The Line

by Bob Mayer

  He heard feet clatter onto the balcony below. "Where'd he go?" a man's voice asked.

  "Either up or down," another voice replied.

  "He's going to have to go down to get out. Let's move."

  Boomer hoped the room was empty. He opened the sliding door and went through the room into the hallway. The elevator was in the center, the fire stairs to the right. No choice really. There was no way Boomer would want to fight his way out of the close confines of a small box.

  He took the stairs two at a time until he hit the second floor, then he slowed down, his sneakers making no noise as he carefully took the next corner. Boomer drew his Browning. He made the last turn, muzzle leading and the first thing he saw was another muzzle pointing at him.

  "Freeze!" the DIA agent yelled.

  Boomer didn't stop moving, taking the last couple of stairs, weapon pointed directly between the man's eyes. The agent backed up to the outside door.

  "I said freeze, asshole!"

  Boomer continued until the muzzle of his gun pushed up against the man's forehead, pressing the back of his skull against the steel door. The agent's gun was correspondingly against Boomer's face, but the man's hand was shaking and his eyes were wide open trying to focus on the metal tube pressing into his skin. This was not at all something he expected or had been trained on. With his free hand, Boomer effortlessly snatched the man's gun and tossed it away.

  "Good night," Boomer said, rapping the cold steel of the barrel against the agent's head. He slid to the floor unconscious. Boomer leaned over and checked the man's hands, then he pushed the outside door open and squinted in the bright sunlight.

  CHAPTER 8

  FORT SHAFTER

  1 DECEMBER

  9:10 a.m. LOCAL/ ZULU

  "Major Keyes isn't Q course-qualified," Skibicki said to Boomer as the latter entered the tunnel.

  Boomer replied by tossing the ID card and map onto the sergeant major's desk.

  "What's this?" Skibicki asked.

  Boomer quickly related going to the motel and his encounters there.

  When he was done, Skibicki picked up the card. "Let me see if I can find out what's going on."

  "How?" Boomer asked.

  Skibicki took an old spiral notebook out of a drawer. "NCO network." He flipped through until he found what he was looking for. He grabbed the phone and began dialing.

  While he was doing that, Boomer unfolded the map and studied it. There were pencil marks in the upper left corner, on the blue next to the land. Boomer remembered something, but before he had a chance to take the thought further, Skibicki slammed the phone.

  "He ain't DIA."

  "What?"

  Skibicki flipped the card to him. "Your buddy there, John Regan, if that's his real name. He isn't DIA."

  "But he had this on him," Boomer said, looking over the ID.

  Skibicki gave Boomer a look normally reserved for idiot privates. "Yeah, and the two guys we blew away had these too and they were doing some breaking and entering earlier in the day. These cards are their cover so they can go about their business. I talked to a sergeant major buddy of mine over at DIA headquarters and he checked their open and classified records. This guy isn't listed in either."

  "Then who the fuck is Major John Regan?"

  "It'll take a while for me to check around," Skibicki said. "We also have to consider the possibility that this guy might not be military at all. I think we've stepped in some deep and dark shit here."

  Boomer tapped the map sheet. "Remember that water jump I told you about?"

  "Yes?"

  Boomer pointed at the pencil marks off the northwest coast of Oahu. "Is that Gumbo Shark DZ?"

  "Yes.”

  "And those guys had scuba gear," Boomer said.

  Skibicki put those two pieces of information together. "DZ coverage."

  "That's the way I figure it," Boomer said. "Which means there's a hell of a lot more going on here than someone simply wanting Trace's manuscript." Boomer sat on the edge of Skibicki's desk. "Let's go back. You said Keyes isn't Special Forces-qualified?"

  "Right. His orders for command of A Company, 1st Battalion, were cut in DC—right at Department of the Army personnel—not at Special Ops Headquarters at Bragg. That explains how they can slot someone who isn't qualified into that slot."

  "How the hell can they do that?" Boomer asked.

  "Well, it's like this. Someone with a lot of rank orders someone in personnel to sit down at a typewriter and type the fucking orders, then put them in an envelope and mail them. Whoever gets them salutes and says 'yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full,' because the signature on the bottom has a few stars behind it." Skibicki's voice dripped sarcasm. "This is the only job in the world where you wake up in the morning and they tell you, 'Well, hey, bud, we want you to go and get your ass shot off,' and the only option in your bag of retorts is to salute and say 'yes, fucking-A, sir'. "

  Skibicki leaned forward. "You still don't get it, do you, Boomer? When the system says it will happen, then it will happen. They could have cut orders assigning an orangutan to be commander out there at Alpha company and the fucking battalion commander would have handed the guidon to a monkey."

  "I get it," Boomer snapped back. "I've played the game."

  But Skibicki wasn't done. "Those guys we killed could be Company. Sooner or later they're going to backtrack to us, if they haven't already. Our names are on that damn police report."

  "But what's the CIA doing operating inside the States?" Boomer asked.

  "I just said they might be CIA," Skibicki said. "There's so many damn private armies running around sanctioned by the government it could be anybody. Hell, you guys in Delta are just the tip of the iceberg."

  Boomer leaned toward Skibicki and spoke in a low, measured tone. "Do you think there's a connection between these guys here on the island and 1st of the 1st?"

  "If those are Keyes' guys making the jump," Skibicki answered.

  Boomer pulled out the copy of the JAVIS report from his breast pocket. "What about the plane for this water jump? If we can find out about that, then maybe we can get an idea what's going on. We need to know if it's coming from Okinawa."

  Skibicki started turning pages in his spiral notebook. "That will take a little while."

  "I'll give Trace a call and fill her in on what's going on," Boomer said. He went to the desk across from Skibicki and dialed Trace's work number. When she came on the line, he related what had happened at the hotel and their discoveries so far. As Skibicki hung up, Boomer told her to come to the tunnel.

  "The plane isn't from the island," Skibicki said. "And it ain't from the mainland. At least it's not listed in the Military Airlift Command master files."

  Boomer looked at the message and considered the contents in a different light. "Why fourteen men and two bundles for a water jump? Why not two full teams? That would be twenty-four people."

  "Can't fit twenty-four on a Combat Talon with bundles. Especially if the bundles are rubber boats. Normal load for a rubber boat drop from a Talon is two boats and fourteen personnel," Skibicki replied, referring to the modified MC-130 transport plane that the Air Force used for special missions.

  "That makes sense," Boomer said. "Then it's probably a Talon doing the drop. They'll be able to come in low to the coast of the island and not get picked up on radar. Hell, I talked to one of those Talon jockeys last year, and he said they flew right up on the aircraft carrier America at wave-top level and never came up on the radar screens."

  "Plus they're pushing bundles," Skibicki said. "That means ramp jump from a 130. It's a bitch to get a bundle out of anything larger than a 130."

  "What about SOW?" Boomer asked, referring to the Air Force's Special Operation Wing that had all the MC-130 Combat Talons under its command. "They're not under MAC control. Anything on their location?"

  "I checked that too. My buddy at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida says that two of their Combat Talons are deployed and he isn't saying
where, but I got the impression they were over in Europe supporting NATO missions. They moved the squadron of Talons that used to be stationed in the Philippines to Japan. It's too early for me to be checking there."

  Skibicki tapped the phone. "The problem is every time I call someone on this thing, the chances increase that someone's going to get counter-curious about my questions. Besides, I don't think these people are going to be dumb enough to have the flight plan for this operation listed anywhere," Skibicki concluded. "Not if they're using fake DIA ID cards for cover."

  "Come here," Boomer said. He led the sergeant major into the empty conference room and closed the door behind them. He pointed at the large map of the Pacific posted on the wall. "I agree that the flight plan for the aircraft flying this mission will probably be classified and we won't be able to get a look at it. But how far is it from Okinawa to the drop zone here?"

  "About 4,000 miles," Skibicki said, having flown across the Pacific numerous times in his career.

  "Mission range on a Talon without refueling is 2,800 nautical miles, which is a little over 3,000 miles," Boomer said, figuring the numbers on a notepad. "Which means—"

  "Which means if the plane is coming from Okie they're going to have to in-flight refuel," Skibicki said, catching Boomer's logic. "Which means we can check on KC-10 tanker missions scheduled for the night of the jump. I'll get on it as soon as they wake up. Most of the tankers in the Pacific fly out of Guam."

  "All right, let's play with this a little," Boomer said. "Let's assume it's fourteen guys from 1st Group under Keyes' command jumping in tomorrow night with rubber boats. What's the plan?"

  "It's got to involve water," Skibicki said. "They could just as easily do a rough terrain jump into the center of the island."

  "I disagree," Boomer said. "A water jump is the most secure way to go. They can drown the chutes, get accountability for everyone, and come ashore together. They try a rough terrain drop on the island they could lose someone or somebody could break a leg."

  "We're on an island," Skibicki said, circling his finger around his head. "That means we're surrounded by water. Odds are, they're going to come from the water to do whatever they have planned."

  Boomer looked at the calendar. "They're jumping at 1200 Zulu on the second. What's that local time?"

  "0200 local time on the second—Saturday morning," Skibicki calculated.

  "Who's jumping?" Trace asked from the door of the conference room. "Sergeant Vasquez told me you were back here."

  Boomer quickly brought her up to speed, then went back to the problem.

  "So what are they coming here for?" Boomer asked. "And what do you think this means?" He reached into his pocket, pulled a ring out, and looked at it.

  "What do you have there?" Skibicki asked.

  "I took this off the man I knocked out at the hotel." Boomer turned it around. "Class of 'eighty-four."

  "West Pointer," Skibicki said, taking the ring and looking at it.

  "Whose is it?" Trace asked.

  Boomer took the ring back and looked on the inside. "Peter Killington."

  Trace shook her head. "Don't know him."

  "Let me run his name," Skibicki said. "Find out where he's assigned."

  They waited as Skibicki made several phone calls. When he was done, his face indicated that the news wasn't good. "There is no Peter Killington listed on active duty or in the reserves."

  "Another person who doesn't exist," Boomer said.

  Skibicki held up a hand. "Just because he's not listed doesn't mean he isn't in the service. I remember when I was in 7th Group our battalion XO didn't get picked up for lieutenant colonel. When he sent a letter to the board asking why, they sent the letter back saying he had not been considered because they never saw his file. He didn't exist."

  "Turns out, his previous assignment was with the ISA— Intelligence Service Agency," Skibicki clarified for Trace. "A high-speed unit that did a lot of covert work. People in that unit are buried deep and their records pulled."

  "So you're saying these people could be military but working under deep cover," Trace said.

  Boomer nodded. "You won't find my name listed anywhere at the Department of the Army. But that still brings us back to the question: who are these guys working for?" A thought struck him. "Decker!" Seeing the looks on their faces, he explained. "Colonel Decker—he was here in the tunnel the other day. He's the one who—" Boomer paused as he realized what he was about to say. Then all the pieces came together, and Boomer staggered back. He grabbed a chair to steady himself and sat down.

  "Are you OK?" Trace put a hand on his shoulder and leaned over.

  "Oh my God," Boomer muttered. "Oh my God."

  CHAPTER 9

  FORT SHAFTER

  1 DECEMBER

  9:45 a.m. LOCAL/1945 ZULU

  "Sit down and let me explain from the beginning," Boomer said, forestalling Skibicki's and Trace's questions. He began with the mission into the Ukraine, sketching out the events and the people involved. Trace was shocked to learn that the inspectors had been killed by Boomer's team, but Skibicki seemed none too surprised.

  "You think it was deliberate?" he asked Boomer.

  "Yes. Especially after seeing the fall-out in the press over the deaths. I think we were sent there to kill exactly who we killed and I think Decker knew it from the start."

  Then he described seeing Decker in the tunnel, the strange happenings in A Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group, with Wilkerson being set up and relieved and Keyes taking over. He added the mysterious jump scheduled for the night of the second with the men in the hotel room who happened to have a load of scuba gear.

  "Combine all that with the military's unhappiness over the MRA and the existence of The Line—''

  "Possible existence," Trace cut in.

  "This doesn't look like just possible," Boomer said, pointing at the ring he'd taken off the man at the hotel. "Nothing here has just been a coincidence."

  "Anyway," he conceded, "add in the 'possible' existence of this Line organization, and I think we have a bad situation here."

  Trace shook her head. "I don't understand what 1st of the 1st has to do with this. So you've got a new CO for A Company 1st of the 1st. One who's politics are sort of right wing."

  "But he's not SF-qualified," Boomer noted.

  Trace continued on. "And he's taking over because the last commander said he got set up to be relieved and his company is getting new people in that he doesn't have authority to slot where he wants. Did they set up his making the mistake that got him relieved?"

  "They're stacking a couple of teams there," Boomer insisted, giving his explanation for events on Okinawa.

  "Uh-huh," Trace said. "And you have these fourteen people and two bundles jumping into a water DZ on the night of the second off the coast."

  "Most likely those same teams from 1st of the 1st," Boomer said.

  "But how can you connect them to The Line. If The Line exists?"

  "I don't have a direct connection," Boomer ceded. "But I think someone, somewhere, is pulling some strings and most of the principal players are West Pointers."

  "So are we," Trace interrupted.

  "Yeah, but we aren't Rhodes Scholars," Boomer said sarcastically. "If they only pick a couple of people every few years, I'm not too surprised they didn't pick us to be part of their little organization."

  "Speak for yourself," Trace said, trying to smile. "I ranked in the top twenty of my class."

  "Shit, Trace," Boomer said. "Get real. You could have been number one and they wouldn't give you the time of day. The Line probably had a shit fit when Congress passed that law allowing woman into the Academy. The damn superintendant at the time threatened to resign."

  "Let's get back to facts," Trace said. "We have no proof that The Line exists. All I had were the muddled memories of an old lady. And what does that have to do with my manuscript? The men in the hotel were connected to the men you killed behind the house. You
're only connecting them to this jump because of their scuba gear—"

  "The map," Boomer said tapping it, "locks them together."

  "OK, they're connected," Trace said. "If this is all fact, what are they here to do?"

  Boomer rubbed his eyes, his voice cracking with fatigue. "When is the President arriving?"

  Trace slumped back, the disbelief apparent on her fine features.

  Skibicki silently went to a table in the corner of the room and pulled out a sheet of papers with a classified stamp on the cover. "This is the OPLAN for security. He arrives on Oahu the morning of the sixth. He's attending a fundraising dinner at the Royal Hawaiian on the night of the sixth, then the ceremony at Pearl on the morning of the seventh. He's scheduled to commemorate the anniversary with a minute of silence at 7:54 a.m., the time when the attack started. His speech is set for 8:00 a.m."

  "So we have six days."

  "Hold on one second," Trace said. "How do you come up with a plot against the President? I think you're stretching here, Boomer."

  "Hey, you're the one who's writing the book," Boomer replied. "You're the one that told me about The Line."

  "But I was talking about fiction. A novel, Boomer, you know like Stephen King and John Grisham."

  "You based it on facts as told to you," Boomer said. "You just automatically assumed she was senile. What if she's floating with all her oars and told you the biggest secret of the century? God, Trace, it's as if she told you the mob shot JFK and you called Joe Bonanno and said, 'Hey, wanna hear a good story?' "

  "Calm down, both of you," Skibicki said. He was looking at the map. "The water jump. It makes sense now. The President's speaking at Pearl Harbor; that has quite a bit of water in it, last I checked. If I was going to plan an operation, knowing the security that the President always has, I don't think I'd come at him on land."