“Adam, are you okay?” asked Mary. “You aren’t sleeping.”
Kat walked around his desk, and started massaging his shoulders. “Boss, you are way too tight,” Kat exclaimed. “Mary, I may need some help here.”
Before he knew it, the two women had him lying on the floor on top of sofa cushions, as they worked, kneaded and massaged his entire body. Waves of relaxation washed over him, and his thoughts finally slowed. He began to lightly snore.
Mary whispered to Kat, so as not to wake him, “This is bad. I have never seen him so tense. Even after he executed that baby rapist.”
“That talk he had with his Lordship must not have helped at all,” answered Kat. “He won’t tell us the details, but it looks like we are Tschaaa lab rats.”
The odd tingling sensation that a Falcon produced when flying nearby woke him. He and his lovers felt, and then heard, the Falcon pass by. The Falcon rapidly accelerated, producing a sonic boom a few miles away. He bolted upright. “That must be Andrew leaving… fast. Something has happened.”
Despite Kat and Mary’s protests, he hit the hotline to Security Control. The phone conversation was short and to the point. The Director hung up the telephone. “There has been a murder on Platform One. Colonels Hunter and Bardun have fled in the spaceplane. Andrew flew to the Cape in case they try to land there. He has orders to take them into his custody if they show up.”
The Perfect Storm began to form...
Because of the availability of deltas, with aggressive young Tschaaa pilots, levels of command lower than His Lordship had decided to launch them instead of the Falcons. The pilots needed combat experience. His Lordship was contacted immediately after, and was told it was just a matter of a few minutes before Bettie and Cliff were intercepted and shot down. His Lordship agreed to the action, and sent Andrew to the Cape, just in case. He knew the humans were building up their air defenses. As long as they had no noticeable offensive capabilities in the Unoccupied States, he did not care. He had no interest in the cold and dry Midwest.
The Perfect Storm continued to build...
A rebuilt B-25 World War Two Mitchell bomber, late of a private air museum, was droning its way down to Florida. Cutting across the Gulf of Mexico, in connection with the B-25, Ichiro Yamamoto leveled out his captured delta fighter, near the deck, at just under the speed of sound. With rough running injectable scramjets, the Japanese Captain alternated cursing the situation, with praying to any god who would listen. He needed to keep his speed up until he launched his payload–a one megaton hypervelocity missile.
The eye in the sky saw a delta, and ignored it. There was no Squid FAA, no flight plans filed. No real IFF. Tschaaa warriors followed the orders of the local Lordships, so it was their worry if one disappeared. Only a human craft traveling over three hundred knots an hour would have peaked their interest as a possible threat. The Tschaaa, never having fought an all-out air war on their home planet, had never developed a true sense of detection and defense. They had been the aggressors during the initial thirty days following the first rock, had achieved air superiority due to the subsequent strikes and attacks from space. Earth forces had made limited offensive responses, so the Tschaaa had seen no need to change their operations.
Now, the chickens were coming home to roost.
Captain Torbin Bender sat on the long jump bench that had been built into the modified B-25. There had been numerous discussions during planning for this attack mission on related subjects. For example, how big should the assault team be, and what aircraft should be used to transport it?
It was decided that a relatively small, hard-hitting assault force was all that was needed. Twelve troops were selected as the assault team, with two more staying with the B-25 as Rear Security. Torbin knew he made the thirteenth member of the assault team, but fortunately, he was not the superstitious type. The size of the team and its success was based almost entirely on surprise, and the concentration of force at a weakened spot. Torbin knew the chances of success were low.
The B-25 WWII-era aircraft was chosen for two reasons. First, it was not a current era military aircraft. A C-130 could have been obtained, or maybe two large military helicopters. But that might have raised questions as to who had access to most current military aircraft. The B-25 was similar to a lot of aircraft that had been found stashed in private collections or on private airfields the last couple of years. Aircraft built to fly low and slow were popular, because they drew little if any attention from the Tschaaa and their minions anywhere in continental America.
The second reason for the selection was that it was a tough, relatively simple military aircraft that had been easily modified for numerous missions. Pappy Gunn’s ancestor had become famous in WWII for modifying the B-25 in a variety of ways, which it survived. The current B-25 was modified with jump benches, additional drop fuel tanks, and a larger access/jump door. The two Pratt and Whitney engines were completely rebuilt, unnecessary equipment stripped to make it lighter, with less drag. Crew was just pilot and co-pilot. It could hit an honest three hundred mph low down.
Now, the B-25 droned along, headed to Key West, Florida. Refueling at an airfield in Kansas, with large drop tanks attached, the B-25 had the range to reach Key West. The Base at Marquesas Keys were some twenty-five miles away from the tip of Key West, so it would probably not take that long for the Key West Base to determine the level of danger.
The plan was to do a low-level airdrop of some two hundred fifty feet near the access causeway to the Base, now de facto capital of the Occupied States areas, just as the nuclear device delivered by Ichiro hit and detonated, likely resulting in some six thousand personnel fleeing for the blast shelters, with Security Forces assisting. The rebuilt Director’s HQ was just over a mile from the main gate and ID building, located on the causeway off of Highway 1, the Overseer’s Highway. Therefore, they would make a low level chute drop near the causeway, then hot foot it down the causeway and through the main gate. It was hoped the gate would be minimally manned as everyone else hit the shelters. If not, they would hit fast, fight hard, and try to blast through. It was believed that the Director, having a “captain of the ship” mentality, would stay above ground in his office until the bitter end.
As a connected side note, the one megaton bomb was a penetrating “bunker buster”. Rebuilt from some former Minuteman ICBM warheads, it would penetrate the coral and tough organic “concrete” that the Tschaaa used as its primary construction material, tunnel down several dozen feet, then detonate. Aimed at the center of the nearly four mile diameter enclosed complex that had turned the Marquesas Keys into a huge repair and manufacturing center, it was hoped the shock waves would cause the complex to collapse. The greater majority of the explosive force would be contained underground and underwater inside the circular Marquesas Keys. There would be a signature mushroom cloud, but the amount of crap thrown into the atmosphere would be reduced. The twenty-five mile distance from Key West would help reduce the negative physical effects on Key West itself.
Torbin had tried to suggest a second small tactical nuke–a “suitcase device”–to target the Director’s Area specifically, but Madam President had refused. She did not want to risk killing women and children, not to mention the Conch Republicans. Her primary target was the Tschaaa, and the attempt at the Director would be performed in order to capture or kill the human head of the snake. Torbin was a Marine, a professional military man. If he was given a lawful order to “jump” he would reply, “Yes, Sir/Ma’am, how high?”
Torbin glanced at the fourteen people seated on the jump benches. The Senior NCO was Gunnery Sergeant Greg Smith. Thirty years old white male of generic heritage, he had been a Marine since age eighteen. Broad shouldered, he still had a lean look about him. He was one of the designated Riflemen with the ubiquitous M-4. He and the other four Riflemen had six thirty-round magazines of mixed armor piercing and ball .223/5.56 mm rounds. They also had two hand grenades, one blast, and one shrapnel, in addition to carrying a spare 40
mm grenade for the three Grenadiers. Extra stripper clips of ammo were secreted in the spare areas of their combat fatigues for emergency resupply. Slung under his arm was a chopped down M-79 with two CS gas rounds in a small pouch.
Corporal Manuel Martinez, former Private First Class and Torbin’s driver, also filled a Rifleman’s slot. He had one additional piece of equipment, which was a WWII-era silenced Hi Standard ten round .22 caliber pistol that had been “liberated” from some military museum. Light and proven, it was carried as an anti-sentry weapon. Martinez was a medium complexion and sized Mexican American who was quick and sure about anything he did. He had a Claymore mine in his small ditty bag.
Privates First Class Moore, Money, and Muller–“The Three M’s”–rounded out the Riflemen. They all had similar builds, medium heights, brown hair, and light complexions. They were so similar in appearance that they said they were all brothers from another mother. But they were the best of the best, or they would not have made it to the assault team. In addition to the basic Rifleman load already mentioned, each had a ten round strip of linked ammo for the M-60 stashed in a fatigue pocket. In a flash, a thirty round belt could be put together for use. They also divided between them two LAWS and a Stinger anti-aircraft missile
Corporal Benjamin Black, the Gunner who loved his job, had turned the Ma Deuce in for a Barrett fifty with three ten round magazines and a heavy duty scope. In his small backpack he had a thirty round belt of fifty caliber for additional reloads. Due to the size and additional weight of the weapon and ammunition, he only carried a single hand grenade and a small smoke flare. Rolled up on his butt was a lightweight Ghillie Suit, in case he had to hide to shoot. He sat smiling; his large biceps and huge forearms gave him the nickname of Popeye. Black said his muscle development was due to him lugging around fifty caliber Ma Deuces the past years, often by himself with a unique bipod he had designed instead of the heavy standard tripod. He sat on the jump bench with his signature “boy, are we going to have fun” smile. When he jumped, he would have the Barrett broken down into two pieces, barrel and receiver.
Sergeant Joe Hagel, a typical dark-haired young of solid build and German descent, was equipped with a scoped M21, the semi automatic sniper version of a Match M-14 7.62 rifle. He had his five twenty-round magazines loaded with a dutch load of armor piercing(AP), match ball, and tungsten penetrator rounds. In addition to two hand grenades, in one of his fatigue tactical pockets he had a ten round linked strip of tracer for either his or the M-60’s use. He had shot some five hundred practice rounds over the last two weeks, using the last twenty-five to sight in a new barrel. Everyone believed him when he said he could hit a gnat at fifty meters.
Sergeant George Washington, a very large black man, was the senior man after Gunny Smith. Sergeant Washington was one of the darkest skinned African-Americans surviving in the Unoccupied States. He carried a M-60E1 7.62 machine gun with a two hundred round combat pack of AP, ball, and tracer. In his tactical butt pack he had a rolled up one hundred round belt. He also carried two grenades and a red smoke flare.
The three grenadiers were Private First Classes Joe Trump, a nondescript medium-sized man of mixed European heritage; John Fein, a tall and skinny as a rail, dark-haired Irish/English mix; and Matthew Standing Bull, a very large Cheyenne Indian who needed to count some serious permanent scores to pay the Squids back for landing a harvester near reservation land in Wyoming. All three men had M16A3 Rifles with attached M320 40mm grenade launchers. Each man carried five 40mm grenades, three high explosive (HE), one newly developed high explosive anti-tank (HEAT) with enhanced anti-armor capability, and one white phosphorous smoke grenade that doubled as an incendiary device. They each also carried one hand grenade and five magazines of .223/5.56 ammo. Standing Bull, due to his size, carried a second Stinger anti-aircraft missile.
The final assault team member was Nick Nelson, a muscular five foot ten native Montanan who carried the M249 .223/5.56 Squad Automatic Weapon(SAW) with a two hundred round assault pack, seventy five round drum, and three thirty round rifle mags that would function in the SAW as well as an M-16. He had a light brown handlebar mustache that he refused to shave off until he had personally killed a Squid. Most of his family had been killed by a large rock in the early days of the invasion. He carried a smoke grenade as well as a blast grenade.
There were two Rear Security personnel: the Huge Corporal Tatupu and Private First Class Danny O’Brien. Jet black-haired “Danny Boy” came from a long line of Irish cops and carried a SAP that had been passed down generation to generation. It had busted many a head. He was the only team member dressed in a semblance of civilian attire, a Glock 26 9mm with a threaded barrel for a silencer concealed under his Hawaiian shirt. He was the front man, if someone needed to make contact with the civilian populace as they beat feet out of the Florida Keys at the end of the mission.
Tatupu would cover him with a Seal Version MP-5 submachine gun with the screw-on silencer that looked like a toy in his hands. He had also brought along a friend’s .458 Magnum with three rounds of a special hand loaded armor piercing round for robocop protection, in addition to three commercial rounds. Tatupu had military camos on to help him stay in the shadows due to his rather dark skin. His specific emergency skill was as a Special Forces trained combat EMT/medic. He was to bring on board and patch up anyone who needed it as they hauled ass out. And, as added insurance, concealed under a tarp in the former Tail Gunner position, was a Ma Deuce with a one hundred round belt. The Rear Security team was to stay with the aircraft as it flew to land at the Marathon Airfield, some sixty miles or so from the Key West Base.
Because it looked like many a nondescript aircraft that had been put back into service as a “low and slow” transport, after the low altitude insertion during the confusion from the nuke strike, the B-25 would land at the Marathon Key Airport. Cover story was that they were operating as a “Gypsy” transport service, one of many that had sprung up over the last year to take items A to point B on consignment, then scrounge a load back. This old style type of transport and capitalism was helping to re-develop an American form of commerce. The Squids couldn’t care less, as long as their meat source was not interfered with. Rumors were that some pilots also hauled dark meat for a price when asked. The two B-25 Pilots, Captains French and Vandenberg, were wearing non-descript flight jackets and utility slacks. Stashed in the Cockpit, should their cover be blown, were two M-4s.
Torbin carried an M-4 with optics, four magazines of ammo, one smoke grenade, one blast grenade, and a Markarov 9mm pistol with threaded barrel and silencer. He had a Claymore mine in a small butt pack. He also had a special weapon in a shoulder holster with a unique story.
He still remembered the meeting they had in the hangar at Malmstrom some forty-eight hours prior. Madam President Sandra Paul had joined General Reed, George Williams and Pappy Gunn for a quick goodbye. As usual, she walked in the room and took charge of everyone.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s form a circle please.” The sixteen troops, including Ichiro and two pilots, quickly complied. Before he knew it, Torbin had his right hand grabbed by her left.
“Gentlemen, everyone please grab the hand nearest you. We are about to have an old-fashioned prayer circle.” When everyone was clasping hands, the President bowed her head a bit, and proclaimed with her clear, resounding voice, “Lord, we may not be all the same religion here–we may even have an atheist or agnostic or two. No matter. We are all humans! Humans of different beliefs and backgrounds about to make a perilous mission to attack an evil that has come to your Earth, home of the first humans. We ask you for your divine help, and blessing on this endeavor. If one of these fine men should fall, please accept them into your Kingdom. For, no matter what flaws they may have, what sins they may have committed, this day they go to fight and maybe die for all humankind. Please accept my prayers. And all God’s children say Amen.”
At that moment, Torbin believed the likelihood of the old saying that there are
no atheists in foxholes was probably true.
As everyone made last minute equipment checks, Madam President approached Torbin.
“Captain, I have one small, unusual request for you.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
Sandra Paul pulled a fairly large object from her signature large purse. “Here. This Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum four inch revolver was my husband’s backup bear gun. I believe you can get this shoulder holster attached to your gear. You have five rounds of a special armor piercing -oad for any robos and one of my husband’s ‘bear loads’ for a Squid. I have engraved Property of the President of the U.S.A. on the back strap so you won’t forget where you got it.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I lost my son, only to gain a hell of a lot more sons, including you and Ichiro. I hate sending you all out. But, I must. Please. Do what you can to come back. I’d love to be godmother to your child.”
Tough, nasty Torbin Bender had a huge lump in his throat. He swallowed, came to attention, and snapped off a salute. “Yes, Madam President.”
She chuckled despite the tears in her eyes. “You can take the Marine out of the Corps, but you can’t take the Corps out of the Marine. May God speed you on your journey, Captain Bender.”
As she walked away with George Williams, she reached out and grabbed his arm for support. George worriedly looked at her. “You okay, Sal?”
“Not really, George. This old broad suddenly became very, very, weary. Help me back to the General’s office, and maybe I can borrow something from his liquor cabinet. Then, I think I need a long sleep.”
Torbin snapped his attention back to the present. Sometime in the next ten minutes, Ichiro, piloting the captured delta, would reach Key West. He would launch the hyper velocity cruise missile with the one megaton bunker buster bomb. As it sped toward the His Lordship’s complex, the pilots would get ground control on the horn, tell the story that they were a bit lost and would need to follow the overseas highway up to Marathon to find the airfield. In his day of limited air travel support, most pilots followed known highways to the desired destination. Ichiro would also try and take out the three ex-shipboard Phalanx air defense gun systems arrayed in a triangle around the Base. All this activity should distract anyone from noticing the parachute drop.
The Gathering Storm Page 39
