BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  An ominous scraping noise behind him caused him to whirl around as a shadowy form retreated silently into the mist. He assumed a defensive stance and swept the area for attackers.

  None appeared. Still, the foreboding sense of danger increased with each pounding heartbeat. His breathing quickened and he forced himself to control his respiration and heart rate.

  Years of training came into play as the warrior within him prepared for battle. He flexed his muscles one-by-one and switched to stealthy movements that let him glide purposefully in any direction. Like a ballet dancer, each movement was measured in balance and timing. His sensitivity increased to the point he could feel fog settle on his skin.

  A sinister shape rushed at him from the mist and he responded with calculated movements that shifted from one position to another. The hooded figure swung at him with an overhead blow from a heavy weapon. Jake slid to one side and deflected the attack with a strike to the elbow that paralyzed the attacker’s arm.

  A clanging sound as it hit the pavement confirmed it was a piece of pipe. He parried a strike from the attacker’s other arm and followed through with a crunching blow to the throat. A gurgling gasp testified to his accuracy and the attacker sank to his knees. A snap kick to the side of the head gave merciful unconsciousness to the thug.

  Jake swept the area again in time to meet a second attacker with a semicircular sweep. He delivered a shattering strike to the man’s stationary knee and the figure rolled away into the darkening fog.

  He paused to regain his fighting composure and his heightened senses told him there were numerous foes in close proximity. None moved toward him and he could not see them in the thickening pea soup. Instead, he heard brief movement and saw ghosts of shadows. An occasional whiff of unwashed bodies and the sound of muted voices teased him.

  “Come out and face me,” he challenged the invisible assailants.”

  The only response was the muffled murmur of the night breeze. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his entire body tingled with a prickly feeling. The coppery taste of adrenaline filled his sinuses.

  He spun in place, hoping they didn’t start throwing things at him from the haze and praying they didn’t have guns. His pulse pounded, and his body ached with keen anticipation. His knees began to weaken and muscles became knotted like guy wires. He did his best to relax and keep blood flowing normally. Suddenly, a startled gasp jolted him awake.

  Jake sat straight up in bed and took long and deep breaths. His T-shirt and the bed sheets were soaking wet. He slowly swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom.

  The flickering fluorescent tube above the mirror cast a greenish glow that highlighted the creases in his forehead and the fatigue in his eyes. He twisted the hot water tap and stared numbly at himself until the mirror was hazy with steam.

  The eyes in the mirror were weary from the inner demons he faced almost every night. The skin under them sagged in desperation. He held both hands under the faucet, and then splashed his face, rinsing away as much of the sweat and nightmare as he could. It was one more night spent running from his demons. One more night in an endless stream.

  He plodded slowly back to his bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. The old-fashioned wind-up clock on the bedside table ticked off the minutes with military efficiency as the seconds marched by in a steady column.

  He longed for the dawn that would bring a new day, when he could resume his duties in military law enforcement. He eagerly awaited the start of the day shift and the structured order of the day-to-day routine of an Air Force installation. He let out a long drawn-out sigh and eventually returned to a fitful sleep.

  ***

  CHAPTER 2

  JULY, 1988

  MATHER AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA

  Her head nodded closer and closer to her chest and her shoulders slumped as she leaned forward in the rickety, cast-off desk chair. Sitting in the doorway of the old wooden guard shack staring out at the empty road that led in from the county highway to a side gate of Mather Air Force Base, she stifled a yawn. The steady chirping sound of crickets humming on the night air lured her into a near catatonic state. The mildewy smell of the night air tickled her nose.

  She reluctantly got to her feet and stepped outside. Stretching was awkward in the four-foot by six-foot shack that held a curtained toilet in the back and a bookshelf with half a dozen three-ring binders filled with regulations and procedures on the short counter in front.

  Airman First Class Joanna Davies stretched her arms above her head and yawned just this side of violence. A delightful shiver ran the full length of her petite five-foot-four-inch frame.

  She reached back into the shack, grabbed the wall-phone receiver and dialed 114 without looking.

  “Desk Sergeant,” was the greeting from Sergeant John Haverhill, one of her softball teammates.

  “Hey, Big John, what’s happenin’?”

  “Same old, same old. . .Trying to stay awake, just like you. Can’t believe how slow it’s been. Whatchu doing?”

  “Writing a letter to my fiancé. . .Maybe gonna get some studying done for the promotion exam. Mostly just trying to stay awake.”

  “Seems to be the norm tonight.”

  “Who ever came up with an eleven at night until seven in the morning shift, anyway? We should be sleeping,” she noted.

  “Exactly. . .Sunrise is when you get up, not go to bed.”

  “Guess somebody’s gotta watch out for all those folks snoring away in their racks.”

  “Yeah, us. . .the few and the proud.”

  “Not sure, Dude, but I think that’s the Marines.”

  “Oh, yeah. . .Hoo-rah!”

  “That’s Army. . .Should be Oorah,” she offered.

  “Right. . .I’ll make a note.”

  She glanced down at her neat uniform and picked at a stray thread, known in the services as an Irish pennant. “Whoops, gotta go. . .Got company.”

  A distant pair of headlights interrupted the follow-up yawn forming in the back of her throat. She hung up the phone, rubbed her eyes and squinted out through the darkness. Whatever was coming up the road was moving way too fast, causing the headlights to sway and bounce erratically. “Oh, no,” she mumbled, “Not another drunk.”

  A retired lieutenant colonel crashed this gate less than a month earlier a few minutes after 0300. Joanna glanced down at the digital chronograph her parents got her for Christmas two years ago—0256 glowed silently back at her.

  The inebriated retiree had not even slowed down for the hapless security policeman who shouted, “Halt!” behind his raised hand. In fact, the dusty old Mercedes continued through the intersection, crossed ten yards of dusty scrub, struck a culvert and went airborne.

  It gained enough altitude to clear the steel beams of an anti-vehicle barricade and came to rest with most of the front-end pushed through the twelve-foot high chain link fence that surrounded the alert pad. The colonel was so drunk he stumbled out of the car and passed out, which was probably better. Any resistance to security teams would have been met with deadly force.

  The Special Response Team took a little more than two and a half minutes to locate and handcuff him with plastic zip-ties. The Alert Pad was too sensitive and crucial an area for anything less than an immediate and forceful response.

  The B-52 bombers with their nuclear weapons and KC-135 in-air refueling tankers loaded with jet fuel were parked and ready to go with just a few minute’s notice. They were some of the last remnants of the Cold War and were guarded with a zeal that approached fanaticism.

  The incident was quietly settled the next day. Filing charges against the colonel could have resulted in the permanent withdrawal of his base privileges and possibly even jail time. Neither happened, but not because of his rank or any political pull. It was his first offense, although that was not the reason he escaped the wrath of the law.

  A much larger concern for the base commander was the possible disclosure of a bre
ach of security. The effectiveness of security for nuclear weapons depended on secrecy. The more information foreign agents could discover about breaches, the more likely they were to compromise security.

  All security flights were briefed during guard-mount about the incident and steps were taken to prevent a recurrence, including the installation of a longer and stronger barrier at the end of the T-intersection.

  Procedural changes were also made. The red Emergency Action Books, or EABs, now instructed security personnel to quickly react to potential threats and report them immediately.

  Failure to follow procedures definitely affects promotion. She pulled the reg off the shelf and opened it to the section entitled Challenging Unknowns.

  Step One dictated an attempt to identify the vehicle. Joanna stared out the window at two yellow dots of light bouncing around half a mile away. “So much for that one,” she mumbled.

  Step Two was revised after last month’s incident and now directed her to report any nighttime encounter to the Operations NCO immediately. She grabbed the old-fashioned wall phone and dialed 114 again.

  “Desk Sergeant,” John Haverhill monotoned.

  “Hey, Jack, Joanna. . .Got an unknown vehicle approaching my twenty that seems to be driving erratically.”

  “Noted. . .You want backup?”

  “Don’t know. . .Looks like he’s stopped and turned off his headlights. Could be a couple looking for a place to make out. Maybe mixed up our road with the one that leads to the old mine tailings. . .Those three-story high piles of rock do offer privacy.”

  “Don’t they ever? Been out there myself a few times to drink some beers and plink at cans,” Jack declared. “Kinda hidden, though.”

  “Yeah. . .But you’re right. . .They’re a little hard to find, especially in the dark. Probably realize their mistake any minute, spin around and lay rubber. . .Especially after seeing the Federal Installation signs, or the gate and my guard shack. After all, they wouldn’t wannna mess with a security policeman, right?”

  “Uh huh, ‘cause you know how much they fear us,” he said sarcastically. “Most of ‘em think we’re nothing but glorified night watchmen.”

  “If they only knew about the weapons training and exercises. . .”

  “Or that Excellent on our last ORI. . .”

  “Put the fear of God into ‘em,” she proclaimed.

  “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “Me too. . .Say, Jack, on second thought, why don’t you send the flight chief over? Might be a good idea to document what good troops we’re being. . .You know, following procedures and all.” Her slight southern drawl lent a deceptively casual air to the steel-edged request.

  “Sure. . .If nothing else, might keep Sergeant Thomas awake.”

  “Yeah, like that’s a problem. . .Wish I had half the experience that dude has,” she said. “. . .Always running off on some classified TDY or another.”

  “Better than when he’s here. . .Pretty tough on his troops.”

  “Roger that. . .Really drilled me on the regs when he was my FTO.”

  The radio on her hip crackled. “Uh, Ops One, this is Base. . .Request you assist Seven with an unknown at her location, over.”

  The reply was immediate, “Roger that, Base. . .Ops One on the way. Details?”

  “Affirmative, One,” Jack replied. “Seven reports subject vehicle has approached her post to approximately eight hundred meters and is stationary with headlights off, over.”

  “Seven, Ops One,” Thomas addressed Joanna directly. “Can you identify subject vehicle or occupants?”

  Joanna keyed the radio mike clipped to her shirt pocket. “Negative, One. . .Still way off base and outside my lights. It appears to be a truck or van though, over.”

  “Acknowledged, Seven. ETA is two minutes, out.”

  She switched back to the phone. “Thanks, Jack. . .Glad he’s on the way. . .Nothing else, it might take the edge off the boredom. You know, seeing a live person and all.”

  “Know what you mean. Call me if you need anything. . . even just to talk. Sure ain’t got nothin’ goin’ on here.”

  She smiled and hung up the phone. The smile faded as the headlights of the unidentified vehicle burst into life and started moving toward her.

  She subconsciously reached for the M16 combat rifle in the rack below the window, unclipped it and pulled it to her side. Might seem silly. . .But I’m alone in the middle of the night, a few hundred yards from the Alert Pad.

  The ten-acre compound held two KC-135, in-air-refueling tankers and five B-52 bombers with highly-classified weapons parked within its secure perimeter. Although, as the press releases put it, Mather Air Force Base would neither confirm, nor deny the existence of nuclear weapons on base, everybody assumed they were there.

  The mere possession of just one of the nuclear devices would be a coup for any terrorist cell in one of two-dozen countries around the world. It was a tribute to the men and women of the security forces of the worldwide nuclear community that not one bomb, artillery shell or missile had ever been lost to the political maniacs and suicide bombers who hungered for them.

  Joanna mentally went over the security procedures for the Alert Pad. Two three-man Special Response Teams constantly roamed the grounds in armored vehicles. A five-story high structure nicknamed The Tower overlooked the area and contained sophisticated alarm panels connected to hundreds of sensors. The two-person crew could tell you the weight of a jack rabbit passing near any one of the sensors scattered around inside the Alert Pad when everything worked right—in theory.

  Unfortunately, the equipment didn’t always function to design specifications. Aging electronics often fed miscues to the alarm panel. Each and every “hit” was investigated like the real thing, often with bored irritation by the SRT sent to respond. It was annoying to gear up to one hundred percent for a few misplaced electrons or a computer hiccup. It was their job, however, and they strove to be uniform in their response.

  The security lights reflected off the windshield of the approaching vehicle, now within a quarter mile of the gate and moving very slowly into the pool of light that surrounded it. An armored car? Her anxiety level shot up like a rocket and she stabbed the mike button on the radio.

  “Ops One, Seven. Unidentified vehicle appears to be an armored car.”

  “An Armored Personnel Carrier?”

  “No, a bank armored car. . .You know, the kind that carries money. What’s it doing out here at night?”

  “Don’t know, Seven, but I don’t like it. Base, I’m declaring a situation. Request the Alert Pad get an SRT over near Seven ASAP. I’m going Code Two.” He switched on the red and blue flashing light bar on top of his patrol car and floored the accelerator. The plain-Jane, six-cylinder government vehicle lurched ahead and slowly began gathering speed. He could see Guard Post 7 a half-mile ahead around a flat curve. Everything should be under control in a few more minutes. Hope the Alert Pad SRT is on their toes.

  Joanna turned her head slightly, saw the approaching red and blue lights of the patrol car and breathed a sigh of relief. She would feel a lot better when Sergeant Thomas was on scene. She started to move toward the chain-link gate to close it, but stopped when a motion drew her attention to the unknown vehicle.

  It had stopped about a hundred feet from the gate and her post. The passenger door opened and two figures slunk out of the vehicle. They crouched next to it while unpacking something from a case. One of them rested a tubular-shaped object on the fender of the vehicle. Even in the dim light, Joanna could see a cylinder. She keyed her mike and yelled, “Sarge, RPG!”

  The nose of the patrol car dipped as Jake slammed on the brakes. The driver’s door flew open and he rolled smoothly out of the vehicle.

  A flash of light from the attacker’s weapon illuminated a puff of smoke and a ball of flame erupted on the passenger side of the patrol car. The explosion catapulted it over him and the other lane into the dry drainage ditch along the other side of the road.


  Joanna knew Thomas’ chances of escape were slim and began thinking of her own. She ran back to her post, hit the light switches and the guard booth and surrounding area began to blend into the darkness.

  Crouching low with the M-16 firmly in her grasp, she ran for the cover of a nearby ditch, dropped into it and began belly-crawling as fast as possible. The fading amber glow from the sodium vapor security lights guided her.

  She managed to tuck most of her body into a culvert before her senses were overwhelmed by an earsplitting roar. Burning pieces of the guard shack rained down on the ditch and started half a dozen small grass fires. The smell of wood smoke and explosives blossomed around her and hit her like a wall.

  The shifting rattle of a diesel engine penetrated the fading roar of the explosion. She poked her head up in time to see the armored car slowly gather speed as it rolled past her post toward the Alert Pad.

  The scene played out in slow motion and she felt like she was watching a movie. The vehicle stopped in the middle of the intersection and the driver’s door flew open. The glow of the burning patrol car silhouetted a shadowy figure as it pointed the RPG toward the Alert Pad, fired and climbed back into the armored car.

  The explosion cleared a hole in the barricade and the driver expertly shifted gears as the armored car lumbered awkwardly through the crumpled mass of steel. The chain link fence of the Alert Pad stretched like the mailed fist of a medieval knight and collapsed under the force of the forty-ton vehicle.

  This is freaking unbelievable. . . They’re in the Alert Pad! She looked around for the SRT and spotted it as it headed for a distant breach in the fence on the other side of the Alert Pad.

  Powerful security lights inside the compound mounted on thirty-foot high towers cast a pool of light over the area that made it nearly as bright as day. They blinked and began to fade to an anemic yellow until emergency generators kicked on to rekindle them.