
men not to interfere with me or the Tin Man. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re going to—”

At that moment someone inside the plane yelled, “Freeze or I’ll send my dog!” The Tin Man turned inside the cargo compartment, and immediately shots could be heard. Thompson saw the Tin Man flinch, but he didn’t go down.

“Oh, my, that wasn’t a good idea,” the woman inside the CID robot said. “Whack really hates getting shot at.”

The Tin Man didn’t raise any weapon, but Thompson saw a bright flash of light briefly illuminate the cargo compartment of the plane. No more shots were heard. The Tin Man jumped from the plane to the tarmac as easily as stepping off a curb. He motioned to one of the men being guarded and jabbed a finger at the plane. “Terry, suit up. José, climb aboard.” He electronically searched his list of radio frequencies stored in onboard computer memory. “General? Whack here.”

“Hi, Whack,” Patrick replied. “Welcome to Iraq.”

“We dropped trou and the shit’s bound to hit the fan real soon. Do something to calm the grunts unless you want a fight on your hands.”

“I’m on my way to the ramp. I’ll get Masters, Noble, and the rest of the Scion guys to help you. I’m sure we’ll meet Colonel Wilhelm out there shortly.”

“No doubt. We’re sorting out the—”

“
Freeze
!” the security officer guarding the passengers yelled, raising an MP5 submachine gun.

“Excuse me one sec, General,” Macomber radioed. Again, the Tin Man did not move or even look at the officer, but Thompson saw a blue lightning bolt arc from the Tin Man’s right shoulder and hit the security officer square in the chest, immediately knocking him unconscious.

The Tin Man stepped over to Thompson. The other security officers around them were all frozen in surprise; a few backed up and ran off to warn others. None of them even dared to reach for a weapon. The Tin Man grabbed Thompson by his jacket and lifted
him off the ground, jamming his armored head right in Thompson’s face. “Did Charlie here tell you to tell your men we’re not going to hurt anyone here as long as you leave us alone?” Thompson was too stunned to reply. “I suggest you get your head out of your ass, get on the radio, and tell your men and the Army guys to stay in their barracks and leave us alone, or else we might hurt someone. And they better not have broken any of our stuff, the way they’re driving those forklifts.” He dropped Thompson and let him scurry clear.

Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his sensors built into the CID unit and compared them with a list downloaded from the Scion Aviation International team at Nahla, selected one, then spoke: “Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Do you read me?”

“Who is this?” Wilhelm replied a moment later.

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Macomber asked. “Just listen. My men and I are off-loading our equipment on the ramp and getting ready to fly. I don’t want to see any of your men anywhere in sight, or we’re going to tear you a new one. Do you copy me?”

“
What in hell did you say
?” Wilhelm thundered. “Who is this? How did you get on this frequency?”

“Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock,” Charlie interjected on the same frequency. “Pardon Mr. Macomber’s language, but he’s had a long day. What he meant to say is we’re out here on the ramp beginning our new contract operations, and we’d appreciate it if your men wouldn’t come around here. Would that be okay?” There was no response. “Good going, Whack,” Charlie radioed. “Now he’s pissed, and he’s going to bring the entire regiment.”

“Not if he’s smart,” Wayne said. But he knew that’s exactly what he’d do. “You and José, get backpacks on and stand by. Terry, let’s put the rail guns together and get ready to rumble.”

Charlie hurried off to the hangar where the weapon backpacks had been segregated, followed shortly by the other CID unit, and they selected and attached large backpacklike units on each other’s back. The backpacks contained forty-millimeter grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels that could fire rounds in almost any
direction no matter which way they were turned and could fire a variety of munitions, including high explosive, antiarmor, and antipersonnel. Whack and another Tin Man located and assembled their weapons—massive electromagnetic rail runs, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter depleted uranium shell thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.