by T C Miller
He slowly rose to a crouch. The patrol car had flipped over him and slid into the drainage ditch on the other side of the road. It was upside down and roaring flames lit the immediate area.
Gotta find cover. He rolled into the ditch on the opposite side of the road as the fire reached the gas tank. The resulting fireball vented itself harmlessly into the night sky.
He waited a minute and raised his head above the level of the ditch to look in the direction of Guard Post 7. The wavering glow from the fire revealed a crouching figure about two hundred yards away moving slowly toward the burning patrol car. It was too big to be Joanna Davies.
Not the time to stand up and identify myself. There was no question this tango needed to be taken out. Jake belly-crawled to the end of the ditch closest to the attacker and huddled into a tight ball.
He keyed the mike clipped to his uniform shirt epaulet and whispered, “Base, Ops One, you copy?”
“Ops One, Base, wow, you’re actually alive?”
“No, I’m faking it.”
“Davies thought you were toast.”
“Probably should be. . .Need to thank her. I’m mobile near Post Seven. It’s wiped out. . .don’t see her. . .”
The keying of another mike and the awed voice of Joanna Davies interrupted him, “Oh, man. . .Thought you bought it. . .”
“Sorry to disappoint you two, but I have a problem. A tango’s moving toward me, over.”
“Got one. . .Other’s coming for you.”
“Let’s see if I can ruin his night. Send backup, just in case. . .Off while I take him out.”
The conversation ended with a muted blast of static. He wished he had a pocket periscope from his response team kit. Unfortunately, it was in the trunk of the wrecked patrol car. He would have to depend on finely-tuned senses and training.
It wasn’t long before the sound of crunching gravel reached him. The burning patrol car silhoutted him moving slowly, trying to be as stealthy as possible by walking on the gravel shoulder. It gave him away as an amateur, since the gravel announced his position and left him just a few feet from the ditch. Come to Papa.
He tucked his body against the end of the ditch and sensed the dark-suited figure moving past him far enough to get a glimpse. He was holding a short-barreled weapon and watching the fire across the road. Probably figures nobody could have survived that.
Jake slid quietly out of the ditch at a low crouch and approached from behind. He stopped just short of his adversary, set his left foot solidly, and used his right to deliver a powerful kick to the back of the intruder’s left knee. It collapsed and sent him sprawling face first. He tried to catch his fall and the machine pistol skittered down the asphalt and out of reach.
He rolled over quicker than Jake expected and drew a commando knife from an ankle sheath. Jake pulled a collapsible baton from his belt and snapped it open. A quick blow to the right knee meant the other guy wouldn’t stand without a cane for awhile. Another blow shattered the wrist that held the knife and it fell to the pavement with a clatter.
The tango threw both arms up and stuttered between pain-clenched teeth, “Ss. . .stop it, dd. . .dude! Ain’t getting paid enough for this abuse.”
The encounter took less than thirty seconds. Jake reached behind his back for a set of handcuffs from his belt and quickly secured the black suited figure. A quick search revealed another knife in an ankle pouch, two spare magazines and a can of pepper spray.
Only two mags? This guy either had another source of ammo or didn’t expect to fight for very long. No wallet or identification, so it would be up to squadron investigators to find out who he was and who was paying him.
A quick flick of his wrist brought the radio back to life. “Base, Ops One back in business. . .One tango cuffed. . .ready to stuff. What’s the current sitrep, over?”
“Multiple instances of unauthorized entry. . .One guard post totally destroyed, along with your unit and two Peacekeepers. Alert Pad Control Tower’s history. Fence breached in at least two places. Power down for most of the base. Half a dozen structure and grass fires and the Fire Department’s working with low water pressure. Senior staff is set for an Emergency Disaster Response meeting at the command post in twenty-seven minutes.”
Jake heard the crackle of another radio in the background as John continued with his report, “No identity on the tangos. . .They appear to be in control of the Alert Pad. Hang on a sec, Sarge. . .Getting a transmission over TAC2. . .I’ll leave the mike open, over.”
Haverhill picked up another mike. “Security Police Base. . .Why are you on Tac 2?”
Tactical Frequency Two was used mostly during exercises or an occasional stakeout.
An unfamiliar voice brought a steely chill with carefully spoken words, “Security Police Base and all others, be advised. . .The Alert Pad is now under control of the Black Diamond Front. No effort should be made to approach it. Our own security system is in place and will detect movement within fifty feet of the outer security fence.
“We have nine hostages and access to nuclear weapons. The Base Commander can hear our demands by telephone in the Base Command Post at 0730 hours. Black Diamond Front out.”
The stillness was broken only by static hum from the radio and sirens in the distance.
Jake spoke first, “Black Diamond Front? Who are they?”
There was no reply, so he continued, “Base, send somebody out to pick up my prisoner ASAP. Davies and I’ll stay on her post until you get replacements. Ops One, over.”
“Affirmative, Ops One. Who was that, anyway? Sounds like some cheap action movie. . .”
“Affirmative, Base. . .Maintain radio discipline. Ops One standing by, over and out.”
WINFIELD RESIDENCE
OFF-BASE IN RANCHO CORDOVA
Lieutenant Colonel Bart Winfield, Operations Officer for the 323rd Air Base Group Security Police Squadron spoke softly into the phone, “Thank you, Desk Sergeant.”
Bart sat for a moment at the edge of the king size bed, one of a limited number of mattresses that did not leave his feet hanging over the edge. At a little over six feet-six, he towered over most people and challenged most furniture.
He ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and worked to shake the cobwebs from his mind. The call had interrupted an intense dream about a past mission in Europe when he was forced to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a knife-wielding assailant.
Bart had just twisted the knife from the bad guy’s grip when the harsh ring of the phone tore him away from the dream.
“What in the name of God is going on over there?” He didn’t realize he had said it out loud until Nora, his wife of twenty-three years, answered in a drowsy tone.
“Going on over where, honey?”
“Sorry, darlin’. . .Didn’t mean to wake you. Need to get to the Command Post.”
“Something wrong?” The question was rhetorical in nature, since a recall was initiated only when something critical had happened.
“Probably nothing more’n some drunk running through the Alert Pad fence again. Need to go sort things out.”
“Not again. . .Hope it’s nothing too bad,” she mumbled. “Though, I know you can handle it. . .Call me when you know what’s going on. I’ll have breakfast waiting when you come back.”
He leaned toward her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Call you soon as I can.”
She rolled over, pulled the covers over her head and mumbled, “Uh, huh. . .Love you.”
“And I love you too, my little darlin’.”
He pulled his uniform and boots from the closet as quietly as he could, closed the bedroom door behind him and moved softly down the carpeted stairs. The Desk Sergeant could not tell him everything, since the conversation was not on a secure line, so he stepped into the attached garage and retrieved the encrypted radio from his pickup truck.
“Security Police Base, this is Admin Two, come in please.”
“Admin Two, Base, over.”
&n
bsp; “Sitrep?”
“Yes, sir. We have a full-fledged intrusion into the Alert Pad with multiple tangos who are well-armed and fighting SRTs.”
“Copy that, Base, should be there in less than ten minutes.”
“That’s good, sir. . .All hell’s breaking loose.”
“Roger that. . .on my way.” He finished pulling on his combat boots, reached over and pushed the button for the garage door opener. He was wide awake now and ready for whatever awaited him at the base. His next job was to make sure the entire squadron was ready. . .
***
CHAPTER 4
JASON’S HOME
OFF-BASE IN RANCHO CORDOVA, CA
SIX WEEKS BEFORE ALERT PAD ATTACK
“The working man ain’t never supposed to be totally happy…least that’s the way I see it.” Rick Eichner puffed on a cigar and picked up the cards from the table. He raised one eyebrow as he glanced down at two queens, a three, and two fours.
He sorted them casually and looked around the table. It was a typical suburban Thursday night out with the boys bunch, including a plumber, an electrician, a bureaucrat and a retired military cop. Their baggage consisted of eight wives or ex-wives, five mortgages, two second mortgages, two cardiac episodes and enough extra weight hanging over three of their belts to make a small-sized sixth one of them.
Their idea of excitement was limited to the few times each summer when Judy Manlon, the divorce who lived at the end of the cul-de-sac, sunbathed nude in her backyard.
The biggest neighborhood event in the past couple of years was when the TV show California Cons filmed the recreation of a car jacking at Sunrise Mall.
Dull? You bet your sweet ass they are.
He waited a few seconds, swiveled in the old gray office chair with the cracked Naugahyde upholstery and addressed the group again, “Think about it…You get just enough to feel more or less satisfied, right?…A lot less than what you’d like, but a little more than what you need to get by. So you don’t ever get motivated to try something with real potential…Am I right?”
His fellow players shuffled their cards a few more times and glanced back and forth at each other. Finally, Bud Anderson took a deep, wheezing breath. “Think I know what you’re trying to say,” he mumbled as he sorted through his hand. “Take my job, for instance…”
“I wouldn’t take your job for all the tea in China,” observed Jack Hamilton, his closest friend. “You spend half your life crawling around in sewers, knee-deep in shitty water…Yeah, that’s a dream job.”
“Screw you,” Bud shot back. “Somebody’s gotta do it.” The look of annoyance on his face was immediately replaced by one of self-satisfaction. “Besides, I put two kids through college with that crappy job.”
Jack smiled at Bud’s unintended pun. “Sure you did…But let’s face it…Joe, Jr. only made it through ‘cause he’s the best tight end the state’s ever seen.”
“We can’t all be geniuses, you know.” Bud felt his face flushing and turned his attention back to Rick. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted…My job’s typical. Been at the base eleven years and I’m the lousy third shift assistant supervisor. Nineteen more years of busting my hump and if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll make WG-11 by the time I retire…In the meantime, guys like Bill Marston brown-nose their way up the ladder. Don’t make no sense at all…But what am I gonna do, quit and throw it all away?”
“That’s my point.” Rick slapped two cards face down on the table. “You get enough to live, but never enough to do the things you really want to do.”
“So what are you saying?” Jason Pressley asked. His slick gray hair shone under the imitation stained-glass Michelob beer sign that hung over the game table. Gray was his color, even at leisure. Tonight he wore a gray pullover sweater on top of gray slacks with light gray loafers. Most of the suits he wore to work in the Plans and Programs office on base were gray, as were most of his ties.
He continued, “Personally, I get a little tired of people who say you should go for more…If you’ve got a place to live, food on the table and you get laid now and then, how much more do you really need?”
“How about some dreams?” Rick replied, and sat back in his chair.
It was a moment before Bill Johnson shifted in his chair and spoke for the first time. “I think I hear what Rick’s saying.”
Bill had been sitting back observing, a trait learned in twenty-two years in the security police field, followed by four years as a Department of Defense civilian police officer. He usually thought of himself as nothing more than a glorified security guard, but it was better than working off base at two-thirds the pay.
Besides, the transition after retirement from the Air Force had been quick and easy. He took a few weeks off and showed back up in the gray uniform of the DOD police. No TDY trips to deal with and he was familiar with the surroundings. The work was easy and the pay was good. Okay, maybe it is a cop-out. He smiled at his own pun.
It kept his wife happy with the steady pay coming in and he would only have to do it for another eight or ten years—if he was lucky.
It was fairly painless, except for the occasional forced overtime during inspections or exercises and even that wasn’t bad. Just more boring hours sitting in a plain-Jane patrol car. The vinyl upholstery was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but the air-conditioning worked most of the time and the cars didn’t smell like day-old puke, like most of the off-base cruisers.
The active duty guys knew he was only marking time until his next retirement. They more often than not thought of him as just another warm body to fill a seat—little more than a name on the roster to help fill out a shift and that was fine with him.
He turned his attention back to the smoky room where Rick had posed another question. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like if you didn’t have to show up for work at all? You know, it didn’t matter if you even got out of bed?”
“Sure, man,” Jason snorted. “Who hasn’t had that dream? But let’s get real here….It’s not part of the plan. In real life, you work your ass off for thirty or forty years and hope to break even by the time you retire, with maybe a little left over for later on. I mean, that’s the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?
“Yes, but maybe it doesn’t have to be that way for everybody,” Rick replied. “There might be an easier way. Jason, let’s use you as an example…What if you could walk into a casino with a hundred thousand bucks in your pocket and sit down at any blackjack table you wanted to…No more searching out the minimum tables. And what if you could bet as much as you wanted to?…Would that change your outlook on life?”
“Well, sure it would…Are you kidding? I could place bets in a logical pattern…You know, against the percentage the house has. That’d give me the advantage for a change. Could maybe even do a little card counting, if it was less than a three-deck shoe. Course, that’s unheard of anymore…Even the loosest casinos have at least a three-deck shoe.”
He sat back and started silently going through the possibilities, oblivious to the others around him.
Rick let him think for a few seconds, glanced around the table with a conspiratorial look and drew the others into a huddle. “Okay, let me ask you…what if you had help keeping track of the cards?”
“You mean cheating? If that’s what you’re saying, than you’re crazier than I thought…We’re talking about the mob! They don’t take kindly to anybody screwing around with their business and they play for keeps. You could end up in the desert with scorpions crawling all over your dead face.”
Rick sat back, took a long puff on the cigar and belched loudly. “Yeah, if you got caught.”
“Oh, you’d get caught alright,” Jason snapped back. “They’d have a thousand eyes on you the minute you started winning big. I mean really, they pay people to watch the people who look like cheaters…There’s no way to beat their security, at least that I’ve ever heard of.”
“True, if you went i
n by yourself,” Rick conceded. “Being on your own would be a recipe for disaster. To get away with it, you’d have to be part of a well-organized team that was committed to the plan…You know, guys who’d back you up, no matter what. Besides, even if you did get caught, they’d still have to prove you were cheating.”
“Well, I guess,” Jason admitted.
“And you could spread the action around…Make it harder to pin you down. Plus, I have a source for some very specialized equipment nobody can trace…kind the CIA uses. It’s sophisticated enough that you’d be gone before they even knew you were there.”
“Whoa there, amigo,” Bud interjected. “Let’s slow this thing down a little. You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
Rick smiled and said nothing.
Bud sat up and looked Rick in the eye. “You’re serious about this, ain’t you?” He let go a nervous little laugh and looked around the room.
Jack Hamilton jumped in, “Yeah, where’d all this talk about taking on the casinos come from all of a sudden? One minute we’re playing cards and the next thing you know, you’re acting like you wanna take on the casinos. You know you’re talking about some major league bad boys, don’t you? What did you do, go nuts all of a sudden, or something?”
Again, Rick smiled and said nothing.
They all started talking and the commotion made it hard to understand what was being said and by whom. It steadily increased in volume and intensity and words like crazy and stupid popped up more than once.
“Now wait just a minute, everybody!” Jason stood up. “Here you are getting all worked up and we’re just daydreaming, right? I don’t understand…where’s the harm in that?”
He turned toward Rick as he was talking. “Look, Rick, don’t get me wrong…I’m not saying I’m buying into all this craziness or anything…I mean, you got to admit, it is a little far out there. But still, being honest, I am a little bit intrigued. I mean, seriously, who hasn’t thought at one time or another about ripping off the casinos? You see it all the time on TV and in the movies. I’m just wondering why you’re bringing it up now?”
