BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  “Same thing he’s been doing all day. . .Asks for items and makes our people go through a song-and-dance routine to deliver them. . .Says it’s part of their security measures. Personally, I think he’s just gone power mad.”

  “Not surprising, but how?”

  “Rejected the first delivery. . .Made the airmen strip to their underwear and carry the supplies by hand from the fence to the concrete just short of the bomber. Insisted they open and randomly taste the food and water. Ordered it to be removed and replaced. Repeated that twice more before he allowed two of the hostages to carry the food into the trailer.

  “Okay, now give me some good news.”

  “I negotiated the release of two members who were injured while resisting the attack. . .one with a possible concussion from a rifle butt to the back of the head and the other gut-shot. Both had to be carried out by two volunteers who also had to strip to their underwear.”

  “They okay?”

  “Pretty much, other than cuts on the bottom of their feet. . .”

  J. J. smiled. “No, I meant the injured SRT members.”

  “Oh, right,. . .Being treated at the Base Hospital. One with the concussion came to. . .Should be able to question him in an hour or two. May be a day or more on the other, but he should be okay.”

  “Good. . .Anything else?”

  “No, sir, just wanted to fill you in.”

  “Good job, John. . .Carry on.”

  He thought again about stepping outside the door and lighting the cigar, until a comm tech motioned to get his attention.

  “Pentagon for you, sir.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 12

  UNDER THE BLACKJACK BOMBER

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell us what Rick has you doing to the bombs?” Jason posed the question to Jack as Bud and Bill looked on.

  Rick was up in the bomber talking to the base commander. They had coaxed Jack out of the bomb bay a few minutes before.

  “You heard me,” Jack answered. “Rick says it’s for everyone’s good.”

  “Whose side are you on, any way?. . .Ours or his.”

  “How about mine?” Jack replied. “Gotta look out for my own interests, don’t I?”

  “So he’s offering you a special deal, that it?” Jason’s face had reddened and his jaw had a firm set to it.

  “Didn’t say that. . .But he pointed out a few things. . .”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact you’re a little hotheaded, for a start. . .and that we need to stall them or we won’t have enough time to get away. Says he threw a couple of red herrings at them in the demands. . .Wants to upset their balance. He’s also worried they might screw things up when they try to take back the Alert Pad and accidentally set one of the nukes off. So he’s had me wiring a couple of the bombs so they can be destroyed by remote.”

  “And who has the remote?”

  “Rick. . .Says he’ll only use it if things get out of hand.”

  “And you believe that?

  “Why wouldn’t I? He’s got a pretty good head on his shoulders. . .Been one step ahead of the whole base. . .”

  “And that includes us.” Jason pointed out. “Which leaves everybody one step behind him. . .That doesn’t worry you?”

  “Well, maybe a little. . .”

  Rick walked toward them with a purposeful stride and the conversation ended.

  “Come on,” he ordered. “We need to finish getting the nukes out of here.”

  “Only two left,” Bill replied. “I don’t see why you’re so worried about something happening to the nukes. . .And tell me again why we need to move them to the truck?”

  “Because I don’t want to be responsible for half a million people being vaporized, that’s why!” Rick answered. “Besides, we don’t have time to argue about it. . .we’re almost done.”

  “Something just don’t seem right, that’s all.”

  “”Yeah,” Jason added. “This wasn’t part of the original plan. . .”

  “Plans change when the situation changes,” Rick noted. “Have to stay flexible. . .Now, we can stand here and argue, or we can get the job done and get outta here. . .What’s it gonna be?”

  “We’re not trying to make a federal case out of it. . .Just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Like I said, let’s do it before they bust down the gates and crawl all over us and I’ll explain what I’m doing later. . .That good enough for you?”

  “Whatever.”

  MOBILE COMMAND POST

  “Pentagon?. . .They say who it is?”

  “In no uncertain terms, and I quote, this is Major General Greg Mcllvoy. . .get Colonel Jackson now, unquote.”

  “Thanks. . .Put it on my console phone. Colonel Jackson here. . .Who’s this?”

  “J.J., Greg Mcllvoy.”

  “General. . .been a long time.”

  “Sure has. . .Air War College Seminar on strategic planning. . .three or four years ago, I believe.”

  “Good memory. . .What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Other way around. . .somebody higher up decided they wanted a two-star overseeing the negotiations and I guess the bullseye’s on me.”

  “When will you be flying in?”

  “Won’t be. . .They want me to do it by phone. . .”

  “In case this all blows up?”

  “God, no. . .unless you meant that figuratively. . .They thought it might draw too much media attention if I suddenly show up. This damn Internet thing’s given them way too much access to information. . .They’d figure out who I was in a New York minute.”

  Nothing like an inflated ego. “True. So, do we have some answers for the terrorists?”

  “I do, but let’s not call them terrorists until we know what their motives are.”

  “They call themselves the Black Diamond Front. . .They’re threatening to set off a nuke in. . .” He glanced up at the event timer. “. . .twenty-hours and forty-eight minutes, but whatever you say, General.”

  “Right. . .Boy, they sure threw a hot potato at us with these demands.”

  “Seven-hundred million dollars does seem like pie-in-the sky.”

  “Oh, that was no problem. . .Got it out of our black budget and transferred it to their offshore account. NSA will try to track it although, for all intents and purposes, it’s probably gone for good. Second one was easy, too. . .Twelve unmarked civilian helicopters of the same make, model and color. Took us a little under four hours to locate them. . .On the way to you in four C5As. . .They’ll unload at Travis and hop over.”

  “I’m still puzzled by that one, sir. They’ve got limited cargo capacity and only about a four-hundred mile range.”

  “Who knows?. . .They asked for it. . .they’ll get it. You round up the vans?”

  “Yes, Greg. . .I mean General. . .Six identical passenger vans from a local truck dealer.”

  “Great. Their next demand took a little tap-dancing, but we got it done. . .Ten million dollars in uncut diamonds from a San Francisco diamond exchange. . .Subjects were nice enough to tell us which stores carry the leather satchels they demanded. Twenty-two hundred bucks apiece. . .They’ve got good taste. All of that should be to you by midnight.”

  “And the prisoner release?”

  “That’s where it gets a little sticky. DOJ’s been sending requests for the twelve guys all over the country with mixed results. Seems one of the inmates was killed in a prison yard stabbing and another’s in the infirmary with viral pneumonia. . .Can’t be moved. They’ll have to give us two other names.

  “What’s strange is we checked their records and can’t find any obvious connection between Eichner and them, or each other, for that matter. Most were convicted of crimes that don’t appear to have anything to do with politics. Counterfeiting, bank fraud and bank robberies, mostly. One was convicted of weapons violations. . .armorer for a biker gang. Makes no sense. Have they said what the connections are?”

  “Not a clue, sir. . .Wil
l you be able to get them all released?”

  “Looks like a qualified maybe, at this point in time. Problem is a bunch are facing warrants in other jurisdictions, so stops were put on their release. Had to do a little arm-twisting and promise a few favors to some prosecutors. Been hard, since we can’t tell them why we want them. . .Old national security thing only goes so far nowadays. . .May have to get the White House involved.”

  “Speaking of. . .What about the printing of the classified ads?”

  “Really had to go to the mat on that one. DOJ thinks they might contain coded messages and the NSA is sure there’s some kind of hidden code. . .Just haven’t found the right encryption key. White House says they’ll allow them to be posted, but don’t want their fingerprints on it.

  “The ads will be printed tomorrow in the fifty-four cities specified. We put all federal agents in those locales on high alert. Gets complicated, though, when we can’t tell them what to look for. . .only something suspicious. . .Pretty wide net to cast. We’ll go back and take a look at those locations when it’s over. . .see if anything ties in.”

  “Sounds like the pieces are falling into place.”

  “Damn well better. . .Got a lot of man-hours in on this one. Now it’s up to you to make sure they don’t get away.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an intel-gathering op underway.”

  “No problem. . .I have a meeting with the big guy himself, Chief of Staff, in twenty-minutes. Good talking to you.”

  Jackson turned back to the command post staff. “All right, people, let’s start recording. I want the topside camera zoomed in on the windows of the plane. Analyze every videotape, audio tape, and radio tape nine ways to Sunday. . .Need to get this right from the get-go.”

  A comm tech signaled him. “Sir, Team A is in place and ready to proceed.”

  “Tell them it’s a go. . .Let’s say a prayer for Team A.”

  J.J. reached for his coffee mug, rubbed his stomach and put it back down—stomach acid was boiling up in his throat. He picked two antacid tablets from the roll he kept in his pocket and popped them into his mouth. His command post staff was busy concentrating on various tasks.

  Nobody wanted to screw up the most important mission they would face in their entire career. They wanted the Alert Pad back under military control ASAP.

  MOBILE COMMAND POST

  “A Team Leader, this is Alpha One, proceed with plan. . .Deadly force is authorized. . .repeat. . .deadly force is authorized.”

  The command was given over an encrypted frequency and transmitted to Jake Thomas’s headset. He used a series of hand signals to provide directions to the other five members of the team.

  All hell broke loose with his final gesture. The lights that had been illuminating every square inch of the plane faded slowly from brilliant white through orange and finally to black. Their dying glow threw only the slightest shadows. The intruders had apparently turned off the generator that powered the temporary lights they had rigged.

  The other five team members were mounted on three dirt bikes. Jake sat down behind one of them and held on. They buzzed past the tripod-mounted sensors and stopped under the fuselage of the bomber long enough to knock down the plywood barrier that had been erected by the terrorists.

  One team member found shelter behind an aircraft power unit, while another climbed up into the wheel-well of the giant bomber. The remaining three crouched behind the bikes and waited for any attempt to repel the team.

  “SRT-2 to SRT-Leader, something’s wrong. . .Why no fire from the bad guys?”

  “No idea. . .Eyes on bogeys, anyone?”

  “Negative.”

  “No tango in sight.”

  “Same here.”

  “Now what?”

  “Team Leader to Team A, proceed as planned.”

  Jake crept toward the back of the huge bomber. Glad I practiced covert entries on this bad boy bunches of times. Its flat gray paint reflected none of the faint ambient light and the plane was more a presence than an object.

  He reached the auxiliary power unit hatch and took a power screwdriver out of a belt pouch. It was similar to one you might purchase at a local hardware store, Tech Services had modified it for stealth operation. Black electrical tape was wound over a coating of non-reflective plastic to silence all but a faint whir when it was running. Para cord attached to the back prevented it from hitting the ground if dropped. The screwdriver bit matched the size and star shape of the APU hatch screws and was soldered in so it could not be lost.

  It took less than a minute to loosen the locking handle cover, and swing the hatch inward. He reached overhand for a grip bar and swung swiftly and silently up into the plane.

  Jake keyed his mike three times to let the other team members know he was inside and could almost hear them running for their dirt bikes. The security lights would be turned back on any second.

  His night goggles adjusted instantly and he quickly surveyed the APU compartment. It was empty and the generator was silent. Something’s wrong. Jake scanned the six-foot wide by eight-foot long compartment and noticed an open security panel. Lettering on the outside indicated it contained classified communications equipment and was to be opened only by authorized personnel. Too late.

  He carefully eased the door aside and let the beam of his flashlight probe the interior. Electrical cables dangled uselessly from the top and rear of the yard-square space. Some looked like they supplied electricity to whatever had been there, while others appeared to be antenna leads.

  A metal tag riveted to the door noted the missing equipment was to be serviced only by authorized personnel of the National Security Agency. He took a moment to copy a list of telephone numbers to contact in case there was a problem onto his notepad and closed the door. There would be time later to figure out how the piece of secure comm gear fit into the other pieces of the puzzle. Right now, he needed to continue surveying the rest of the aircraft.

  He moved across the compartment with slow, carefully executed steps and looked through the saucer-sized window of the interior access door. Slightly hazy with age, it still allowed him to see the length of the bomb bay. A flip of a switch changed the goggles to infrared and showed no body heat in the plane. He opened the access door very slowly to avoid creaking hinges announcing his presence and eased out onto a narrow walkway. To the credit of maintenance, the door opened smoothly with no noise.

  Soft rubber-soled boots muted the sound of his steps as he patiently made his way toward the front of the plane. Countless martial arts classes had taught him the subtle nuances of stealth. Raising his foot nearly knee high and placing it down toe first before settling into place, he moved soundlessly down the metal catwalk with hips and shoulders squared toward the front of the plane. His left hand was positioned at chest height in front of him to clear the way. His right hand rested lightly on the sling that supported the machine pistol hanging against his right hip.

  A double beep in his earpiece told him phase two of the operation had begun. Although he couldn’t see out of the aircraft from his vantage point, the ambient light increased as the sodium vapor ramp lights blasted back to life with a yellow orange intensity.

  All other members of the SORT except Senior Airman Juan Flores, had already retreated and were almost back out of the Alert Pad. Flores was secreted away in the wheel-well of the bomber to provide cover in case Jake had to beat a hasty retreat from the plane.

  He was midway over the bomb bay and decided to point his flashlight downward. What he saw caused him to freeze.

  INSIDE THE MOBILE COMMAND POST

  Bart Winfield had joined Colonel Jackson at his request and stood listening to the hum of activity as the mission got underway. He would much rather be outside with his men, but J. J. wanted him beside him to offer advice.

  The red letters of the countdown timer displayed the time left as nineteen hours, thirteen minutes and twelve seconds. Not enough to move at the cautious pa
ce he would prefer, but he had never been on a mission that let him move at anything but a hell-bent-for-leather, breakneck pace.

  A flat-screen monitor in the center of the rig displayed time-elapsed in green numbers and the status of mission personnel in orange. Messages that Jake or Juan typed into their keyboard would appear in red.

  SORT A had retreated from the Alert Pad, leaving Juan Flores and Jake Thomas to finish the recon. They would rush back in to support them if it hit the fan. Bart could see them through the windshield milling around near the hole in the fence.

  J.J. tugged on Bart’s sleeve and pointed to the message screen. Red letters started to appear as Jake provided an update. The words sent a chill through Bart as he read, T’s wired two n devices together.

  “Why would they do that?” J.J asked.

  “Couple of reasons. . .neither of ‘em good. Might could be a trap to slow us down, or a way to detonate two at the same time. Either way, it messes things up nine ways to Sunday.”

  CATWALK ABOVE THE BOMB BAY

  The inside of the bomb bay smelled of hydraulic fluid and metal and looked like the inside of a factory with numerous racks and devices of different shapes and sizes mounted on the walls. Nothing seemed to have changed.

  A scraping sound near the front of the plane jolted Jake back to reality and served as a call to action. Primal instincts screamed at him to rush forward and meet the unknown danger with a furious charge. Training and discipline held him back as he waited patiently to hear if there was a follow-up sound to indicate anyone moving in his direction.

  He continued his studied advance and discovered the disturbance was caused by a cable strung from the cockpit toward the back of the plane for about fifteen feet. It ended near a crew hatch in the floor and was connected to some electronic gear. It rubbed against the side of the aircraft as it swung back and forth in a slight breeze from the crew hatch.

  Moving closer, Jake focused first on a control panel on the box and then to the open hatch. He could see the tarmac below and the edge of what appeared to be a manhole cover that led to a storm drainage tunnel. A framework of heavy metal beams was mounted over the manhole and seemed very much out of place. The stillness both inside the plane and the limited view of the outside indicated the intruders had abandoned the aircraft. Still, protocol dictated clearing the rest of the area.