by T C Miller
“As appealin’ as that might be, I saw any number of fine-lookin’ restaurants in town...How ‘bout them?”
Oglesby looked down at his notes. “Sure...but I still have a lot of material to cover and...”
“We’ll sail through it a lot better if our stomachs aren’t rumblin’.”
Bart had become better at dealing with bureaucrats since leaving his position as Operations Commander of the Air Force Security Police Squadron at Mather AFB.
He, Nora, Jake, and Joanna were the military contingent of the BSOG. The other three members were interspersed among them at the table and included Mary Benson and Jay Johansen, two civilian agents of the NSA.
Carl Dean, formerly Bill Johnson, an Air Force retiree, was a rehabilitated member of the “Thursday Night Mafia,” the group of locals who attacked the Alert Pad at Mather.
“I guess so,” Oglesby hesitantly replied. “Just thought it would be a good idea to keep up a steady pace.”
“I’d usually agree with you. Ridin’ in Eagle One is one of the most comfortable ways a body can travel. Still, it’s thirteen hundred miles...We’re nursin’ our achin’ backs.”
“Not to mention butts,” Joanna whispered to Nora.
“Behave now, baby girl,” Nora whispered. “I may not be your real mama, but I’ll still ground you.”
“Yes, ma’am. “
“Eagle One?”
“Our motorhome.”
Oglesby offered a tight smile. “I see I’m clearly outnumbered, so let’s say we take an hour’s break for lunch...”
“Two’d be better.” Bart smiled again.
“If you insist...We’ll meet back here in two hours to continue the briefing. Colonel Winfield, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Sure thing, pard’. Rest of y’all head on out to the car...Be along in two shakes.”
“Colonel Winfield, I’m not accustomed to rudeness like...”
“Not to interrupt, but let me start by apologizin’ for my team...been under a lot of stress lately.”
“I understand the pressure a tight schedule can put...”
“It’s not the schedule, so much as it is dodgin’ the four Bs...bullets, bombs and booby-traps...And, of course, the biggest B...bad guys. ‘”
“Bullets and booby-traps? I had no idea...”
“I know...That’s why I’m tellin’ you.”
“You weren’t part of that thing in Northern California, were you?”
“Well, I’m sure you know the bad ol’ joke...Could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you...Catch my drift?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, I feel like you’re doin’ just fine. We’ll continue the safety and security briefin’s after lunch and I’ll jump in if there’s a problem. Wanna join us for lunch?”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here and catch up on some things.”
“Suit yourself. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Why do I have the feeling it’ll be more than a couple?
TWO MILES NORTHEAST OF
DEER TRAIL, COLORADO
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Big John Hesse pulled a flashlight from a belt-holder. “Gentlemen, you might want to put on those masks and turn on your flashlights...Gets real dark down there.”
“Are the dust masks necessary?”
“Place was built long before the danger of asbestos was known. Probably wouldn’t take in enough from one trip to hurt you...Personally, though, I don’t take chances with my lungs.”
He put his mask on and the others followed suit. They stayed close together as he led the way down the steel stairs that produced a hollow clanging sound with every step. An overwhelming smell of mildew greeted them, even through the filters.
The next set of stairs doubled back and passed through a jagged opening in the concrete that once held a foot-thick steel door. John touched the chipped edges of the concrete. “Was a solid steel door here...Prob’bly got sold for scrap many moons ago.”
They stepped through the opening opposite a sizable gap in another wall that revealed the steel-beam rigging of a large elevator. “Motor’s still in good condition...Wouldn’t take too much to get it working...Just hook up electricity and grease the rails. Lucky they’re still here....Most of ‘em in these old sites got sold off as scrap.”
“You have sold other silos?”
“Sorta become a hobby, so I get calls asking for advice...Done a lotta research into ‘em.”
“So, you are an expert?”
“Don’t know about that...The wife defines expert as an ex is a has-been, and a spurt is a drip under pressure, or somebody who’s twenty five miles away from home. But, I do know my way around ‘em. I’d buy this one, but don’t really have a use for it. Little woman says I’d have to live here alone if I did...she’s claustrophobic. Thought about buying it just to get away from her now and then, but it’s a little rich for my tastes...Takes a business like you’re talking about to afford it...and the renovation.”
“How much money would be required to restore this site to operating condition?”
“Guessin’ you don’t mean to launch missiles.” He chuckled. “But, even at that, depends on how far you wanna go. Fixin’ the elevator and gettin’ power back’d be the first priority...Could run anywhere from a few thousand to a few million. Might be easier to bring in new wiring.
“Plumbin’s not a big deal neither...Though you’d have to rehab the waste pumps that send everything up to the lagoon we saw earlier. Don’t take all that much to heat or cool, since it’s underground. But, let’s see the rest of the place to give you a better idea.”
They walked down another six flights of stairs that wound around the elevator shaft in sections to a dusty elevator lobby. A double-set of blast-doors opened to a short tunnel that led to the intersection of two more.
“Where do the tunnels lead?”
“This tunnel connects the Control Dome with the Power House Dome...Other tunnel’s quite a bit longer...runs in opposite directions...Antenna Silo’s at one end, with the three Launch Silos at the other end.
“Quite a system they built and it’s stayed in pretty good shape. Little rust here...Some mildew now and then...Nothin’ sandblastin’ and paint won’t fix. Course, there’s water in the silos that’d have to be pumped out...”
“I was not aware of that.”
“Blast-door seals at the top shrunk-up years ago...Lotta rainwater leaked in over time.”
“Are you saying the steel framework for the missiles has been under water?”
“Yes, but you won’t be usin’ it anyways...”
“We would consider converting the silos to storage after installing an elevator system.”
“Could maybe do that after they’re pumped out. Take some time, though...month or more, dependin’ on the pumps you use.”
“So we will not know the condition of the silos until they are drained?”
“No, but that’s just the way these old sites are...WYSWYG...What you see is what you get.”
“I see...Are other sites available?”
“Not that I know of. Most were imploded by the Air Force or belong to private buyers who’ve turned them into homes, mostly...Heck, there’s even an old Atlas site in Kansas got turned into a high school...Offered ‘em to state and local agencies after they shut ‘em down. Guy in Kansas named Ed Paden sells old sites, but even he’s run low on ‘em.”
“I am aware of that, which is why we are here.”
“You’re just lucky ol’ man Lundsborg decided to sell this one. He thought about turning it into a home, but the farm alone is more’n he can handle”
“He is the gentleman who owns the land around this site?”
“Yep.”
“Do you think he might be interested in selling it?”
“Hard to say, but kinda doubt it...Lived here all his life.”
“I believe that most property can be bought...if t
he price is right.”
“True. He did have an offer a few years back, but the deal fell through...Buyer couldn’t get the money together.”
“How much did the buyer offer?”
“Well, now...I’m not really at liberty...”
“Mister Hesse, please do not be coy. I assure you, I would never divulge the source of any information.”
“Since you put it that way...Five million...Course that was a couple years ago.”
“You referred to him as ‘old man Lundsborg.’ How old is he?”
“Let’s see, two years older than my daddy...Guessin’ that’d make him around seventy-eight or seventy- nine.”
“Does he have children?”
“Not any more...Only son died years ago when a tractor rolled over on him. Lingered on for a few months, then went on to his maker.”
“Would you be so kind when you get back to your office to call this farmer Lundsborg and offer him six million dollars in cash for his property?”
“Six million? Well, sure...be more’n glad to. Course, there’d be a six percent commission on top of that to cover my services...”
“Let us round it up to ten percent. Would that suffice?”
“Damn straight. Let’s see...With three hundred thousand for the missile site...We’d be talking six million, nine hundred thirty-thousand dollars...With my commission, right?
He had included the sale of the missile silo at the higher ten percent.
“I believe that is correct, Mister Hesse. Now, if you do not mind, may we continue our tour?”
“Sure thing, Mister Swanson, whatever you say.” Hell, for that kinda money, I’ll carry you around piggyback.
They proceeded down the tunnel that led toward the missile silos. Swanson smiled, which was a luxury he afforded himself on rare occasions. This will suit the Consortium’s needs quite well...
NSA TRAINING FACILITY
NEAR PETALUMA, CA
Five Weeks Ago
“Gonna be straight with you, Miss Martinez,” the close-combat instructor addressed the lone student on the thirty-foot square gym mat. “Three weeks is not enough time to teach you everything you need to know...Most of our agents can’t do it in the six-month academy. But, given your martial arts background and your motivation, I’ll try my best.”
“Yes, Sensei,” the young woman in the black gym pants and T-shirt replied. Her voice echoed in the cavernous workout facility. Only half of the sodium vapor lights were lit and she felt like she was on a grade-B karate movie set. She stood with her feet shoulder wide and her fists clenched in front her in a ready stance.
“Good, and let’s drop the ‘Sensei’ thing...Call me Bob. I’m going to show you things you wouldn’t usually see till you reached the higher levels of black belt. You are a black belt, right?”
“Yes, Sens...Bob...in Hakkoryu Jujutsu.”
“Really? Wasn’t told which style. How far did you get?”
“Sandan...uh, Third Degree...Getting ready to test when everything hit the fan.”
“Ever use it?
“Couple of times in high school and on a few drunks.”
“Work?”
“Oh, yeah...” Licia grinned.
“Good. Let’s skip the basics, then and get right to the good stuff. Attack me with an overhand blow...”
RANDY’S RIBS
COLORADO SPRINGS, CO
Present Day
The family-owned smokehouse recommended by one of the NORAD NCOs was a little hard to find, but well worth the effort.
“Ribs ain’t half-bad,” Bart said as he looked down at gnawed-over bones on a platter. He leaned back and patted his stomach. “Sure ‘nuff give you plenty. “
“Got that right,” Jake replied. “Only half-done and I’m stuffed...May have to run all the way back to the base to work it off...And to keep from falling asleep during the rest of the briefing...Forgot how dry and boring they can be...especially this guy...Don’t remember your briefings being anywhere close.”
“Anywhere close? I thought they were interestin’ and motivatin’.”
“Yes, sir...in your own unique way.”
“Unique way?...Ladies, what do you think?”
Nora looked at Joanna, who was attempting to hide a smirk with her hand. “I never had the pleasure of seeing one of your briefings, dear. But, I’m sure they were...what did you say, interesting and motivating?”
“You’re not mockin’ me by any chance now, are you?”
“I would never do that, now, would I?”
“Man, this is one tough crowd. Bill...I mean, Carl, what do you think?”
“Can I take the Fifth, sir?”
“Damn, another traitor! I’m surrounded for sure and for certain. Guess I’d better regroup and go over the schedule for the next coupla days.
“We’ll finish up the briefin’s this afternoon and tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon we take the public tour of Cheyenne Mountain Complex and somebody from Public Affairs will fill us in on things the public doesn’t get to hear...Then you get to see our new operations center.”
“In Cheyenne Mountain, right?” Carl queried.
“Sorta...”
Joanna half-raised her hand. “I understand the theory behind moving us here from Northern California to provide backup for both the East and West Coast...What I don’t understand is why here? No offense, but it’s just some backwater hole in the ground.”
“Exactly why we’re here,” Bart replied. “Not a whole lot on the surface...Scratch it, though, and you get a whole ‘nother ball game.”
“You’ve certainly piqued everyone’s interest, my darling, including your wife’s...Can’t wait to see our offices.”
“Not to tease y’all, but won’t exactly have what you’d call offices...More like work stations or consoles.”
Jake scanned the tables around them to make sure nobody was listening. He leaned in and the others followed suit. “I realize it’s not secure here, so I’ll ask this quietly...have we gotten any clues to where Eichner and the Russians might be?”
“You’re right, son, shouldn’t talk about it here...But I can tell you there are some clues...In fact, Benson and Johansen are running down a lead as we speak.”
“Where are they?” Nora asked.
“Stopped by a place in Nevada to check something out...Should be here tonight. Already had the safety and security briefings, so they’ll take the tour with us tomorrow.”
“Be good to see them.”
***
CHAPTER 2
HAL’S HAV-A-CUP TRUCKSTOP
HUMBOLDT COUNTY, NEVADA
The whirling blades of the sleek black helicopter created a mini dust storm in the back parking lot of the truck stop on Highway 93, which ran north and south through the eastern part of Nevada. The powerful jet engine spooled to a stop and Agents Mary Benson and Jay Johansen stepped down.
There were no logos or names on the aircraft and it displayed a registration number that would be nearly impossible to trace through half-a-dozen shell companies, including multiple offshore accounts.
A deputy from the Humboldt County Sheriff’s department waited for the dust to settle before stepping out of his patrol car.
The NSA agents noted the black stripe across his badge. Mary recognized him as Corporal Benjamin “Ben” H. Washington, Jr, a veteran of local law enforcement.
They met during the initial investigation into the disappearance of stolen nuclear weapons and a BlackStar System.
Unlike the first time, he was the first to stretch out his hand. “Good to see you again...even under the circumstances.”
The harsh desert wind whipped their clothing and carried the unique dusty smell of sage.
“Yes, Corporal Washington...Sorry to hear about your coworker.”
“Call me Ben, and thank you...Tried to tell him he was too green to patrol by himself...But he was eager and we’d been shorthanded too long.”
“I understand...Can you fill us in
?”
“Sure...Remember Harold Grimes, the eager young deputy you met?”
“Hard to forget. I remember him telling us his uncle was the Sheriff...Hetheone?”
“Yes, ma’am...”
“Please, call me Mary.”
“Yes, ma’am...My sister-in-law Cheryl got married over to Elko, so me and the wife pretty much had to go. Harold was filling in, so I kind of feel responsible.”
“Was he targeted?”
“No, ma’am, er, Mary...don’t think so. Damned fool stopped a camper for no tailights on the trailer...Who does that? Dispatch told him it was too petty, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“What happened then?
“Not sure, but Harold had one of them newfangled dashboard cams in his unit at his own expense...Said he wanted to critique his procedures. Personally...think he just wanted to see himself on TV. None too clear...but gives the general idea. Looks like two perps got out of the bus...”
“Thought it was a camper.”
“Old school bus converted to a camper...Haulin’ a trailer with a tarped load...Anyway, Harold unsnaps his holster as he’s walking up to them when one pulls out a nine millimeter and fires at least a half-dozen rounds at him...Dead before he hit the ground, Doc Langham says...Not used to deputies gunned down in cold blood.”
“But the dash cam was recording?”
“It was, but like I said...kinda fuzzy.”
“Our people may be able to clean it up...if I can get the original.”
“Have to talk to the Sheriff about that...he’s gettin’ ready to send it over to the FBI in Reno.”
“Would you radio him and tell him to hold off on that? I think our people are better equipped to work with the original.”
“Don’t see why not...All we want is a clear picture of these cold-blooded hombres and maybe a chance to get our hands on them.”
He turned back to Benson after talking to the sheriff. “Be glad to take you to get it.”
“Appreciate it, but first, can we talk to anybody in the truck stop who was working that night?”
“Sure, hop in.”
They pulled up to the front of the truck stop a few minutes later and the manager, Big Jim Wannamaker, came out to greet them. “Agents Benson and Johansen, good to see you again.”
