by Dan Stratman
DEADLY DILEMMA
A Capt. Cyndi Stafford Novel (Book 1)
Dan Stratman
Contents
Also by Dan Stratman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
Also by Dan Stratman
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 Dan Stratman
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-7325992-7-7
eBook ISBN 978-1-7325992-8-4
No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a review.
DEADLY DILEMMA is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Cover Design & Interior Format: Killion Publishing
Also by Dan Stratman
The Capt. Mark Smith Series
MAYDAY
HURRICANE
BETRAYAL
To my sainted Mother, Jan. Your kind heart and unending patience with family and friends were just a few of your admirable personality traits that I strive to hopefully emulate one day.
Chapter One
“Ghost Two-Six, you are cleared for takeoff on runway nine and a high-speed flyby.”
The young fighter pilot grinned broadly under his oxygen mask after receiving permission to unleash his inner Tom Cruise on the unsuspecting people beneath his flight path. He pressed the microphone button on the throttle. “Ghost Two-Six cleared for takeoff.” He chuckled to himself, “This should get their attention.”
Controllers in the tower at Cheyenne Regional Airport rushed to the window facing west, eager to watch what was about to happen across the other side of Interstate 25.
The pilot stood on the brake pedals and advanced the throttle in his F-35. Knowing they wouldn’t restrain the $120 million beast any longer, he released the brakes, dropped his heels to the floor, and mashed the throttle into full afterburner.
The Pratt & Whitney engine went from an angry howl to an earth-shaking roar. Like an oversize blowtorch, flames twice the length of the jet shot out of the tailpipe. The F-35 Lightning II leaped forward like a predator pouncing on its prey.
A mile away, windows in the tower cab rattled in their metal frames. Airport workers on the ramp tightly cupped their hands over their ears. The impact of the sound waves caused their chest walls to pulsate. The heads of every pilot snapped toward the unmistakable sound of the afterburner, secretly wishing they were in the cockpit.
Less than half the runway was needed to get airborne. The pilot scooped up the gear and retracted the flaps. He leveled off a mere one hundred feet above the smattering of buildings in the capital city.
The fighter accelerated at the ludicrous rate of an additional one hundred knots every five seconds until it reached Mach .99. The “Maverick” wannabe eased the throttle back just enough to prevent his permanent grounding for shattering every window in town. The pilot banked right into a wide, looping turn back toward the north. He looked over his shoulder, acquired his target, and smiled.
The stealthy gray fighter hugged the snow-covered terrain as it snuck up on its target. The fighter jock reached out and raised the red safety cover over the MASTER ARM switch. Bomb bay doors snapped open. He sat up a little straighter in his ejection seat and rocked his head side to side to ease the tension in his neck. The pilot rolled out of the turn and pointed the nose of the jet directly at F. E. Warren Air Force Base, home of the 90th Nuclear Missile Wing.
A late-model blue sedan pulled into the specially marked spot in front of the base gymnasium. One large silver star was the only thing on the license plate. In the back seat, hidden from view by darkly tinted windows, was the lone passenger.
The driver zipped up his parka and jumped out of the car, scurrying around to the right side. He moved quickly but kept a gloved hand on the car as he navigated the slippery pavement. The driver pulled the door open and stood at attention.
Brigadier General Arthur McNeil stepped out of his staff car and took in a deep breath of crisp Wyoming air. McNeil was two inches shorter than Napoleon Bonaparte and had a high-and-tight haircut. At fifty-three, he wasn’t reluctant to wear a tight-fitting track suit to show off his muscular, sinewy build. He waited at the back of the car as his driver popped open the trunk. General McNeil reached in and pulled out his gym bag. A silver star adorned the side.
An airman glued to his cell phone strolled past the front of the car. He was watching videos of skateboarders wiping out as they tried new tricks.
McNeil saw him and yelled, “A-ten-hut!”
Fresh from eight weeks of basic training in San Antonio, the eighteen-year-old instinctively snapped to attention and stared straight ahead. McNeil’s bright red face soon filled his view.
Inches from the perplexed airman’s face, McNeil barked, “Son, this isn’t the Army. We have standards in the Air Force. When you see a staff car with the license plate of a flag officer attached, you will salute it.”
The teenager furrowed his brow and looked around nervously. “But sir, I didn’t see anyone in the car.”
“I don’t give a damn if my car is at the bottom of a lake. If you see it, you salute it!” McNeil’s face reddened even more. “Give your name and unit information to my driver. Your commanding officer will be hearing from me!” McNeil stomped off.
As he marched up the sidewalk, a gray object streaked silently overhead from behind—at 99 percent of the speed of sound.
A quarter second later, the sound caught up to it.
The terrifying, thunderous roar sounded like it was coming from an unholy, pissed-off mechanical angel of death. It caused the frozen ground to tremble.
Car alarms across the base started wailing.
Snow that had been resting peacefully on tree branches fell off in large clumps.
McNeil’s heart skipped a beat when the powerful shock wave smacked him in the back of the head. He instinctively ducked for cover. When he worked up the courage to look up, he swore he could hear laughter coming from the departing plane. McNe
il thrust his middle finger skyward as the pilot pulled the F-35 up into a crushing eight-G vertical climb. Obscenities that spewed from his mouth were drowned out by the deafening noise.
Chapter Two
With the mock attack safely over, McNeil looked around to see if anyone had seen him cower down on the concrete. Anyone who did knew enough to pretend not to notice. He straightened up, resumed a cocksure posture, and started for the gym door.
Air Force regulation tan paint on the rundown, drab building was peeling and flaking off. Its roof sagged slightly under the heavy snow load. In contrast, a bright new sign on the front wall displayed the patch of the Global Strike Command. It was the latest in a long series of Major Command signs that had hung in that same spot, beginning with the vaunted Strategic Air Command.
Fort D.A. Russell was originally established as a cavalry post in 1867 during the later stages of the American Indian Wars. It was a desolate outpost on what was then considered the western frontier of the country. The Army had constructed it to protect workers building the Transcontinental Railroad for the Union Pacific. Over the years, Fort Russell had played host to units of infantry, cavalry, and field artillery—eventually converting to an Air Force base.
Now named F. E. Warren AFB, in honor of a former governor, it had been placed on the National Register of Historic Places decades ago.
The small base was easily the oldest continuously active military installation in the Air Force. It had the dubious distinction of being the only active base without a runway.
Its current mission was to operate launch control centers buried sixty feet underground. They controlled 150 Minuteman III nuclear missile silos scattered across the region where Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska intersect. If World War III ever were to kick off, much of the ensuing global nuclear destruction would launch from F. E. Warren units.
Still fuming from the pilot’s brazen stunt, McNeil flung open the heavy metal door to the gym. A wide foyer covered in faded emerald-green linoleum led up to the front desk.
The attendant working behind the desk saw McNeil coming and shook his head. He forced a smile and said, “Good morning, General.”
McNeil ignored his greeting. “Aren’t there normally two people working the morning shift? Where’s the cute redhead who works here?”
The man leaned on the counter and nonchalantly shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you, sir. She must be in the bathroom.”
“That figures.” McNeil walked off. Before rounding the corner, he turned his head and shouted, “I’m not to be disturbed for any reason!”
After the sound of his footsteps faded away, a young red-headed woman slowly peeked her head above the Formica counter. “Is he gone?”
Her coworker looked down the hallway and checked. “You’re safe. I’ll let you know if I see him coming back this way.”
McNeil stopped at the door to a large exercise studio. A sign on the glass read: Missileer Mandatory Martial Arts Training Class – 0800. He opened the door and strode confidently in.
The room reeked of sweat and body odor that had permeated the wood floor over decades of use. A large, padded mat covered the floor in the front of the room.
When the general entered, the small talk immediately ceased. Everyone moved to spots an arm’s length apart.
McNeil positioned himself in the center of the first row, six inches from the man who was standing there. He quickly took the hint and moved to the back of the room. The general dropped his gym bag where the man had been standing. BG A. MCNEIL was embroidered on the side.
At exactly 0800, a beautiful blonde quietly slipped unnoticed through the door. Her long silky hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She stood at the back of the room and studied the crowd with her crystal-blue eyes, sizing up each person. Satisfied she understood whom she was up against, the woman threaded her way to the front of the room and positioned herself on the large mat. She was in her midtwenties, five-foot-eleven in her bare feet, and wore a crisply starched white gi encircled with a black belt. The loose-fitting garment concealed a body that was muscular but feminine, sculpted but soft. In other words, deceptively dangerous. “Good morning, Missileers. Welcome to martial arts training.”
The one-star cocked his head in confusion. “Where’s the instructor? Is he running late?”
She forced a smile. “No, sir, he's not running late. I’m the instructor.”
“You?” the general scoffed.
“In the flesh.”
“You’re in the wrong room, Miss. This isn’t yoga class. I specifically directed that someone trained in martial arts teach these classes.”
“I believe I’m more than qualified, General McNeil. I help the owner of a studio in Cheyenne teach judo to kids. And I—”
“Kids?” the general scoffed. “Our enemies aren’t children.” He turned to the group. “Listen up. I was sent to this godforsaken base to clean up the mess left by your last three commanders. You people are expected to be warriors. It’s about damned time you start thinking and acting like it. This class is just a start. Fat and weak will no longer be acceptable at my base. Every month, there will be mandatory fitness testing and weigh-ins.”
Heads sagged among those officers in the room still holding on to a little extra baby fat.
“Missileers who don’t measure up will have their promotions put on indefinite hold until you get with the program. The days of the Global Strike Command being considered the red-headed stepchild by the jet jocks running the Air Force ends as of now.” He turned back. “Miss, teaching children sure as hell doesn’t qualify you—”
“I also studied krav maga with a Mossad agent when my dad was on an exchange tour with the Israeli Air Force. And I have a black belt in judo. Oh wait, I almost forgot. I was on the US Taekwondo team at the last Olympics. But if you're willing to wait, I'd be happy to try and find a guy who’s more qualified to lead this class.” The young woman crossed her arms and glared at the diminutive man. “Sir.”
The general's face flushed with anger. His pinched expression left no doubt he didn’t appreciate being embarrassed in front of the class. “That won't be necessary.” His eyes narrowed. “Proceed, Miss…?”
“I’m Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I'm a missile combat crew commander and instructor here at F. E. Warren.”
“Are you now?” He looked Cyndi up and down like a piece of meat. “That means you serve under me, if I remember correctly how the chain of command functions.”
“I work for you; that’s correct.”
“Your name is Stafford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you related to the infamous test pilot Brock Stafford?”
“He’s my father,” she responded proudly.
McNeil stroked his chin and nodded slowly. “So…you’re in the Air Force, Stafford is your father, yet here you are, a missileer. Interesting.” A smarmy grin formed on his face. “He must be very proud.” His last word was soaked in sarcasm.
Cyndi felt like lashing out but held her tongue.
His annoying grin evaporated. “How is the old bastard enjoying civilian life these days?”
“He’s dead.”
Chapter Three
An awkward silence fell over the room.
A strained expression crossed the general’s face as he searched his mind for some way to save face after her unexpected response.
“Why don’t we get started? Then you can decide if my class is what you have in mind,” Cyndi volunteered, giving the one-star an out.
“You can count on it. You have my permission to proceed.”
Cyndi paced the mat with the confidence of a model working a fashion runway in Paris. She looked out at the group. “I’ll begin by demonstrating how to handle the two situations you are most likely to encounter. The first is when someone is rushing at you—being on the defensive—and the second is when you are the aggressor.”
Men in the class were more gawking at her than listening to her self-defense instruction.
She looked at McNeil. “I’ll need a volunteer for my first demonstration.” Cyndi paused for a beat then lifted her hand, pointing at the man standing directly behind him. “How about you?”
“Me?” The man looked around, positive Cyndi was talking about someone else.
“Yes, you.” Cyndi had chosen the biggest guy in the room. “What’s your name?”
“First Lt. Terrance Washington, ma’am. But I think it would be better if you choose someone else.”
“Don’t worry, big man, I won’t hurt you.”
He chuckled. “It’s not that, ma’am. I played linebacker for the Bulldogs in college. I outweigh you by a hundred pounds, and well…”
“Well…what?”
“I’d hate to mess up your lovely makeup, that’s all,” he said smugly.
The class snickered at his misogynistic remark.
McNeil turned and joined in.
Cyndi waved him forward. “Come on up, and let’s see what you’ve got.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Washington strolled confidently onto the mat and squared off ten feet away from Cyndi.
