The Reply a5-2

by Robert Doherty

  “And the target is?” the British lieutenant colonel asked.

  Kostanov shrugged. “That is for your intelligence people to tell you. I gave them the location. I assume they have better pictures than I had ten years ago.”

  Duncan gestured at a woman in a gray three-piece suit who had been sitting along the wall while Kostanov spoke. She now stood up. She was tall and slender with jet-black hair, cut tight around her head, framing an angular face. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell as her skin was perfectly smooth and pale.

  “My code name is Zandra,” the woman said. “I represent the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Zandra held a small remote. She clicked a button. A long-range satellite photo appeared. “Northeast Africa,” Zandra oriented them quickly. She clicked and the shot decreased in scale. “Southwest Ethiopia, near the border with Kenya and Sudan. Very inhospitable terrain. Largely uninhabited and largely unexplored.” Turcotte nodded to himself. That fit the pattern. The Airlia had picked the most inaccessible places on Earth to hide their equipment: Antarctica, the American desert in Nevada, Easter Island. Always where it would be difficult for humans to get to and survive.

  “The most significant terrain feature in this part of the world is the Great Rift Valley. It starts in southern Turkey, runs through Syria, then between Israel and Jordan where the Dead Sea lies; the lowest point on the face of the planet. It goes from there to Elat, then it forms the Red Sea. At the Gulf of Aden it splits, one part running into the Indian Ocean, the other going inland into Africa, to the Afar Triangle. The lowest point in Africa, the Danakil Depression, which is where our target is, lies directly along the Great Rift Valley.

  “From there the Rift Valley goes south, encompassing Lake Victoria, the world’s second largest freshwater lake, before ending somewhere in Mozambique.”

  Another click and there was a tiny square in the center of a deep valley, high mountains on both sides and a river running in the center. The next shot and they could see that the square was a fenced compound next to the river. The vegetation was sparse and stunted.

  “That’s your target. According to legal documents we’ve traced, that compound is owned by the Terra-Lei Corporation, which is headquartered in Cape Town, South Africa. They own a variety of interests, and they claim this compound is a mining camp. It’s been there for sixteen years. Our satellites have never shown any mined material leaving. The only way in or out is by plane or helicopter or a hazardous three-day trip by all-terrain vehicle from Addis Ababa.

  “The interesting thing about Terra-Lei is that the only sort of mining operation, if you could call it that, they’ve ever been associated with has been sending mercenaries into Angola to attack diamond mining camps. Terra-Lei’s main business is arms; manufacturing, buying, selling, and exporting them to the highest bidder. They used to do quite a good business on the international black market until Mandela came into power.”

  Zandra used the laser pointer. “Here is the airstrip near the compound. This building”—she highlighted a three-story structure—”is where we believe the Airlia artifacts are stored. This is the barracks for the paramilitary mercenary forces guarding the compound. There are also surface-to-air missiles, here, here, here, and here. Several armored vehicles.” Zandra gave a frosty smile. “Certainly they would not need such protection for just a mining compound.”

  “If these Terra-Lei people are out of South Africa, then why didn’t they just move what they’ve found home?” Duncan asked.

  “We don’t know,” Zandra said. “Our best guess is that maybe they can’t move whatever it is they’ve found. Or perhaps the unstable political environment over the years in South Africa precluded that option. There was a discreet inquiry made through the United Nations Alien Oversight Committee to the South African government to get open access to the compound.”

  “And the answer, as you can tell by the fact we’re heading there with a squadron of SAS on board,” Duncan said, “was silence.”

  “So they know we’re coming,” Turcotte summarized.

  “Most likely,” Zandra confirmed.

  “Bloody hell,” the SAS colonel muttered, then asked, “What about the Ethiopian government?”

  “What about them?” Zandra replied, her tone answer enough that that was not a factor here.

  Duncan looked at the SAS officer. “Colonel Spearson, what’s the plan?”

  Spearson stood and walked to the front of the room. He looked at the American officer in the flight suit. “When can we launch, Major O’Callaghan?”

  O’Callaghan pointed at a map of northeast Africa. “The ship’s captain is pushing his engines to the max, so we’re making good speed. Our launch point, where all aircraft will have enough fuel for a round trip plus fifteen minutes on-station, is here, forty kilometers from our present position— which means we will be able to launch in less than an hour.”

  Spearson didn’t look happy about that timetable, and Turcotte knew why. It would be dawn shortly, and the SAS would hit the compound just before daylight. It was a tight window with a lot of room for disaster.

  Spearson cleared his throat. “An American AWACS is in position off the coast. It will control all flight operations, coordinating O’Callaghan’s helicopters and jets from your navy. I am the commander of all ground forces. I will be on board an MH-60 until the first air assault wave lands. At that time I will reposition to the primary target.

  “The basic plan is a four-stage attack. Stage one is to land a squad by parachute on top of the building you believe holds the artifacts. These troopers are to gain a foothold. Stage two is an attack by antiradar missiles launched by Navy planes to take out their surface-to-air missile sites. Stage three is the rest of my force coming in by helicopter with gunship support. Stage four is to secure the compound.” Spearson looked at the others in the room. “Questions?”

  “How is your airborne force going in?” Turcotte asked. “HALO or HAHO?”

  “HAHO,” Spearson replied, letting Turcotte know that the men would be jumping at high altitude and opening their parachutes almost immediately, flying them in to the target. The thin chutes wouldn’t get picked up by radar like aircraft would, allowing them to arrive undetected.

  “I’d like to go in with the jumpers,” Turcotte said.

  “That’s fine,” Spearson said.

  Duncan stood up. “All right—”

  “I’ve got some questions,” Spearson suddenly said, looking directly at Duncan.

  “What if these Terra-Lei people have indeed uncovered some Airlia weapons?” “That’s why we’re going there,” Duncan said. “To find that out.”

  “But what if they can use these weapons against us?” Spearson clarified his concern.

  “Then we’re in big trouble,” Duncan said simply.

  “I doubt they have had any success in that area,” Zandra interjected. “We’ve kept close tabs on Terra-Lei. You can be assured that if they had uncovered anything they could use, it would be on the international arms market in one form or another.”

  Spearson didn’t seem much comforted by that. “What are our rules of engagement?”

  “If you meet any resistance,” Duncan said, “you are free to use whatever force is necessary to overcome that resistance.”

  Spearson frowned. “Your planes will be taking out their radio and radar facilities right after my initial forces land. There’s bound to be some casualties from those strikes. That means we will most likely have fired the first shots.”

  Duncan’s face was impassive. “We gave them their chance to cooperate. The United Nations Security Council has already considered this situation, and it is felt that the threat of Airlia weapons being in the wrong hands is too great a danger. UNAOC has been given the power by the Security Council to use whatever force is necessary to get all Airlia artifacts under UN control.”

  Spearson stared at her hard, then nodded. “Right, then. Let’s get up to the flight deck and get g
oing.”

  Turcotte stood and followed the SAS colonel. As he reached the door, Lisa Duncan put out a hand and tapped his elbow. “Mike.”

  “Yes?” Turcotte waited, surprised. That was the first time she had called him by his first name.

  “Be careful.”

  Turcotte gave her a smile, but it was gone just as quickly. “Did you know about the Airlia craft the Russians found?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s not good,” Turcotte said. “Oh, well, I guess it’s not important right now. I’ll be safe. I’ll make sure I duck if I have to.”

  “Try to do better than that,” Duncan warned.

  Turcotte paused. They stared at each other in the narrow metal stairwell for a few seconds. “Well,” Turcotte finally said, “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll see you on the ground,” Duncan said.

  Turcotte turned and climbed the stairs that led to the massive flight deck of the Washington. There was a warm breeze blowing in from the seaward side. Looking across the flight deck, Turcotte could see SAS troopers rigging equipment. Some were doing a last-minute cleaning of their weapons, others honing knives or smearing camouflage paint onto their faces. Pilots from both the Army and Navy were walking around their aircraft, using red-lens flashlights to do a final visual inspection.

  A figure loomed up in the dark and a rich British accent rolled across the flight deck. “You Turcotte?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Ridley. Commander, HAHO detachment, Twenty-first SAS. I understand you’re coming with us?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’ll assume you know what you’re doing. You jump last and don’t get in anybody’s way or you’re bloody well likely to get shot, and you won’t catch me crying in my tea over that. Clear?” Ridley was already walking toward their aircraft.

  “Clear.”

  “Turcotte,” Ridley said. “Sounds fucking French.”

  “I’m Canuck,” Turcotte said. They came up to a C-2 cargo plane.

  Ridley handed him a parachute. “Packed it myself. What the bloody hell is a Canuck?”

  “French-Indian,” Turcotte said. “I’m from Maine. There’s a lot of us in the backwoods there.” He put the chute on his back.

  Ridley was behind him, reaching between his legs with a strap. “Left leg,” he announced.

  “Left leg,” Turcotte repeated, snapping it into the proper receiver. He felt comfortable around Ridley’s gruff manner. He’d met many men like that in his years working special operations. Turcotte had even worked with the SAS before in Europe, when he’d done counterterrorism work. He knew the Special Air Service to be top-notch professionals who got the job done.

  Quickly Turcotte rigged and climbed into the plane. The C-2 was the largest aircraft the Washington had in its inventory. It normally moved personnel and equipment from the vessel to shore and back. Right now the small cargo bay held sixteen heavily armed SAS troopers in tight proximity to each other.

  Turcotte smelled the familiar pungent odor of engine exhaust and JP-4 jet fuel, reminding him of other missions in other parts of the globe. The back ramp to the C-2 closed and the plane taxied to its takeoff position. The engine noise peaked and then they were moving, rolling across the steel deck. There was a sudden, short drop, then the nose of the plane tilted up and they were climbing in altitude. Below and behind them, like fireflies in the dark, helicopters lifted and followed.

  “Ten minutes!” the SAS jumpmaster said. The message was picked up by the throat mike wrapped tightly around his neck and transmitted to the earpieces of all the jumpers, Turcotte included.

  Turcotte did one last check of his gear, making sure everything was functioning properly. He looked around at the other men in the cargo bay. He was the only one in a single rig. The SAS troopers were wearing dual rigs — two people hooked together in harness with one chute. Turcotte had never seen that used for military purposes before. Usually such rigs were used by civilian jump instructors to train novice jumpers.

  The jumpmaster continued, pantomiming the commands with his hands. “Six minutes. Switch to your personal oxygen and break your chem lights.”

  Turcotte stood up at the front of the cargo bay. He unhooked from the console in the center of the cargo bay that had been supplying his oxygen and hooked in to the small tank on his chest. He took a deep breath and then broke the chem light on the back of his helmet, activating its glow.

  “Depressurizing,” the crew chief announced.

  A crack appeared at the back of the plane as the back ramp began opening. The bottom half leveled out, forming a platform, while the top half disappeared into the tail section. Turcotte swallowed, his ears popping.

  “Stand by,” the jumpmaster called out over the FM radio. He moved forward until he was at the very edge, looking into the dark night sky.

  Turcotte knew they were over fourteen miles offset from the Terra-Lei compound and should be attracting no interest from ground-based radar at this distance.

  “Go!” The jumpmaster and his buddy were gone. The others walked off, the pairs moving in unison. Turcotte went last, throwing himself into the slipstream and immediately spreading his legs and arms and arching his back, getting stable.

  He counted to three, then pulled his ripcord. The chute blossomed above his head. He slid the night vision goggles down on his helmet, checked his chute, then looked down. He counted eight sets of chem lights below him. He turned and followed their path as the SAS troopers began flying their chutes toward the target. With over six miles of vertical drop, they could cover quite a bit of distance laterally using their chutes as wings. Turcotte didn’t know what the current record was, but he had heard of HAHO teams covering over twenty-five lateral miles on a jump. He felt confident that with the sophisticated guidance rigs the front man of each pair of jumpers had on top of his reserve chute, they would find the target. All Turcotte had to do was follow. And, as Ridley had warned, stay out of the way as the SAS did its job.

  Turcotte was cold for the first time in weeks since leaving Easter Island. Even at this latitude thirty thousand feet meant thin air and low temperatures. Turcotte’s hands were on the toggles that controlled the chute, both turning and descent rate. He adjusted as the line of chem lights below him changed direction slightly. He checked his altimeter: twenty thousand feet.

  Fifty kilometers away the first wave of the air assault element was flying toward the target. Four Task Force 160 AH-6’s — known as Little Birds— led the way. They were modified OH-6 Cayuse observation helicopters. The AH-6 was designed as one of the quietest helicopters in the world, capable of hovering a couple of hundred meters from a person and not being heard. The two pilots both wore night vision goggles and used forward-looking infrared radar to fly in the night.

  Two Little Birds carried 7.62mm minigun pods and the other two 2.75-inch rocket pods. In the backseat of each aircraft SAS snipers armed with thermal scopes provided additional firepower. The SAS troopers wore body harnesses and could lean completely out of the helicopter to fire their rifles.

  Ten kilometers behind the Little Birds, four Apache gunships followed. Besides the 30mm chain gun mounted under the nose, the weapons pylons of each bristled with Hellfire missiles. A Black Hawk helicopter was directly behind the Apaches: Colonel Spearson’s command aircraft. And ten kilometers behind the Apaches came Spearson’s main ground force: eight Black Hawks carrying ninety-six SAS troopers ready for battle.

  * * *

  At a higher altitude and circling, the air strike force from the George Washington was poised. It consisted of F-4G Wild Weasels to suppress air defense and F-14 Tomcats with laser-guided munitions. And circling high above it all off the coast was the AWACS, coordinating carefully with Colonel Spearson to make sure that everything arrived on target at just the right moment.

  Next to Colonel Spearson, in the command Black Hawk helicopter, Lisa Duncan felt reasonably calm. She had always handled stress and crisis well, and th
is was to be no exception.

  She’d moved up in Washington for years until getting her last assignment, as presidential science adviser to Majestic-12. The fact that when she had been given the assignment she had only known of that organization as a rumor, had been the very reason the President had picked her. Even he hadn’t known exactly what Majestic-12 was, having been briefed when coming into office that MJ-12, as insiders called it, was a committee established after World War II to look into the discovery of various alien artifacts. At the briefing the head of MJ-12, General Gullick, had not told the President exactly what it was they had hidden at Area 51 in Nevada that required over $3 billion a year in black budget funding, other than to hint that they had recovered several types of alien craft, all in nonflying condition.

  Unlike his predecessors this President had wanted to know more, and he’d tapped Lisa Duncan to get that information for him when the presidential scientific-adviser slot had come open upon the death of the man who’d held it for thirty years. The President had listened to those who told him that there were rumors Majestic had more than just nonoperational craft at Area 51 and that he was being kept in the dark. He wanted the truth and Lisa Duncan was the one he had chosen to get it for him.

  Receiving the assignment, Duncan had gathered as much information as she could about MJ-12 and Area 51. One disturbing bit of information she was given by a senator, one of those who had pushed the President, indicated that MJ-12 had employed former Nazi scientists brought to America under the classified auspices of Operation Paperclip after the end of the Second World War.

  Sensing that she was going into unfriendly waters, Duncan had intercepted Turcotte a few weeks ago on his way to a security assignment at Area 51 and coopted him to spy for her before she traveled there for the first time.

  She had been shocked upon arrival at Area 51 to find out that MJ-12 was flying nine alien-made bouncers; disk-shaped craft that used the Earth’s magnetic field to power their engines. And that MJ-12 planned on flying the mothership, a massive craft capable of interstellar flight, hidden in a cavern inside Area 51.