BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  “You sure?”

  Jake stammered slightly, “No…but if it was up to me, I’d cut the red one.”

  Bart looked around the stage. “Any better idea?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Then I’m gonna cut the red one…Soon as my hand stops shaking.”

  “Want me to do it?” Jake offered.

  “No thanks, son…It’s on my shoulders…That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

  Bart wiped sweat away from his forehead with his sleeve. The now-pinkish glow from the timer showed 1 minute and 21 seconds. He opened the stainless steel fingernail clippers on his Swiss Army knife, looked up and muttered under his breath, “Dear Lord, guide my hand.”

  “Didn’t realize you were religious,” Jake commented.

  Bart started to snap back a terse reply, but answered instead, “At a time like this everybody gets religion…Besides, asking for divine intervention can’t hurt, can it?”

  His hand moved toward the red wire as the timer blinked 57 seconds. “Let’s make the big leap,” he mumbled as he snipped the wire…

  LOVE’S TRUCK STOP

  FERNLEY, NV

  “I asked for you, Bergstrom, not one of your flunkies. Don’t ever shuffle me off to them again, understood?” Rick Eichner kept his voice as low as he could while suppressing his anger.

  He stood at a pay telephone in the Trucker’s Lounge. Dressed in faded jeans, dusty cowboy boots and a long sleeve plaid cotton shirt, he looked like any of the long-haul truckers watching TV or reading magazines that mostly featured big rigs on the cover.

  The room had the smell of a high school locker room from men and woman who were waiting to use the showers. He took the yellow Cat Diesel cap off, slapped it against his leg and put it back on his head. His next words were chosen for effect.

  “You have one minute to get the information or I call your boss!”

  “Be right back…Don’t go away,” Bernard pleaded.

  “One minute…” Eichner hummed to himself while he waited.

  One of the three other pay phones was in use and the third was out of order, so it was not surprising that another trucker stepped in front of him. “You done?” he demanded with a growl. “I gotta a load to check on.”

  “Tough shit,” Eichner hissed back. “Go take a shower so I don’t have to smell you.”

  The trucker moved in close enough to smell the hot dog he had for lunch and poked Rick in the chest with his forefinger. “Who the hell you think you’re talking to, asshole?” Each word was punctuated with enough force to knock most men off balance.

  Rick used the knuckles of his right hand to deliver a lightning fast, powerful blow to the driver’s throat. The man gasped for breath and sank red-faced to his knees. It happened so fast that only a few of the other drivers in the lounge noticed. They continued watching an old episode of Walker, Texas Ranger on the wall-mounted television.

  Bergstrom chose that moment to return to the phone and Eichner turned his attention back to the call.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have all the information you requested, Mister Eichner. We haven’t finished our research…”

  “Give me what you have…I’ll call for the rest later.”

  “Certainly, sir…We confirmed that Benson and Johansen work for the NSA in a highly classified special assignment. There is little information on two of the Air Force people, Thomas and Davies…We think they are what they appear to be…active duty enlisted people who work in the security field…”

  “You mean, intel work?”

  “No…Security Police…base-level cops.”

  “Why would they be involved?”

  “Don’t know…perhaps because of your actions at Mather Air Force Base?”

  “What about that Lieutenant Colonel, Winfield?”

  “Gets interesting there. According to our source, there is a seven year gap in his military history. He was ostensibly assigned to a plans office at the Pentagon…which would make sense at that point in his career. There was even a lease executed on a townhouse in Rockville, Maryland, which would be normal. We found anomalies in other areas, however.”

  “Like what?”

  “He was never issued a parking permit for any of the Pentagon parking lots…Should have had one, even though 0-5s are fairly common there.”

  “Maybe he used the subway…”

  “If so, he paid cash…no Metro Pass purchases. Furthermore, a check of his credit card records shows only occasional purchases in the DC area…I doubt he actually lived there.”

  “Then where was he?”

  “Still trying to pin that down…I asked the Commissioner to use his high-level sources, but haven’t heard back.”

  “What about Winfield’s wife?”

  “Started checking her out and ran into a dead end…”

  “Dead end?”

  “Yes. We know they married before the Pentagon assignment and she was in OSI, the Air Force division that includes intelligence gathering. It appears, however, that she left the military shortly after they married.”

  “Not unusual, if he didn’t want her working outside the home.”

  “That’s what we thought, until we found her name on a classified visitor’s log at CIA headquarters.”

  “Maybe visiting an old friend…”

  “Not likely…she signed into Human Resources for new employee indoctrination.”

  “Hmm, that changes everything…Where is she now?”

  “At a CIA safe house in Tahoe…”

  “Why didn’t you say that in the beginning? Give me the address.”

  “The Commissioner will have to authorize the release of that…”

  “Then I’ll call him.”

  Rick hung up the phone and started to dial the Commissioner when he realized half a dozen men were gathered around the prone trucker. They had revived him and he sat up against a row of plastic chairs, unable to talk. He pointed to Rick, who returned the gesture with an icy stare.

  “Be glad you’re still alive,” he said as he strolled casually out of the room. Nobody followed.

  COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE

  CONSORTIUM HEADQUARTERS

  “I thought you would want to know that Eichner called me…”

  “Yes, Bergstrom,” the Commissioner answered. “Did you give him the information he requested?”

  “Not entirely…Considering the sensitivity and our gentlemen’s agreement with the Agency, I told him to contact you…”

  “This is why you will never become the permanent director…Eichner is paying a small fortune in fees to us. You should have considered that and given him the address.”

  “I was only trying to protect…”

  “You were trying to protect yourself and angered a client in the process. An abundance of caution is not reason for dismissal from our organization. However, it can place roadblocks in your career path.”

  “But, sir…”

  “I have no time for this, Bergstrom. I will wait for Mister Eichner’s call…We both need to get back to our jobs.”

  The line went dead.

  ***

  CHAPTER 18

  CIA SAFE HOUSE SECURITY CENTER

  SOUTH SHORE LODGE

  Nora/Delta looked around the cave and wondered how it got its name—no rocks or dirt were visible. It was a series of connected rooms behind the false wall in the living room that included a guards room, communal bathroom, two guest rooms with a private bath between them and the security room where she sat at an alarm console with built-in monitors.

  Surveillance through twenty-one cameras in and around the safe house gave her an unimpeded view of almost every square foot of the property. Hidden microphones let her listen to sounds from inside and out. She could direct cameras with a joystick control to zoom in and out and adjust focus.

  The door between the main part of the house and the cave was securely locked with a multiple pin system similar to a bank vault door. It was made of inch and a half thick ti
tanium steel that could only be penetrated with explosives and, even then, with some difficulty.

  She had her venerable Walther PPK on the console, along with four magazines loaded with .380 Glazer ammo. A specially modified M16 with a short barrel and suppresser sat next to it, as well as four magazines of .556 ammo. It came from a walk-in closet-sized gun safe in the corner.

  Her attention at the moment was directed to one of the monitors that showed a dark-suited figure lurking among trees at the edge of the parking area. No identification was possible, even when she shifted the camera to night-vision mode.

  He wore a balaclava mask to conceal his facial features and there were no identifying name tags or patches on his SWAT team uniform.

  She keyed the radio mike. “Delta to SH-1, what is your twenty?”

  “Can’t say. . .bogeys in the area may be monitoring us,” came the reply from Ken Sobiniak.

  Nora doubted the possibility, since the radios were encrypted and thought maybe the CIA had become a little paranoid. “Be advised, I have one just outside the house in the line of trees on the west side of the parking area.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Nothing. . .which seems strange. He’s geared up for covert work, but just standing there. Could be a lookout, I suppose.”

  “Who knows?. . .Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll secure the office area and check him out on the way back. ETA in fifteen minutes.

  Nora’s attention was drawn to another monitor which showed two figures in the same style clothing approaching the front entrance in duck-and-cover movements. She flipped a cover off the switch on the console that controlled the trapdoor built into the front entry concrete pad. The camera above the door should give her a nice view of the surprised look on their faces when the bottom dropped out. She patiently waited for them to step onto the porch .

  Instead, when they were only a couple of strides away they split up and went to a window on either side of the stoop, attached small shaped-charges to the window frames and stepped to the side. A quick push of the button on a detonator and the metal bars and window were gone in a puff of smoke and a flash of yellow light.

  The intruders crawled through the openings and Nora switched to another camera that showed the living room area. The invaders went straight to the panel in the wall that concealed the passageway to the cave. . .

  MAJESTIC CASINO THEATER

  They waited for the brilliant white flash that never came. There was a slight whine from the crate that wound down to a gentle whirring and stopped after a few seconds. The group leaned over the edge and stared at the darkened timer. Cheering and cries of joy broke out as they jumped up and down. Jake found himself hugging Joanna and it felt good. It went on longer than it should have and they finally broke off the embrace, stepped back and high-fived each other.

  Bart exhaled heavily and sat down on the edge of the crate. “Whew, that was closer than stink on a skunk!”

  The theater echoed with laughter. Jay told the scientists at the other end of the line the bomb had been deactivated. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “They said to have a drink on them.”

  “Sounds like the only good idea they’ve come up with today,” Bart replied. “Come on, y’all, let’s go put down a few.”

  He yelled across the stage at Anthony, who was giving directions to some of his staff, “Hey, Joe, wouldn’t happen to know where a body could get a cold one, now would you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would,” he answered with a big grin. “And your money’s no good here. . .Drinks are on the house! Mister DePasquale, the manager, says you’re his guests. . .He also said to forget about driving back to Sacramento tonight. You’re staying in high-roller suites for as long as you want.”

  “Awfully nice of him,” Bart said.

  “He appreciates it when someone keeps his casino from becoming nothing but a big hole in the ground.”

  “I believe we’ll take ya’ll up on that offer, at least for one night.”

  Bart lowered his voice and turned back to the team, “Need to call Colonel Jackson when we get downstairs and tell him to get a Nuclear Emergency Security Team up here to retrieve the bomb and secure the area. We’ll take turns guarding the weapons until the NEST arrives. Who wants the first four-hour shift?”

  Mary Benson raised her hand. “Johansen and I’ll take the first shift, if you don’t mind. . .We need to make some calls, anyway.”

  “Suits me. By the way, I’m impressed with the way you and Johansen worked with us. . .smoke grenade thing aside. Bless your hearts, ya’ll can come work with me anytime you want.”

  Mary returned a tight smile and Jay nodded his head. “Appreciate that, Colonel. . .We don’t often get thanks from people outside our agency, since they don’t even know we exist. . .It’s been a pleasure working with you and your team.”

  Bart turned the phrase, “your team” over in his mind. It felt right. “Feels like I’ve been born again, y’all!” He guided them toward the exit as he leaned in close to Jake and Joanna. “Good job. . .This will reflect most favorably in your performance reports.”

  Jake suddenly exclaimed, “Wait, what about Eichner!. . .We forgot all about him!”

  Bart stopped in mid-stride. “Well, slap Aunt Gussie in the face, you’re right! Been so busy trying to keep it in one piece, that jasper slipped my mind entirely. Hey, Joe, your people know what happened to him?”

  “No idea. . .Asked the local police to put a BOLO out. . .probably in the wind. Didn’t want to distract you while you were working on the bomb. . .Found two of my men dead in the kitchen. Eichner apparently got the drop on them and escaped down a service elevator. . . .”

  “Sorry to hear about your men,” said Bart. “May have gotten away. . .but hopefully empty-handed. . .right? We’ll have to let civilian law catch ‘im.”

  Joe gave Bart a puzzled look. “Thought Colonel was a nickname. . .You mean you’re a real colonel?”

  “Didn’t say that. . .”

  Joe dropped the subject. “Well, hell, what difference does it make? We’re alive. . .right? That’s all that matters.”

  The rest of the group mumbled in agreement. Benson and Johansen stayed behind with two casino security men to guard the inactive weapon.

  “Eichner’s somebody else’s problem now,” Bart noted.

  He thought he heard Benson mumble something like, “Wouldn’t be so sure of that.” At least that’s what it sounded like. The excited voices of other people were so loud, she may have said something else. Don’t matter . . .Probably never see them again. They were in an entirely different business. . .one that could consume a person if you let it.

  “Y’all stay awake and we’ll be back up in four hours to spell you,” Bart said over his shoulder. “We’ll do paperwork back at the base tomorrow. Last one to the elevator is it.”

  He took a few steps when the sat phone beeped. “Must be Colonel Jackson,” he mumbled as he pressed the receive button. “J.J. do I have some good news. . .”

  “Bart, it’s Nora. We need your help. . .now!”

  “Where are you, baby?. . .What’s goin’ on?”

  “An assault team is attacking the safe house. . .I’m hiding in the cave, but it’s only a matter of time til they break through the hidden door.”

  “They know about the cave? Stay put. . .I’ll be there fast as I can. Joe, do you have access to a chopper?”

  “Mister Lemonica’s private bird is on the roof above us. . .”

  “Need to borrow it.”

  Joe was already on the radio, “Says it’s okay with him, but his pilot has the day off.”

  “I can fly it,” Bart said.

  “Then follow me, I’ll help you prep it.”

  CONSORTIUM EMERGENCY RECOVERY

  TEAM HELICOPTER

  “Best landing site is either on the beach or in the parking area in front of the safe house,” the copilot of the of the Aerospatiale SA 330L Puma, informed the pilot. “Although, clearance in front of
the target might be a little tight, due to trees.”

  The flight from Sacramento had been uneventful as the two 1,575 hp roof-mounted turboshaft engines effortlessly powered the four-bladed main rotor up from near sea level to the 6224 foot level of Lake Tahoe.

  The medium-duty helicopter was ideal for this sort of operation. A six-man team of operatives lounged comfortably in a cabin that could hold up to 16 passengers. The starboard side-door contained a hoist that could be used to retrieve equipment or the occasional casualty.

  “How far is it from the beach to the objective?”

  “About a hundred meters,” answered the copilot.

  “I’ve flown into some crazy-ass tight spots, especially in Europe. . .prefer to avoid them whenever possible.”

  “Heard that,” the copilot answered. “Guess it’ll be the beach. . .right?”

  “Unless we see something on approach that indicates a problem. . .Tell the team we’re twenty minutes out.”

  “Roger that.”

  The copilot turned around and entered the main cabin, nudging the six men as he moved around the folding seats. “Wake up, Sunshine,” he said to nobody in particular. “Twenty minutes ‘til play time.”

  A tense encounter years before taught him to avoid engaging individual operatives unless absolutely necessary. Most of them used travel time to psyche themselves up for a mission and had personal routines they followed.

  Some went through mental exercises designed to sharpen their observational skills. Others relived past missions and a tiny minority prayed, although most knew their occupation separated them from any real chance at redemption.

  A crew member who served as both flight engineer and loadmaster moved over to the sliding cargo door.

  Satisfied they all got the message, the copilot returned to his seat and stared out at the beautiful pine forests that led up to the largest alpine lake in North America.

  APPROACH TO SOUTH SHORE LODGE

  CIA SAFE HOUSE

  “Man, you fly this thing like it’s part of you,” Jake noted from the copilot seat of the Bell Long Ranger helicopter.