Omega Missile (Shadow Warriors)

by Bob Mayer

  "Sir, you need to get the people out from the chopper crash. My son is one of them."

  "Your son?"

  "It's a long story, sir, but can you get them out?"

  "I'll get a medevac chopper as close to the radar limit as possible. We'll get them out of there. You focus on getting the LCC under your control."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good luck."

  Thorpe put the radio away. He met Parker's gaze without a word.

  "Someone will get Tommy to safety," she said.

  "The question is, will there be any safety?" Thorpe asked. "We've got to get into this place."

  They began crawling.

  *****

  Inside the LCC, McKenzie punched memory five in his cellular phone for the tenth time. The phone rang and rang with no answer. "Shit!" McKenzie exclaimed.

  He turned to Drake. "We've lost contact with Mitchell so we have to assume our perimeter has been breached at the bridge. We're wasting time. They're up to something."

  McKenzie keyed the microphone for the satellite radio. "General Lowcraft. I and my associates are becoming short-tempered. Has the president been notified and is the money on its way?"

  "Who am I talking to? Where's Professor Kilten?"

  "Just answer my questions, General."

  "The president has been notified," a new voice replied. "He has a copy of Kilten's report and I can assure you he is reading it. The money has been transported to Charleston and is being loaded as we speak."

  "Is this Hill?" McKenzie asked.

  "Yes."

  "Is your shithead aide, Lugar, there? The one who uses Loki as his call sign?"

  Hill remained silent.

  "Listen, Hill, I know your people are trying to get in here. We spot anybody and you're going to have a hell of a lot more problems than us. You got that?"

  "Is this McKenzie?" Lowcraft asked.

  McKenzie smiled. "So you've been talking to my friend Captain Thorpe, have you?"

  There was no answer.

  "Not very bright, General, but not a great disclosure either. How's Thorpe doing? What's he up to?"

  "He's back at Barksdale debriefing our people," Lowcraft said.

  "Oh, I don't think so," McKenzie said. "That's not the way Thorpe works. He's around here somewhere. Of course, he's not the threat he once was."

  "McKenzie, why are you doing this? I've got your service jacket here. You've served your country for twenty-two years. Why have you turned against it now?"

  "I've turned against the Pentagon and assholes like your friend Hill, General, not my country. I'm doing my duty to my country here. Protecting them from people like Hill."

  "Chief McKenzie, I—"

  "You think what I'm doing is wrong?" McKenzie yelled into the radio. "I'll show you people doing wrong things." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a CD. He handed it to Drake. "Send that to the sons-of-bitches."

  Drake took the CD and slid it into the communication computer. He transmitted the data on high-frequency burst to the War Room as McKenzie spoke. "You've got some digitized data coming in, General. I suggest you view it."

  *****

  In the War Room, Lowcraft turned his chair to face the front of the room. The front display cleared and then an out-of-focus image appeared. It showed a beach with some trucks parked.

  Just as Lowcraft was getting ready to ask his technician to clean the image up, it cleared and he could see four military-style trucks parked on the sand. The camera panned and a tank came into view. Lowcraft immediately recognized the make; there was only one country in the world that made that tank and it had never been exported.

  "What is this?" Lowcraft asked.

  "Don't act stupid," McKenzie hissed. "Those are Israeli-made Merkava tanks. Your friend Hill knows exactly what this is."

  One of the tanks turned on its searchlight and a hovercraft appeared on the water, sliding up onto the beach. Men began taking barrels off the hovercraft and loading them onto trucks. The camera zoomed in on one of the barrels and Lowcraft could see the markings on the side.

  "Oh, shit," he muttered to himself.

  McKenzie's voice came over the speaker. "I shot this digitized video while working for our government, General. As you can tell from the scene, those are Israelis receiving a shipment of plutonium. What you can't tell is that the people doing the shipping are CIA."

  Lowcraft turned to Hill. "Maybe you can shed some light on this. We aborted that Lebanon SO/NEST team but you didn't tell me any of this."

  McKenzie's voice boomed out again. "This was my last mission for our government. We had received information that there was going to be a transfer of weapons-grade plutonium along the coast in southern Lebanon. This information was correct. Unfortunately this was a case of the left hand not knowing what the right was doing, no pun intended." McKenzie gave a strange laugh.

  "When we called for an air and ground strike on the exchange to get the plutonium back under positive control, the strike was canceled by Mister Hill's aide and we were ordered to abort," McKenzie said. "Then we got attacked by the CIA guards and the Israelis. I didn't let the debriefers know I had the video when I got back because I knew it would disappear and I'd have Agency dinks knocking at my door. So don't give me any crap. You people are the criminals!"

  "So enough bullshit!" McKenzie exploded. "You do what you were told to do. I want the money moving. Now!" He cut off the connection.

  General Lowcraft was rubbing his forehead. "This thing keeps getting worse and worse."

  Hill had been thinking about something McKenzie mentioned. "If Thorpe was with him on that mission into southern Lebanon, maybe Thorpe's not on our side."

  "Sir," Colonel Hurst said. "I've got Thorpe's file and I've also contacted the NEST headquarters. Thorpe's team was directed to check out security at nuclear weapons storage sites this weekend by direct request from the Pentagon." Hurst looked up from the papers in his hand. "The request was initiated by Professor Thomas Kilten."

  Lowcraft took the orders and looked at them, then he threw them down. "Kilten may have wanted this team in the area for some reason, but Thorpe's on our side."

  "How do you know that?" Hill demanded.

  "Because his son's there," Lowcraft snapped. He glared at Hill. "Of course, there are those of us who would sell out our own children if there was something to be gained." He poked a finger at Hill's chest. "How are you going to feel when it's you who is being sacrificed?"

  "Sir, there's more," Hurst said. "I've run a check on the Omega Missile LCC crew. Major Parker just came back to the Air Force after being seconded to a CIA unit called Red Flyer."

  Lowcraft turned to Hill with eyebrows raised. "What's Red Flyer? That was part of Kilten's request."

  "You don't have a need to know," Hill replied. "Suffice it to say it's part of that hammer I hold over the heads of the Israelis and others who fuck with the United States."

  "You're still playing 'I've-got-a-secret' and we're standing on the edge of nuclear Armageddon," General Lowcraft said wonderingly.

  Hurst had another file in his hand. "In Kilten's file it says he also worked with Red Flyer. It's apparently something compartmentalized between the Air Force and the CIA."

  "I'm only the chairman of the Joint Chiefs," Lowcraft shook his head. "No one tells me what the hell is going on with anything."

  Hill took Lowcraft's arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "Red Flyer took over the SADM mission from the Special Forces six years ago."

  Lowcraft knew that SADM stood for Strategic Atomic Demolition Munitions. A fancy term for backpack nukes. He'd known about the mission being removed from the Special Forces, but he thought that was because the mission had been phased out given the accuracy of cruise missiles with tactical nuclear weapons.

  "Why?" Lowcraft asked.

  "There are times when we have to use the threat of a deniable tac nuke strike for diplomatic pressure," Hill said. "There's so much shit floating around now that a bomb
going off can be pinned on terrorists if there is no trace of a missile or aircraft launch that can be backtracked."

  "So we have Red Flyer teams stationed around the world with tactical nuclear weapons to use to threaten those who need threatening," Hill concluded.

  "How was Parker involved?" Lowcraft asked.

  "I don't know," Hill answered. "She must have done a tour of duty with Red Flyer. We take some personnel with the necessary nuclear weapons background from the military to work on the teams."

  Lowcraft rubbed his eyes in weariness. "Jesus Christ, Kilten sure has uncovered a cesspool, hasn't he?"

  Chapter Nineteen

  four sailors manhandled the pod with the money into the nose cone of the Tomahawk cruise missile. As soon as it was in place, a weapons specialist rigged the explosive bolts that would separate the nose cone from the missile and then the pod from the nose cone. As soon as he was done, the missile slid back on its rail into the launcher on the forecastle of the USS Shiloh.

  The captain was in the fire control center, supervising as his weapons officer went through pre-fire procedures. They'd programmed the Tomahawk's guidance system using the disk from Kilten's desk at the Pentagon, the information sent by modem. The weapons officer had also programmed the firing of the bolts using the same disk.

  "Stand by," the weapons officer announced. "Clear the firing deck."

  The report came back. "Firing deck clear."

  The weapons officer turned to the captain. "All systems green. Ready to fire, sir."

  "Fire," the captain ordered.

  The weapons officer flipped up the cover on a switch and threw the lever underneath. On the forecastle, the cover blew open on the Tomahawk's silo and it leapt out. The missile dropped slightly, then the rocket kicked in even stronger and the telephone-pole-sized missile roared away to the southwest.

  *****

  At Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, a helicopter landed on the runway, two hundred feet from a waiting B-2 bomber. Armed guards jumped out of the chopper, weapons at the ready. Ordnance personnel from the airbase ran up and pulled a large plastic case out of the chopper.

  One of the men helping carry the case to the bomber was new to both his job and the Air Force, having just graduated his basic training a few weeks previously. He glanced over the top of the metal casing at his partner. "Hey, what's the big deal with this? Why all the guards?"

  The other airman nodded his head at the case. "See those symbols on the side?"

  "Yeah."

  "That means there's a 'special' in there."

  "A special? What's that."

  "A nuclear weapon, you dumb shit."

  The navigator-bombardier from the B-2 was waiting underneath the plane. He supervised the uncrating of the bomb and the loading inside the bowels of the bomber. He then hooked up all the required attachments.

  "What's the flight time from here to the target?" the pilot asked him.

  "If we go straight shot, about twenty-five minutes," the nav-bomb said. "But we're to fly to a hold point and wait for further orders."

  The pilot hit a switch that slowly closed the black doors. "Man, I hope this is an exercise."

  *****

  Drake smiled at the computer screen. He tapped McKenzie and spoke quietly. "I have confirmation of the cruise missile firing."

  "Do you have payload control?" McKenzie asked in the same low tone.

  "It's on the frequency Kilten specified."

  "Very good," McKenzie said. "Time to go pick up our package." He pointed at the laptop. "Let's unhook that, Mister Drake. I'll take care of the destruct hardware."

  On the far right console a red light began blinking, unnoticed in the scurry of activity. On the screen that displayed the thermal imaging from the Omega Missile silo, two small, round warm dots were in the vicinity of the gate to the compound. These too went unnoticed.

  Thorpe rolled on his back and aimed his pistol. He fired and the lock on the gate to the compound blew apart. Thorpe pushed the gates slightly apart and crawled in, Parker following.

  *****

  Thorpe quickened his pace, expecting a Humvee to come tearing up at any moment. He reached the concrete lip of the silo. The massive concrete doors were open wide and scorched. Thorpe looked down. The silo was empty, the walls black and sooty.

  Thorpe slid over the large concrete block that made up one half of the lid. There was a thin lip surrounding the circular opening, where the massive doors used to rest. Thorpe threw aside the thermal blanket and looked around. Both doors appeared threatening, balanced, as if they might fall and crush him any second.

  Parker joined him. "We made it!"

  Thorpe looked down at her. "And now?" The only way down was to jump from the concrete ledge, about twelve feet out and five feet down, to a metal ladder. If he missed, he'd fall eighty feet to the bottom of the silo.

  "Where's the access panel to this crawlway?" Thorpe asked.

  "At the bottom."

  "Of course," Thorpe said drily. "You see any way down? Other than falling."

  "The maintenance ladder?"

  "That's what I was afraid of."

  Thorpe let go of the edge and extended one hand. "Ladies first."

  "Oh, thanks." Parker didn't say another word, but surprised Thorpe by suddenly jumping. Her hands slammed on the top rung, slipped past, caught the second rung, held for a second then slipped again. She desperately grabbed the third rung and held.

  "I was just joking," Thorpe offered as Parker caught her breath, hooking her arms through the ladder.

  "Ha, ha," Parker said. "Your turn." Parker climbed down a few more rungs.

  Thorpe jumped and caught the top rung. Parker immediately began climbing down.

  *****

  Eight miles away, six hundred feet in the air, a Cobra gunship banked hard. Below it, a civilian Bell Jet Ranger was flying toward Barksdale Air Force Base.

  Newsfour was written on the side in large letters.

  The Cobra pilot keyed his radio as he pulled up next to the civilian chopper. "Bell Jet Ranger, this is Cobra One. You are entering restricted airspace. You are to turn back immediately."

  "This isn't restricted on any flight chart I've got," the civilian pilot replied.

  "You have ten seconds to turn or you will be fired on."

  Inside the chopper, the reporter in the right side spoke on the radio through his headset. "We know you people are up to something. You're evacuating everyone from this area. People saw the explosion. Has there been an accident with one of the nuclear weapons stored out here? We have the right—"

  A string of tracers came out of the 7.62-mm minigun on the nose of the Cobra and flew across the front of the Bell Jet Ranger.

  The Cobra pilot wasn't elegant, but he got his point across. "The next burst will be up your ass." The Cobra turned and was flying sideways, minigun pointed right at the cockpit of the other aircraft.

  "They're serious," the news chopper pilot said. "I’m getting the hell out of here!" The Bell Jet Ranger banked hard and headed back the way it had come.

  *****

  "Thorpe's got to be in on it," Hill insisted. "Why else would Kilten have put him there? He's in the right place at the right time."

  Lowcraft had spent the last several minutes looking at Kilten's classified file, ignoring the arguing going on around him. He also had a copy of Parker's file. Finally he looked up. "Thorpe's another piece on the board," he said. "As is Parker."

  "What?" Hill was puzzled.

  "It's beginning to make sense now. Kilten's a chess master. This is the greatest game of his life and he's arranged the board. Thorpe is a piece. So is Parker. Both were handpicked." Lowcraft was nodding. "And I don't think Thorpe or Parker even know they're pieces. I don't believe either one is in on it, as you put it, but they are a part of it."

  "Bullshit," Hill sputtered. "Thorpe and McKenzie were on that mission together. It can't just be coincidence that they're in the same place in Louisiana."

&n
bsp; "I just told you," Lowcraft said, "that it's not coincidence. Thorpe is there on purpose; the question is, what is that purpose?" Lowcraft tapped the report. "Kilten is doing this for what he views as a good reason. McKenzie might have different goals, but it is very clear what Kilten's are. Somehow Thorpe fits into this. Kilten wanted Thorpe and his team close by when this went down. Hell, maybe Kilten wants to fail. He gets just as much publicity either way. Parker has a role to play also, I just don't know what it is yet."

  Hill didn't have time for psychological delving. "Well, it really doesn't matter much either way at this point. Launch the aircraft."

  Lowcraft looked up from the folders to Hill. "If Kilten loaded the board, he also picked the timing of this for a purpose."

  "So?" Hill tapped his fingers impatiently on the desktop.

  "That means you and I are pieces also," General Lowcraft said.

  "Launch the aircraft, General."

  *****

  At Whiteman, the F-l 17A Stealth fighter led the way down the runway, accelerating rapidly and then darting up into the sky. The B-2 followed, its sleek form slowly separating from the ground. It linked up with the Stealth at five thousand feet and both aircraft then banked and headed south toward Louisiana.

  *****

  Parker and Thorpe were kneeling next to a panel. Thorpe was using a Leatherman multipurpose tool from his vest to unscrew it. Over half of the bolts were off, and the amount of sweat pouring down his back showed how hard it was to use the pliers on the nuts.

  "Do you think Lowcraft will order your team in?" Parker asked.

  "He'll send the team."

  "Even knowing this place is targeted for a nuclear strike? That's pretty coldhearted."

  Thorpe was working as he spoke. "That's his job. Yes, it's coldhearted, but so is your job and, as you pointed out, so is mine. If we don't like it, we shouldn't be wearing the uniforms we're wearing."

  He got the last bolt off. The panel slid off and he looked in. A steel tube extended as far as he could see. It was three feet in diameter and dimly lit.