by T C Miller
They were no sooner on the way to their usual brightness when they died once again and the scene was thrown into darkness in the moonless night. Only flames from the burning guard shack and the patrol car shed any light.
Lights around the base were also methodically winking out. She brought the mike as close to her mouth as she could and tried to sound calm. “Base, Seven. . .Base, come in, please.”
“Seven, Base. . .What the hell’s going on?”
“We’re under attack, that’s what!” Joanna’s voice went up in pitch. “Ops One got hit by an RPG. . .”
“Say again, Seven?”
“I repeat, Ops One’s hit by a grenade. . .It’s toast and my post is gone. Armored car’s in the Alert Pad on the east side. . .Other intruder’s on the west side. Security lights are out. . .An SRT’s engaging them in the dark. . .We need help out here, now!”
She looked up in time to see the tower erupt in a ball of flame that shot fiery tendrils out thirty feet or more. It folded in half and collapsed.
“Control tower. . .gone.”
“What about the crew?”
“No way to know.”
“Hang in there, Jo. I’ll get help to you ASAP.”
“I don’t believe this. . .They’re in the freakin’ Alert Pad! Never seen anything like this. . .Like a bad dream.”
“I know. . .Not supposed to happen.”
“But it’s happening,” she said. “I’ve heard rumors of them testing defenses. . .But why here. . .why now?”
“No idea. . .Whatever it is, though, it’s bad news.”
“And well-planned. Power to half of the base knocked out. . .Two sets of perps and they know the layout.” A thought bubbled up inside her like a green hot dog. She felt nauseous and infuriated at the same time and fought to maintain her composure. “Gotta be an inside job.”
“Could be. . .They’ve been real lucky. . .”
“Not luck. . .planning. Must have scoped us out. . .Maybe from the old mine tailings or that stand of cottonwoods over the east fence. Always seem to be civilians there, right off-base. . .Wait, footsteps coming. . .Be off the air for a bit.”
“Roger that, Jo.”
The steady crunching sounds reminded her of moving along in formation during training exercises. She slowly raised her head above the level of the road and used a cluster of cattails to disguise herself. Light from the burning guard shack cast a dancing orange glow on a short, bearded guy holding what looked like a machine pistol at waist height.
He was standing spread-legged about twenty feet from the remains of the shack. The telltale bulge of a suppressor sat at the end of the rifle. He raised it to chest height and half a dozen flashes spit out the end of the rifle, accompanied by muffled pops. Spurts of dust and gravel erupted around the remains of the guard shack. Guess he thought I’d panic.
A second figure was moving toward Sergeant Thomas’s burning vehicle. The two were trying to clean up the area, but she could tell by the way they moved they had little military training. Too many Jean Claude Van Damme movies left them with the mistaken impression that swagger replaced training. They thought they knew how to operate like seasoned mercenaries.
She hoped to prove them wrong by using every ounce of her knowledge and training against them. She reached down and turned off the radio that had stayed securely clipped to her belt. There would be no stray transmissions or static to alert them. She knew the next few minutes would create a lot of questions later.
First, I need to get through this. The main force of intruders must not know she was still a threat. Gotta take him out with no noise. The M-16 by her side could be heard half a mile away. No good. Normally, the Mace on her leather equipment belt would subdue a rowdy suspect. Not now . . .This guy wants me dead. God willing, I’ll take him out first.
The six-inch long Gerber knife slid noiselessly out of the ankle sheath. She held the knife with the blade facing toward her and waited patiently while the intruder moved past the culvert. Joanna stood and slipped up behind him.
He either heard her breathing or caught her scent and started to turn around. She grabbed a handful of his hair with her left hand and yanked his head back. The razor sharp knife slid across the width of his exposed throat.
Gurgling noises stifled any real cry for help. The move was successful. She hung on to him so he couldn’t spin around and shoot her. A few spurts of gravel erupted around their feet as the intruder spasmodically jerked the trigger. His partners would think he located the guard at Post 7 and dispatched them. The clattering sound of the empty assault pistol as it dropped to the pavement let her know she was safe for the moment.
The intruder clawed ineffectively at Joanna’s arm for a few more seconds as she felt his energy slipping away. He stopped struggling, dropped to his knees and jerked a few times before falling forward. No need to cuff him. She felt something sticky on her hand and wiped it off on the dead man’s jacket.
A feeling of revulsion hit her like a blow to the stomach. She staggered back as a voice surged from deep inside her. You killed him! She picked up the intruder’s weapon and moved back into the ditch.
Joanna crouched on rubbery knees and softly sobbed. Her hands shook and her whole body quivered. Her insides were colder than a walk-in freezer and she needed to throw up.
Time to man up or give up. . .She shivered one last time. A twist of a knob and the radio crackled with energy. It took her a few moments to clear her head and pick up the flow of urgent communications. Supervisors were taking a head count of their troops and actions were confirmed and recorded.
Senior base staff members were contacted and pyramid recall rosters activated to bring the base to full staffing. The fire department had already quelled a number of small fires and was ready to move in on others when the gunfire stopped.
She keyed the mike and spoke softly, “Base, Seven, over.”
The quickness of the response startled her. “Seven, Base, what’s your twenty?”
“Rather not say. . .They may be listening. Also, call me by name. . .They may know our post designations. Understood?”
“Roger that. What happened, Jo?”
“What happened?” She screeched into the radio. “It turned to crap, that’s what!” She realized her voice was two octaves higher than normal. “Killed one and the other’s headed toward Thomas. . .Need to get over there to help. . .You need to get us backup, ASAP.”
“Acknowledged, Jo, but stay put ‘til we figure out what’s going on. . .Thomas can take care of himself. . .You could get caught in the crossfire. Right now, I gotta go. . .busy, over.”
“You’re not listening, Jack. . .He needs me. . .may be wounded or trapped.”
“I heard you. . .Don’t argue with me. Haven’t heard from him. . .He may not even be alive. Look, gotta get back to work. . .Haven’t gone through half the checklist.”
“Screw the checklist, Jack. . .You’re right, we don’t know if he’s dead or alive,” she continued before he could interrupt her. “. . .Need to check it out. I’m not leaving him alone.”
“Listen up, Airman, we need to regroup. Stay where you are. . .And that’s an order. Besides, you still have an entry point to guard. . .could be more perps coming. Stay calm. . .Base, over and out.”
Stay calm? Joanna played the phrase over in her mind and realized Jack was right. Whatever was going on called for calm, cool action and teamwork. She pressed the mike switch and said in the calmest voice she could muster, “Roger that. . .Davies standing by and clear.”
Her gaze shifted from the incoming road to the burning guard shack and finally, to the burning patrol vehicle. She whispered a quick prayer for Thomas and hoped she could share a cup of coffee with him in the morning.
The rest of the shift was going to be one long grueling affair and she knew she had to remain as vigilant as possible. She pulled her emergency Snickers bar out of her pocket, peeled back the label and took a big bite. The peanuts and nougat tasted really good and would help
stall shock.
A shiver ran down her spine and she shrank a little deeper into the cold damp ditch as she took a drink from her canteen. This could turn out to be one of the longest nights of her life.
EXACT LOCATION UNDISCLOSED
EUROPEAN CONTINENT
“You are confident this operative can accomplish his mission?” The man asking the question was a senior leader in a global clandestine intelligence organization called the Consortium. The words were spoken in an accent that hinted at an origin in Eastern Europe tempered with a diplomatic background. He was in a private meeting with one of his aides.
The executive office was paneled in dark wood with built-in shelves filled with musty old tomes and mementos from a lifetime in espionage work. Heavy dark drapes covered the nearly floor to ceiling windows.
He sat behind a massive desk made of the same wood as the shelves and puffed on a Cuban cigar. Wraithlike circles of dense smoke engulfed him as he leaned back in a leather chair that was once used by Joseph Stalin during his reign of terror in the old Soviet Union.
The aide swallowed hard before he answered, fearing the Commissioner was trying somehow to trap him. “I would not have brought him to your attention without some measure of trust in his abilities,” the younger man replied. Especially since my reputation and maybe my life are at stake.
“Why have I not known of him before?” The senior man’s tone made it less a question than a demand.
“We only recently were made aware of his existence. . .”
“By whom?”
“One our clients in the United States. He was assigned to the same deep-cover operation twenty years ago with this former spy. The client operates a smuggling ring in Northern California and uses our services quite often.”
“For which he pays well,” the older man commented.
“Indeed, sir. He and many of his associates trained under the old Soviet Union. As a matter of fact, the leader of the smuggling ring went through his initial training with this operative. He is conducting an operation we are supporting with classified information. The goal is to obtain nuclear material from a military base.”
“The one in Sacramento?”
“Yes,” the aide answered.
“I have never understood the Americans’ propensity for locating military bases near major cities, especially one that is the capitol for a state. How foolish. . .Do they think other countries will hesitate to attack? I think not.”
“Agreed, sir. . .The policy they refer to as Mutually Assured Destruction, assumes other countries fear annihilation if they do so.”
“They may be correct, but now we are getting off subject. . .Back to this operative, what is his name?”
“His real name is Yuri Petrovich, but he has been using the cover Rick Eichner.”
“Petrovich is a common name. . .Is he related to Yuri Petrovich the member of the inner council in the old Soviet government?”
“Yes, he is the son, which is how he was chosen for the intelligence field. His father pressured one old friend after another to assure the assignment for him.”
“I do not understand. Why would he want to get his son into a job that would take him out of the mother country for so long? Was there animosity between them?”
“Sorry, sir, I do not have an answer. Shall I make further inquiries on your behalf?”
“No. . .It is irrelevant. Tell me, how is the operation progressing?”
“I have studied information from all of our sources and can only conclude it is going well. . .Although, to be sure, it is only at the midpoint of Eichner’s plan.”
“Midpoint?”
“Yes, sir, that is what I’ve been told. . .Shall I keep you informed?”
“Yes, daily. . .Unless something of significance occurs.”
“The next phase of the plan is about to begin. . .However, it will take at least a day or two.”
“Fine, now back to our friends in North Africa. Have arrangements been made for my trip next week?”
“They are nearly complete. Gaddafi and his Intelligence Minister are most anxious to meet with you. Do you require my attendance?”
“Would I go without one of my key assistants? I want you by my side when Moamar and I cement the plans for his nuclear program.”
“As you wish. I will make the necessary reservations.” Key assistant? He has never referred to me as a key assistant.
***
CHAPTER 3
ALERT PAD OBSERVATION TOWER
MATHER AFB, CALIFORNIA
PRESENT DAY
Airman First Class John Tomczak stared out the broad windows of the observation tower at the Alert Pad five stories below. The persimmon glow of the security lights gave the scene an almost alien appearance that he was still getting used to after almost three months. The wide expanse of concrete looked like a lake and the airplanes he was monitoring resembled ships at anchor.
His eyes constantly swept back and forth across the console in front of him. There was a monotonous routine to it that might lull other people into a dazed slumber. He checked the alarm panel and raised his sights to check the corresponding area of the Alert Pad. It was a slow night by any measure. Even the usual hiccups were strangely absent and all lights were green.
He was about to stretch his lanky frame for the hundredth time when a knock came at the door. Guess Landon forgot his keys. Mike Landon was the sergeant who comprised the other half of the observation tower crew tonight. He had trekked downstairs to the base of the tower to grab their lunches from one of the Special Response Team drivers.
John usually performed the menial task of slogging down and back up the 148 steps, since he was the junior member. Tonight, Landon decided he needed the exercise. John hadn’t argued with him, although he usually liked the break offered from the scopolamine-like trance of the blinking lights.
He walked over to the door. “Hey, Sarge, getting forgetful in your old age?”
The door banged into him as a heavyset figure in black wearing a balaclava mask over his face shoved his way into the room. “Hey, what the. . .”
The barrel of an automatic pistol was thrust under his chin. A steely voice growled, “No heroics, Junior, and you might just live to see the sunrise.”
John glanced past the intruder to the rack beside the door that held his M-16 rifle.
“That’s right, newbie. . .Should’ve challenged me with weapon in hand.”
John stood stock-still like a recalcitrant schoolboy and tried to stammer a reply. A second intruder spun him around and duct-taped his hands behind his back.
Sergeant Landon was thrust roughly into the room, tripped and fell. John was shoved down on the floor next to him.
They seemed to know tower protocol as well as any crew member, which was confirmed when intruder one sat down at the alarm panel and began deactivating the automatic communications links. He was isolating them from any help, except by two-way radio.
One light after another blinked and faded to black. There would be no rescuing cavalry. “Tower clear,” he said into a portable radio and stood up.
Tango two dug a number of small satchel charges out of his backpack and stuffed them into the pockets of his jacket. He gathered up his gear and moved toward the door. “C’mon, let’s stay on schedule.”
The intruders pulled the two-man crew to their feet and hustled them out. It was the last time they would see the observation tower. It might be the last time they saw anything if they didn’t cooperate.
Where did they come from? John turned the possibilities over in his mind and nothing made any sense. The alarm panel had reported the perimeter and all gates to be secure. Still, they were here. They tampered with the system.
John followed Landon down the stairs and hoped he didn’t trip. Descending the slippery metal stairs with his hands tied behind his back was tricky.
Intruder two stopped at each landing and duct-taped one of the packets to the steel supporting beams of the tower. They reached
ground level five minutes later and walked a hundred yards or so further. John could see one of the SRT crews sitting on the ground next to their vehicle. They were handcuffed and one of them was bleeding profusely from a head wound.
A series of explosions breached the still night air. He could see the other SRT racing toward the perimeter fence. Maybe they’ll have better luck. The sound of a diesel engine announced a civilian tractor trailer moving van that appeared as if out of nowhere.
“Move along, newbie,” the first intruder commanded.
He mumbled a prayer under his breath, “Dear Lord, bless us in our hour of need. . .”
They certainly needed somebody to watch over them. He thought of his mom and dad in Story City, Iowa and prayed he would see them again. The intruder nudged him in the back with his rifle and John picked up the pace.
They were another hundred feet away from the tower when a quick series of explosions ripped through the night air and nearly knocked him down. The shrieking sound of twisting, tortured steel made him move even faster. He glanced back in time to see fiery puffs of smoke coming from steel supports. The tower began to collapse, like mud sliding down a wall.
He concentrated on staying on his feet as the ground shook even more violently. A cloud of dust enveloped them and made breathing difficult. He could smell the acrid stench of C-4. Numbness began to overtake him. Can’t believe it. . .the tower’s gone. . .gone.
His captor jammed the rifle into his back again and growled, “Move, before I shove this rifle up your ass!”
Airman First Class John Tomczak shivered and plodded on to an unknown destination with an indefinite future.
NEAR GUARD POST SEVEN
The searing pain in the back of Jake Thomas’s head matched the intensity of the explosion from the RPG. His first attempt at raising his head brought a wave of nausea.
He lay back down, slowed his breathing and calmed himself. Years of martial arts training and conditioning served him well, and he was pleasantly surprised that everything seemed to work.
The shoulder roll out of the car and the explosion that followed left him relatively unscathed. “Thank you, Jesus,” he said out loud.
