BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  “Of course we have them.”

  “Good. On my mark, please start the countdown clock at twenty-four hours. . .I’ll wait while your people prepare.”

  “Twenty-four hours it is. . .Ready whenever you are. . .”

  “In three. . .two. . .and mark!”

  Six-inch high red numbers above the center console came to life and displayed a digital countdown in hundredths of a second from twenty-four hours, zero minutes and seconds. A beep over the speakers indicated a timer had been started in the bomber.

  J.J. leaned over the microphone. “Okay, Number One, what’s the timer all about? We’re going to try to meet your demands as fast as we can, clock or no clock.”

  “I thought you might like a little incentive. . .I am the only person who can stop the countdown and I will, if all of my demands are met by tomorrow at this time.”

  “Well, like I said, we’ll do our best. . .”

  “Let’s hope that is adequate,” Rick replied. “Although, it won’t matter if you don’t. You see, I’ve rigged a detonator to two of the nuclear weapons in the bomb bay. They will not only produce a spectacular explosion, but will also destroy all other devices on the aircraft. The added nuclear debris will make the biggest dirty bomb the world has ever seen. . .Hundreds of square miles of northern California will be unusable for centuries. . .Millions of people will die immediately. Those who don’t will wish they had. . .rather than suffer the effects of radiation poisoning.”

  “You can’t be serious. . .”

  “Oh, but I’m deadly serious. . .Meet my demands, or face the worst catastrophic disaster your country has ever seen.”

  “Has it occurred to you that you’ll die, too?”

  “So what?. . .I’ll be serving my cause.”

  “What cause would that be?”

  “Doesn’t matter. . .I’ll fax the demands as soon as we finish this conversation and you might want to get to work on them immediately. . .My demands are few and are not negotiable. You have twenty-four hours and either I will be gone or a good-sized chunk of northern California will glow for a very long time. This is Number One from the Blackjack Bomber, out.”

  The intruder’s voice was replaced with the gentle hum of a dead line.

  Colonel Jackson’s reply froze on his lips. “The son of a bitch hung up on me. . .can you believe that?” he said to nobody in particular. “Although, I guess that went about as well as could be expected. Anybody think of something else that needed to be covered?”

  Nobody answered the rhetorical question. They waited for the fax machine to spit out the demands and a few minutes later one of them began gently whirring. Chief Worth grabbed the single sheet as it finished printing and gingerly carried it to the head of the conference table as if it were contaminated. J.J. looked up,

  “Thank you, Chief.” J.J. took the paper from his hands, pulled a set of bifocals out of his shirt pocket and placed them on his nose. The rest of the room remained silent, with only the soft hum of the air-conditioners to break the tension.

  “Let me start by saying none of what was said on that call leaves this room, understood? I’m not going to bore you with the details of this message. . .Most of their demands are need-to-know, anyway. They’re asking for pretty much what we expected. . .whole boatload of money deposited in an overseas account with more delivered to the Alert Pad and, of course, transportation. . .including passenger vans and helicopters. Don’t know where they think they can go without being followed, but they do seem to have a well-thought-out plan.

  “Let’s see. . .They want a manifesto released to the public. . .not uncommon for terrorists. Also want a list of high-profile prisoners released and brought here. . .and a fortune in uncut diamonds delivered in very specific satchels. Food and water for them and the hostages. . .the usual stuff. I’ll send the demands we can’t handle locally up the chain.

  “Let’s get back to our sections now and work those Red Book actions. Twenty-four hours is not a lot of time. . .we need to get cracking. This meeting is adjourned. Colonel Hadler, would you and your team stay behind?”

  He stood and the rest of the room followed suit. They began filing out with determined looks on their faces and notebooks in hand.

  UNDERNEATH THE BLACKJACK BOMBER

  “Well, I guess that settles that!” Jason had a smile of satisfaction from ear to ear.

  “Does it?” Bill challenged.

  Jason’s smile faded and was replaced with a perplexed look. “We stood up to him, didn’t we?. . .Forced him to give us the account numbers. . .”

  “And how do we know they’re real? Could be any string of numbers. . .Besides, that bank might not even exist. How do you feel about all this, Bud?”

  “Hard to say. . .I mean, he seemed sincere. . .”

  “But do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Couldn’t tell one way or another.”

  “Exactly, and we got no way to verify nothing.”

  “So what do we do now, just give up?” Jason asked.

  Bill smiled. “Actually, that’s one possible scenario. . .Throwup our hands and walk out to the gate. . .Let them take us in. ’Course, that leaves us back where we were. . .Facing jail time and still being chased by the mob.”

  “Doesn’t have any more appeal than it did when we broke in here,” Jason noted.

  “Yeah,” Bud chimed in. “I was kinda hoping this would work out.”

  “It still might,” Bill offered. “Won’t know for sure until this is all over. . .will we?”

  “How in the world did we get ourselves in this mess?” Bud asked.

  “Been through that too many times already,” Bill answered. One thing I have noticed, though, is how fuzzy my thinking’s been the last couple of months. . .Like I was on drugs, or something. . .any of you guys feel that way?”

  Jason stood silent, but Bud spoke up, “Yeah, now that you mention it, I have felt a little spacey. . .Which don’t make no sense, ‘cause I don’t even take the stuff the doc gives me. . .makes me feel like a zombie.”

  Bill turned toward Jason. “How about you, Champ? Ever feel like somebody’s slipping you a mickey?”

  “Sort of, I guess. . .”

  “Huh?”

  “I used to see a doctor for anger management. . .My temper’s got me into a little trouble now and then and I had a fight with Bill Smythe at work. . .They made me go or else they’d take me before the Disciplinary Board. . .Anyway, I went for a couple of months and the doctor gave me a prescription to calm my nerves. It worked. . .but I remember now that it made me feel like I was isolated from the whole world, so I quit taking it.”

  “How long ago was that?” Bill asked.

  “Six months or so. . .although, I’ve sort of felt some of the same feelings come back a little the past couple of months. . .

  been way too calm.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Bill replied. “I know this is gonna sound kinda far out there, but I think Rick’s been slipping something to us.”

  “Oh, come on, man,” Jason exclaimed. “You turning paranoid on us?. . .Gonna join the local conspiracy theorists group?”

  “No. . .In fact, I’m thinking clearer now than ever before and there’s a reason. I quit eating or drinking what the rest of you have. . .Been drinking the food and water they bring to us through the fence. . .And the thing is, I’m noticing a big difference already.”

  “Glad to hear that. . .But why do you think it’s Rick?”

  “He seems to like hovering over our food and drinks, that’s why. It’s not like he helps fix it, so I asked myself why he’d do that and the answer came to me in a flash. . .could be he’s putting something in it. . .”

  Bud broke in, “I never said nothing before, but I came out of the john at Jason’s place one night and Rick had a pill bottle in his hand near the pizza. He looked real surprised and then covered it up by saying it was some stuff his doctor gives him. I didn’t think no more about it. . .but he coulda been putti
ng something in the food.”

  Bill put a hand on their shoulders. “I don’t wanna get carried away with this, but I think we should talk to Jack and all of us need to keep our eyes open. . .Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t. Who knows? But there’s another reason. . .He’s the only one who don’t work at the base. He’s not one of us.”

  323RD SPS BRIEFING ROOM

  “Sergeant Thomas, would you join us to say how you’d handle this? We’re racing the clock.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Winfield had hurried back to the security police squadron building from the meeting in the mobile command post and gathered together the team that would lead the response.

  The area where guard mount was usually held was set up like a classroom, with rows of student desks and a chalkboard in back of him. He leaned his tall frame on the lectern while the team copied information from the board behind him.

  Items were grouped under headings that broke the facts down into logical sections: Subjects, Weapons, Transportation, Physical Characteristics and Personality. Side notes added information about a particular item and footnotes directed certain security police elements to take charge of individual tasks.

  The smell of stale coffee and body odor permeated the room. Most of them had hurried in without going through their usual morning routines—there’d be time for personal hygiene later.

  “Sorry, sir. . .” Jake Thomas stopped tapping a camouflage pen against the side of his hand and directed his attention to the front of the room.

  “I want to hear how the NCOIC of Special Ops Response Team A would go about retaking the Alert Pad. . .But first, let me make a few comments.

  “I received some information during the Base Commander’s phone call with the intruders that can’t be discussed. . .But I can tell you that we need to find a solution to this problem fast. We know this squadron can take whatever’s thrown at us. . .The key now is to do it with speed and precision. Our fate, and that of the entire area, is on our shoulders like never before. That’s nothing new. . .We face the inherent dangers of this job every day. . .Maybe not like this, or we’d all quit.”

  The comment brought a few smiles and he returned them.

  “Intruders seem to know our procedures better’n we do. . .Been a step ahead of us the whole time. That ends today when we put our heads together and come up with a solution.

  “And don’t be afraid to step outside the lines. We need to listen to every idea. . .no matter how far out there it is. With that in mind, what do you have for us, Sergeant Thomas?”

  Jake stood up. “Well, sir, this isn’t much different than scenarios we’ve run a hundred times during training. We simply need to analyze the setup and apply the right fix, with maybe a few twists thrown in. For instance. . .”

  He held up one finger. “First, we gain access to the plane through the auxiliary power unit hatch in the tail.”

  He held up a second finger. “Two, we coordinate killing the ground power at the same time we feed CS gas throughout the plane using the external air-conditioning cart. . .”

  Bart interrupted, “Don’t you figure they’ll have gas masks?”

  “Be shocked if they didn’t, sir. . .They’re obviously pros. I’m sure they expect us to begin any attack with gas, which is why we’ll stop it as soon as it gets going. They’ll also expect us to charge the plane. . .and that’s why we won’t.”

  “Now wait just a daggone minute. . .You’re telling us all the things we’re supposed to do, but not gonna do?. . .So, what should we do?”

  “We need to throw them off balance a little to gain the upper hand. By testing them, we may discover a crack in their armor. At the very least. . .might find out who we’re up against. At the moment, we don’t know anything about them.”

  “I agree, we don’t have enough intel. . .What else?”

  “They’ve had two local radio stations playing full-blast inside the plane so we can’t filter out the masking noise. We need somebody inside to feed us info. . .The fake assault is our cover. I’ll access the aircraft through the APU hatch and crawl along the old tail gunner walkway to the forward crew area. There’s an avionics bay where I can get close to them. . .Won’t be able to talk, but I can text in what I see.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll react full-force to an attack?”

  “Absolutely, sir. . .So we’ll need to back off as soon as we get started. . .Keep from totally spooking them. We could turn off the security lights on the ramp to start the attack and turn them back on. . .Make them think we aborted the attack because of a mix-up. Or do a fake transmission over Tac 2. . . .You know they’ll be monitoring it.”

  Bart rubbed his chin. “Commander may not buy into a plan that makes the subjects that edgy. . .Still, we should be willing to take a risk. These individuals aren’t hampered by any set way of doing things. . .We shouldn’t be either. . .”

  An administrative assistant knocked and entered the room to hand him a note. The background hum of conversation rose in volume as the security policemen compared notes.

  He read it and raised his hand to get their attention. “Quiet down, please. . .I have an unfortunate announcement to make.”

  Conversation subsided immediately. “Just got word that Colonel Hadler has been taken to the base hospital with a medical problem. I know your thoughts and prayers are with him, so I feel like a moment of silence is in order.”

  He paused and continued a minute later, “Y’all are the best unit I’ve ever had the honor to work with. I know we’ll take these thugs down and get the Alert Pad back in short order. . .right?”

  Fists were thrown in the air. “Hoo, rah!”

  A senior airman yelled, “Let’s go kick some terrorist butt!”

  “Sounds good to me, but first, let’s brainstorm this a little more. . .Come up with the strongest possible plan I can present to Colonel Jackson, since I’m now the Acting Squadron Commander.”

  “Best work we’ve done in a long time,” Bart proclaimed thirty minutes later. “Lieutenant Johnson and Sergeant Thomas, grab your hats. . .let’s go brief Colonel Johnson.”

  “Think he’ll like what we’ve come up with, sir?” Jake posed the question.

  “Gotta like it. . .Uses caution and patience while acting expeditiously. . .Best way to keep a situation under control. This is no time for cowboyin’. We got a lot of people counting on us. . .even if they don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. It’s our job to regain control of the Alert Pad and the nukes in the planes before the world blows up in our faces. . .and theirs.”

  He looked at his watch. . .Twenty-two hours and forty-two minutes.

  ***

  CHAPTER 11

  HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  323 AIR BASE GROUP

  Agent Mary Benson retrieved an ebony-colored aluminum case from the jet-black Suburban with the darkly-tinted windows and followed Colonel Jackson into the base headquarters building. The secure conference room was in the basement down a long hallway. Fluorescent lights overhead cast a greenish glow on the highly polished tile floor and their footsteps echoed off concrete walls. An armed security policeman stood outside the door to the conference room and came to attention as they approached.

  J.J. tapped a code into the crypto-lock and beckoned them into the room. He pressed a privacy button to prevent anyone from entering. The musty smell of a room that was seldom used hung in the air. He walked to the head of the table and opened a concealed drawer to reveal a security control panel.

  “I need to sweep the room,” he explained to the two agents.

  A press of a button on the console brought a small computer screen to life. He chose the option for a full debugging and waited patiently as the computer checked for phone taps, eavesdropping devices and concealed microphones. A beep indicated the sweep was finished.

  “All clear. Good, I don’t like surprises. . .Which is why this incident grates on me so much.”

  “Nobody’s blaming you, sir. . .Could’ve happened anywhere and a
t any time.”

  “Yes, but it happened on my base. . .so I want everything done by the book. My people can handle these criminals. . .Although, it does have a certain surreal quality that’s hard to shake.”

  “Not just for you, sir,” Mary Benson noted. “We’re all new to this type of overt attack. We deal constantly with minor threats and intel gathering. Something this massive in scale shocks your whole system.”

  “Indeed it does.” He pushed a button on the side of his chronograph to display elapsed time. It matched the timer in the Command Post and had just counted past twenty-two hours and thirty-four minutes. “I’m sure you didn’t ask to see me privately to offer sympathy. What do you have? Something good, I hope. . .I need a little positive news.”

  “Unfortunately,” she replied in a businesslike tone, “it probably doesn’t come under the heading of good news and may relate to what’s happening on your Alert Pad.”

  She placed the briefcase on the mirror-like finish of the conference table and inserted an odd-looking key that was shaped like a double M into a lock on the case. Johansen did the same with another key that was shaped like a double V.

  A small door opened to expose a digital keypad and the two agents took turns punching in half of a twelve-digit security code. At the same time, they held their thumbs over small smoked glass windows on top of the briefcase. There was a gentle whirring sound and the case popped open.

  WINSTEAD RESIDENCE

  “Hello,” Nora said firmly into the phone.

  “It’s me, Darlin’. . .On my way to meet with J.J. . . .only have a minute. Thinking maybe you should go to Mary’s birthday party after all. Where’d you say it was. . .Tahoe?”

  She was taken aback and it took her a moment to respond. “I. . .uh, yes, that’s right. Will you be able to come?”

  “Not sure at this point. . .He glanced at his watch. “I’ll know by 1640 tomorrow, one way or ‘nother.”

  “Let me think. . .Sure, I’ll call the South Shore Lodge and see if they have a cabin available. I imagine you’d like the idea of a few days with no phone to deal with.” And the security of a CIA safe house. “I like the idea of spending time with my big, handsome husband.”