by Bob Mayer
Fort Campbell Post Headquarters
_7:14 A.M._ The phone call from Agent Freeman of the Nashville Defense Intelligence Agency regional office had been logged in by the Fort Campbell staff duty officer (SDO) at 6:46 A.M. Since that time, the SDO, Major Johnson, had spent twenty-five fruitless minutes trying to track down someone who could act on the message he had been given. This Freeman fellow could not have picked a worse time to call, Johnson fumed. At the present moment, almost every soldier on Fort Campbell was out doing morning physical fitness training. Fort Campbell was home to almost twenty-three thousand soldiers, including the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Division, the 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne), and the Headquarters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Straddling the Tennessee-Kentucky border, the sprawling 105,000-acre military reservation was fifty-five miles northwest of Nashville. The main post was on the eastern end of the reservation; the western end of the Fort Campbell training area came within nine miles of site seven. Because of the fort's location, it had been designated by the DIA to supply the emergency response force for any incidents involving site seven along with several other sites in Tennessee and Kentucky. At the present moment, it wasn't doing a very good job of fulfilling that mission. Major Johnson knew nothing about the alert code words that Freeman had relayed to him. Johnson was a field artillery officer who pulled SDO every few months on a rotating roster. His SDO instruction book directed him to contact someone at the post's Directorate of Plans and Training Management (DPTM) in response to such a call from the DIA. Unfortunately, no one was answering the phone. Johnson knew that the military members of DPTM were out doing physical training and probably wouldn't be in until about nine. The civilian workers were still making their way onto post for their 8 A.M. work call. Johnson kept ringing the DPTM number every three minutes, hoping that sooner or later -- hopefully sooner -- someone would answer. Until then there was nothing else he could do. He had already rung up the on-call person listed in his instruction book, only to be told by a grumpy wife that her husband had left home for physical training a half hour ago. Johnson looked at the message he had written in his duty log: _Site Seven. Priority One Alert. Reference DIA Contingency Plan One Seven._ Johnson was smart enough to realize that anything labeled "Priority One Alert" had to be serious, which was why he swore every time he called DPTM and didn't get an answer. Finally, at 0716, the line was lifted on the other end. * * * *
Biotech Engineering
_7:18 A.M._ Ward checked the azimuth on the portable computer screen one last time, then drew a pencil line across the topographic map. The mark went west from the lab site toward Lake Barkley and the Land Between the Lakes recreation area on the far side of the lake. "They're along this line, which means that they weren't taken or else they certainly would be farther away. They must have killed all the men who were trying to take them." Ward pointed at the map. "They're in an uninhabited area. There's nothing between here and the lake. They aren't in a position to hurt anyone. I was right not to terminate them." He looked up at Merrit. She looked more pale than usual. The sight of the two dead men, seen when they had gone downstairs to pick up the transponder, had stunned her into sickness. She responded quietly to Ward's reasoning. "As long as they stay where they are, they most likely won't be a problem. But we still must terminate them." Ward ignored her and focused on the green screen of the computer. The antenna on the roof was picking up the signal emitted by the small radio transceivers built into the collars that the Synbats wore. Since only one azimuth was being displayed, the four Synbats were together. The number had not changed at all, which meant that they were either sitting still or moving in an exact straight line away from the lab. Ward suspected the former. Based on the strength of the signal, the computer estimated that they were within five kilometers of the lab. Ward was confident that once Freeman got here with some of his people, they would be able to track down the Synbats. Of course, that would be after he got through explaining to Freeman why he hadn't terminated as ordered. Confronting Freeman didn't worry Ward very much. He was more concerned about whoever flew in later today from D.C. representing General Trollers. Then there would probably be some questions asked that Ward didn't particularly want to answer. The only thing he could use in his defense was the argument that security was the DIA's responsibility, not his. With that thought still foremost in his mind, Ward heard the distant chatter of helicopter blades pulse through the walls of the building. He got up from the desk, gesturing for Merrit to take his place. "Monitor the computer. Let me know if they move." He made his way to the front door and unlocked it. A small civilian helicopter swung around and slowly descended into the parking lot. A tall black man with a briefcase got out and ran over to Ward's location. The helicopter immediately lifted and flew off to the south. The site chief stuck out his hand. "Doctor Ward." The DIA agent returned the handshake. "Agent Freeman. Let's go inside." As soon as they stepped inside, Freeman walked over to the body and knelt down. He stared at it for a while, then finally stood, going with Ward to the security console. Merrit stood up to meet the two approaching men and Ward made the introductions. "Agent Freeman, this is Doctor Merrit. She's my primary assistant here at Biotech." Freeman briefly shook her hand and then looked at Ward. "Give me an update on what you have." Ward gestured at the desktop. "We've got their azimuth. I've hooked up the portable computer to the cable from the roof antenna." He pointed at the topographical map. "They're somewhere along this line, between here and the lake and not moving. Less than five kilometers away." Freeman nodded, a slight look of relief softening his face. "So they're still in the vicinity. Good. All we have to do now is go in and scoop up the bodies." Ward briefly glanced at Merrit, then returned his attention to the DIA agent. "I've got tranquilizer guns down in the lab that we've used to -- " Freeman cut him off. "What do you mean, tranquilizer guns? They're supposed to be dead." Ward faced the larger man. "I didn't terminate them. They're too valuable to waste." He held up a hand to forestall Freeman's reaction. "They're one of a kind. I'm not sure we could ever produce such creatures again. We need data we can only get from them alive." He stabbed a finger at the map. "They're in an uninhabited area. We go out and tranquilize them and bring them back." "I told you to terminate." Freeman pulled a folder marked top secret out of his briefcase and slapped it on the desktop. "This is what you agreed to with my predecessor when you set up this place. It was one of the security stipulations behind this project. It's not a decision you and I can make. It's a requirement." Another thought struck Freeman as he remembered something from the file he'd read on the flight here. "What about the backpacks?" Ward sighed. "They're gone. The backpacks need to be kept below freezing to remain static. As soon as they get above freezing they will begin to initiate. Outside the controlled environment of the lab, I doubt that will happen successfully. Which makes it even more imperative that we get the Synbats back alive." Freeman was working himself into real anger. "You didn't tell me that the backpacks were gone too! That should have been in your phone call. That makes it all the more important you terminate." Freeman took a step closer to Ward. "Terminate them now." Ward stood his ground. "No." "I'll do it." The two men swung around in surprise. Merrit sat in front of the portable computer. "You can't!" cried Ward, reaching toward her. Freeman reached out one massive hand and grabbed Ward's arm in a vicelike grip. "Leave her alone." Merrit looked at Ward, her face set. "After seeing those bodies, we can't allow them to run around out there. We don't know what they're capable of. We can't take the chance." Ward and Freeman looked over Merrit's shoulder as she entered her level four authorization and the screen glowed with the final termination prompt.
TERMINATION REQUIRES LEVEL FOUR
AUTHORIZATION.
ENTER LEVEL FOUR CODE:
Merrit's fingers flashed across the keyboard: PARLOR CRISIS. The screen cleared and then new words formed:
TARGETS ARE ON AZIMUTH OF
202 DEGREES MAGNETIC.
ENTER TERMINATION CODE W
ORD:
Merrit looked up briefly and then tapped in eight letters, replacing the empty spaces one by one: CAULDRON. * * * *
Her right index finger slid over the keyboard and hovered above the ENTER key. Merrit never even looked up at Doctor Ward as she hit the key. The electronic message was beamed from the antenna on the roof to the radio transceiver in the collars. The transceiver tripped a fuse that ignited the explosive charge built into the radio collars. The azimuth on the screen disappeared as the homing devices were destroyed along with the collars.
Freeman released Ward. The Biotech chief slumped wearily down into a chair. It was all over now. Nothing left to do but collect the pieces. Freeman headed out to the front door. "Let's get the lobby cleaned up before we start receiving visitors." * * * *
Fort Campbell
_7:34 A.M._ Once the alert reached the full colonel in charge of DPTM, the reaction process speeded up. The colonel, still wearing his sweat-soaked PT uniform, opened up his office safe and pulled out the classified DIA contingency files. He leafed through until he found plan 17. There wasn't much information -- just a few basic instructions. The plan called for a small armed reaction force to be airlifted to a grid coordinate just to the west of the Fort Campbell Military Reservation. The colonel frowned at the requirement for all personnel involved to have security clearances. That ruled out sending a squad or platoon of infantry from the 101st. The colonel picked up his phone and dialed five numbers. The commander of the 5th Special Forces Group answered the phone on the first ring. "Colonel Hossey," the stocky officer growled into the phone. Since breaking his left arm on a parachute operation a month ago, Hossey had been using the PT hour to finish some of his daily paperwork. That freed up time later in the day for physical therapy at the hospital, but it didn't do much to improve his normally gruff temperament. "Karl, this is Mike Lewis over at DPTM. I've got a priority alert from the Defense Intelligence Agency in Nashville and I need to borrow some of your soldiers." Hossey frowned. "What for?" "We're not cleared to know that. All I've got is the alert and a contingency plan tasking for a squad-sized element -- all of whom must have at least secret level clearances -- to get on helicopters as soon as possible and be airlifted to a set of coordinates. I'm also not cleared to give you the location. We're behind the power curve timewise reacting to this because of screwups on my end, so I'd appreciate it if you could put this together as soon as possible. I've already alerted a couple of choppers and they'll be at PZ twelve by 0800." Bullshit, was Hossey's unspoken reaction. In his book DIA meant dumb insolent assholes because of previous encounters over a twenty-four-year career. Bullshit, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. His men had been used on more than one classified reaction mission since he'd been in command, and one of the banes of commanding a Special Forces unit was that even the commander sometimes didn't know what his own men were doing. And Hossey had firsthand knowledge of what could happen when a commander didn't keep personal track of his men. He had learned that harsh lesson in his previous command of the Special Forces Detachment in Korea; memory of that fiasco made his blood pressure rise every time he got a message like the one that had just been relayed. "All right. I'll get you a team." Hossey looked at the clock and calculated. "I'll have them armed and at PZ twelve in twenty minutes. Anything special they need to know?" "Not as far as I know. The plan says just that they need to be armed with live ammo." "All right. Out here." Hossey slammed down the phone and thought for a second. He picked up his phone again and dialed the headquarters of his 3d Battalion.
* * *
*Chapter 3* _Fort Campbell Operations Shop, 3d Battalion,_ _5th Special Forces Group (Airborne)_ _7:35 A.M._ "Shit," the burly soldier muttered, stretching out his left leg straight from the seat. In spite of the pain, he worked the knee -- bending and straightening it -- for twenty more seconds as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The doctor had told him not to move the knee for another two weeks, but he was damned if he'd sit here on his rear any longer than he had to. The buzz of the secure STU III phone interrupted the regime. A large gnarled hand shot out and curled around the receiver. "3302. Sergeant Major Powers. This line is unsecure, sir." "Powers, this is Colonel Hossey. Go secure." There was a pause as Powers pushed the button on his phone, then the colonel's voice continued. "Dan, I want a team at PZ twelve in nineteen minutes. They need to be armed and ready for a deployment. Have them draw a basic load of live ammunition from the arms room. Got that?" "Yes, sir." "There'll be two choppers landing at that time to take the team to an LZ where they will be opcon to someone from the DIA. That's all I have, so don't bother asking any questions." Powers smiled briefly. He liked Colonel Hossey; he was old school army, not one of this new breed of ass-kissing political officers whom he seemed to be encountering with more frequency. "Yes, sir. One team, armed, basic load, PZ twelve, eighteen minutes, opcon to DIA at the LZ." "Good," Hossey's voice rumbled. "And Dan..." "Yes, sir?" "I want you to send good people and I don't want to lose track of whoever you pick. You understand what I mean?" "Yes, sir. I stay in contact with all my teams. It's SOP." "Good. Out here." Powers put down the phone. He looked out the window next to his desk onto the large field that stretched behind the headquarters and separated the buildings housing the team rooms for 2d and 3d battalions. Despite the wet ground and moisture in the air, Powers could see several teams out there doing exercises in clumps of eight to twelve men each. Powers scanned the groups until his eyes came to rest on one where the men were lined up in two rows of five, paired off facing each other. The men were wearing fatigues; their rucksacks lay on the ground nearby. One of the soldiers stepped forward toward his partner and, with movements too quick to follow, swept his opponent off his feet, slamming him into the ground. Powers smiled for the second time this morning. He knew who had done that move and he knew he now had the perfect choice for this tasking -- a choice that Colonel Hossey would definitely approve. Powers focused in on the man, who was now kneeling on the other soldier's chest. He was talking to the soldiers gathered around, making a point. Powers didn't have to be any closer to recognize that figure. Back when Powers had been a master sergeant on a 7th Special Forces Group A Team at Fort Bragg, that man, Dave Riley, had been his team leader for two years. Not only had the two served together, but Riley had also been his best friend. During a mission to Colombia against the drug cartel, Riley had saved Powers's life. Powers wasn't an overly emotional man, but he had a special place in his heart for the wiry, half Irish, half Puerto Rican warrant officer. Powers yelled for the battalion staff duty NCO and gave some quick instructions. Then the sergeant major jerked to his feet and limped for the door, ignoring the crutches that the doctor had ordered him to use. He slammed open the heavy metal door to the rear of the building and stood on the loading platform. His knee on Doc Seay's skinny chest, CWO2 Dave Riley finished his open-hand strike a fraction of an inch above the medic's neck. Riley glanced around at his team. "Always finish the man off while you have the chance. There's no such thing as a fair fight. Your goal is..." He paused as he recognized the voice that rumbled across the parade field, calling out his name. Riley popped to his feet. "Doc, take over. Practice leg sweeps." The warrant officer turned and jogged toward battalion headquarters, where he could see the sergeant major leaning against the back wall, favoring his bad leg. Riley shook his head. Dumb son of a bitch wasn't using his crutches like he was supposed to. Riley loved the old NCO like a brother, but the guy sure could be pigheaded at times. Riley had once heard the 5th Special Forces Group surgeon hold forth on theories regarding Special Forces soldiers and their various injuries. The man had compared being in Special Forces to playing professional football with regard to frequency and severity of injuries, particularly to joints. Knees were usually the first victims of an intense lifestyle that included such activities as parachuting, rucksacking with hundred-pound packs, hand-to-hand combat, and physical training seven times a week when not deployed, not to mention the potential of getting wounded or killed on a mis
sion. As Riley drew near his former team sergeant, he reflected on the fact that a professional athlete was considered ancient if he or she was over thirty. Yet here was Powers, forty-seven years old, and coming off his third major knee operation, still trying to get back in shape so he could return to the real world of operational missions rather than filling time working in the battalion operations shop. It certainly wasn't because Powers was making four million dollars a year like Joe Montana. It was because Powers was like the majority of Special Forces men -- a dedicated professional who believed in what he was doing. As he lightly sprinted up the metal steps to the platform, Riley felt a twinge from the puckered scars on his lower right abdomen and upper right back: entry and exit holes from two AK-47 rounds. They were reminders of a classified mission years ago on the other side of the world -- his own physical sacrifice. He came to a halt in front of the sergeant major, who towered over him. "What's up, Dan?" Powers didn't waste any time. "You've got sixteen minutes to have your team ready to board two inbound birds here at the PZ. Rucksacks ready for deployment, personal weapons, and basic load. I already got the SDNCO tracking down the armorer, so the arms room will be open in a couple of minutes. The birds will fly you to an LZ where you'll be opconned to some DIA wienie. I got that straight from the group commander on the secure line two minutes ago." "Anything else I need to know?" Powers leaned forward. "Just remember our SOP about staying in touch." He reached out a hand and shook Riley's. "I'll take care of this end. Good luck, compadre." * * * *
