by Stephen Moss
As he whispered to her, she saw it too.
He finished his point as she nodded gently, “America has just lost one president; they can’t afford to lose another. The economy is in freefall, the people are almost in open revolt. Given that, a president who, in the face of a war larger than anything any of us has ever known is more worried about his political career than listening to the people he knows full well have more information than him … such a man is worse than useless to us.”
He pulled back and looked into her eyes, only inches from her face.
“Ayala, it’s time to end this chapter in our work. I need you to arrange for my transport from DC to Sao Tome within the week. We have to assume Lana may be watching us, so I’ll need an escort from your team, and I should probably get one of those battleskin suits as well, just in case.”
She nodded her understanding, and Neal went on, “You mentioned to me that your team-lead Miller may have a way to entrap Lana. Get on it. Pick a representative to handle the transition to Crawley and then set it up. Once you have everything ready, call in John and Quavoce and proceed. Sao Tome is a veritable fortress now, and our Research Group is holed away enough to fend off any trouble while you bring an end to that almighty bitch. Once that is done, I need you out of the US.”
She looked at him. He was saying they were going to leave their single biggest ally to its own devices. The resignation she had seen in him had been his decision that he could no longer rely on America as his primary advocate. She looked at him, and realized the astonishing callousness it took to give up on a nation of over three hundred million people. But as she stared at him, a series of images came to mind: of the riots across the Midwest, of refugee camps, of empty, irradiated Eastern seaboard cities, of a closed stock exchange, and suspended trading in the face of a market in freefall.
She thought of these things, and she thought about Neal’s decision, and she knew he was right. It was time to leave.
- - -
In another part of the building, Jim Hacker sat and wrestled with his thoughts. He had seen the resignation in Neal’s eyes as well. He had seen it and it had saddened him. Not because it was unjust, but because, deep down, he could not disagree with it.
But he knew full well how badly the US still needed the support of Neal and his team. He thought of how the US needed access to the ever-greater technological leaps coming out of the Research Group’s laboratories. How they would need them to fight the coming Armada, of course, but also to win the fight for control of his own country.
If it could be won.
Jim Hacker cursed his role in it all, cursed the way his dedication to his work and his country had been repaid with this unholy mess. He looked for a way to continue to contribute. He looked for a way to help. Jim Hacker despaired at the future of America, and the future of the world, and deep in his heart he wondered which of them more pressingly needed his loyalty.
Chapter 21: Sierra Mike Whiskey Eleven
The Black Hawk came in to the helipad on the White House lawn on schedule, as it always did. When the chopper was still twenty feet from the ground, the twelve-person unit aboard it started leaping from its open doors. The black figures landed at speed and sprinted away on bionically assisted legs to replace one of the two units currently onsite at the White House. As they took up their positions, the units they were replacing took off at a run and boarded the helicopter. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds, and the big helicopter barely touched the ground. As the departing team leapt aboard, its engines were already throttling up to take it skyward once more.
Among the departing unit, Lieutenant Hektor Gruler took his place crouching amongst his teammates. Though at least four units were on permanent rotation now, and had been for a week, this was Hektor’s last time switching out. It had become clear after an initial push that all the actual White House guards would be sourced from American forces, and Hektor, who had been volunteered by the Deutsche Kommando Spezialkräfte, had joined his French, British, and Israeli counterparts in a series of wholly different exercises.
Then eleven of them had been tapped by the taskforce commander, Ben Miller, and been called to attend a briefing in the early hours of the morning. In the quiet of the predawn, they had been driven to the White House, and then they had broken into threes and quietly rotated out one of the units on guard there. For four hours they had sat in for the other team for the rest of their watch, as per their orders, and then they had boarded the helicopter in the morning just as a team would when going off watch.
They flew low and fast. Every flight path in and out of the White House was now randomly selected from a range of options, never offering a predictable target. But this one was unique in and of itself. About half a mile from the White House, it banked hard left and flew south. A mile later it was landing at the deserted Reagan Airport, closed to civilian traffic since the attack that had claimed the president’s life.
Hektor hesitated. Their orders had only included getting onto the helicopter, and they had assumed they would then be returned to the base. He had assumed that they were switching out the other unit so it could perform some other, more important task. It had seemed futile, but then so had calling in some of the very best soldiers from around the world, and then having them play second fiddle to the very people they were there to support.
It was all adding up to a very frustrating deployment for Hektor, despite the opportunity to wear the new power-assisted suits the Americans had access to. He had been one of the top hand-to-hand fighters in his unit back in Koln, and the misleadingly diminutive bulldog had become known by his unit as hektik for his slightly insane fighting style. He had hoped for active deployment, maybe in the Middle East, maybe in Eastern Europe. He had hoped for combat.
But Hektor was not the only one confused by what was happening, or by their landing spot. The pilot had only received his new destination in midair.
With a start, something in Hektor clicked, and he realized that there were too many people on the helicopter. There had been eleven of the black-clad soldiers at the briefing that morning … now there were twelve. He instinctively braced himself, sensing something was very wrong with what was happening.
“Unit Sierra Mike Whiskey, on me,” came across their comm links, and without further warning, one of the twelve black-clad men leapt from the chopper and started out across the short distance to a sleek black jet waiting a hundred feet away. Hektor watched him run, and saw that he was a little unsure of his footing. He was not used to the extra power the battleskin gave you. He had not practiced day-in day-out with the thrust and landing of a powered footfall. It did not take a genius to figure out that this was the unannounced addition to their ranks.
The rest of the team stepped from the helicopter warily, covering the ground in sweeps as they approached the plane’s hatchway. It lowered as they stepped closer, and a man in US Air Force uniform stepped out. The mysterious twelfth man stepped up to the bottom of the ladder and exchanged a few words with the man. Clearly getting the information he needed, he stepped lightly up the ladder and then turned to the team.
His voice came across the radio once more, “Gentlemen, if you will join me aboard, we will get going,” and with that the man disappeared into the plane’s cabin.
For want of something else to do, they began filing onto the plane, covering each other’s rear as a matter of course, and only lowering and flicking the safety of their stocky custom assault rifles once they were aboard. The Black Hawk was already airborne behind them banking away. The pilot’s confusion at what had just happened probably never to be sated, but soon to be lost among the sea of other strange goings-on around the capital.
Inside the cabin, the mysterious twelfth man removed his helmet and looked around his eleven cohorts as they lined the stark, black ribbed interior of the plane’s long, thin fuselage.
“Gentlemen, if you will safety and stow your weapons, and make yourselves comfortable, we will be taking
off shortly.” The man smiled with obvious pleasure at their confusion, but did not elaborate further.
There were no seats in the plane. It was a purely utilitarian interior. But with their suits, they did not need such comforts. Using the limited but adequate space available, they each either sat or lay out, leaning against the walls or each other, happy in far less commodious conditions than this from their years of hard training and less-than-glamorous deployments.
Glancing out the windows, Hektor watched as they approached the runway. We have an escort, he thought, as he saw the two F-22 jets waiting on either side of the broad jetway for their strange black jet to join them. So, whoever this man is, he warrants an air force escort, as well as eleven of the most highly trained and best equipped men in the world.
One had to be a little impressed.
The black jet pulled level with the F-22s, and with that, the two powerful jet fighters gunned their engines and surged forward, taking off in smooth unison less than eight seconds later. It was common for an escort to be airborne before its ward. In fact, they usually met in the air.
But this jet’s pilot was not going to wait for the F-22s to bank around and come back for him. He was not so meek. No sooner were the fighters off the ground than their own pilot engaged their jet’s mighty engines. The force with which the plane powered forward was phenomenal.
“What the f …” came over their radios before whoever had said it caught themselves.
They accelerated after the other fighters at astonishing speed, the men aboard sliding backward into each other as they scrambled to get a hold. Powerful black fingers and feet grasped at the ribs that ran along the inside of the plane, and soon they were pulling themselves into a semblance of order, but the pressure remained colossal, and they felt the plane lift into the air only seconds after it had gunned whatever demonic engines must be powering it.
In the cockpit, the pilot, one Major Jack Toranssen, laughed in spite of himself at the show of outrageous power from his new toy. It was the fifth time he had flown the plane, the first three being her maiden flights from the Research Group’s test facility; the fourth being the long haul to DC the previous night. By his side, Captain Jennifer Falster grinned broadly as well, sharing his joy at the power that the fusion thrusters Birgit Hauptman had designed gave them.
The F-22s had been surprised by the order to come to heading instead of looping back for the other plane. After all, they were here to escort this passenger jet, albeit an unusually sleek-looking one, so surely they should wait for it. So they throttled back on their engines once airborne, and waited politely for their ward to catch up.
“Escort Squadron, this is Sierra Mike Whiskey One,” said Jack, over the radio, “bring your course to 95 degrees, and climb to cruising altitude of 35,000 feet at 900 knots.”
“Sierra Mike Whiskey One, this is Escort Squadron, course 95 degrees, altitude 35,000 feet confirmed. Coming to new course now. We have you on our tail. Please confirm airspeed.” The two pilots shook off the strange request. Nine hundred knots was supersonic. It was within their planes’ abilities, but well outside their effective cruise speed.
Jack glanced at Jennifer as they came up on the two jets. The F-22s were flying about three hundred feet apart, per standard escort formation. They were climbing fast, already past 15,000 feet, and thrusting upward into the thinning air. But they were holding at 550 knots. The black jet slid between them, its jets hugging the rear part of its fuselage. If the pilots had been able to see the plane before taking off, their professional eyes might have seen that the jets were thinner than normal. If they had been able to see their air intakes up close, they would have seen no rotor, only ducts allowing air backward over a smooth, black cone.
As the jet drew level with them, they both glanced at it, and saw the strange-looking engines along its rear. The black cylinders mounted on its side were trailing two luminescent blue flames out of each black pod. Jack opened the comm again, some of his mirth coming through the line as he reiterated his orders, “Escort Squadron, this is Sierra Mike Whiskey One. Let me reiterate that airspeed, gentlemen. That’s nine … hundred … knots.”
And with that, Jack throttled up the two fusion jets powering the missile he called a plane, and the engines amped up their heat output, firing the air to cosmic temperatures. It was like he had opened up portals into the heart of a star, and the two thin blue flames flared sun-bright as the black jet rocketed forward. Stunned, the two fighter pilots gunned their engines and went off in pursuit, watching as the black wings on the animal in front of them slid gently inward, warping smoothly, as they formed into tight fins against the side of the plane’s fuselage.
Smoother, faster, the jet powered upward and eastward, the three planes announcing their departure from Virginia with a thunderous crack as they broached the sound barrier.
Back in the black jet’s sparse cabin, a grinning Neal Danielson spoke to his daunted colleagues at last.
“I am sorry to have sprung this on you, my friends. But we have some time before we reach our destination, and I promise you I will answer any and all questions I can. For now, I would like to start by telling you that you have been handpicked. You represent the most effective of our new shock troops, and therefore I have selfishly requested that you form the basis of a new team at our main location. I am Dr. Neal Danielson, the head of this taskforce, a taskforce which you are all going to become very familiar with over the next few months. For now, though, know that we are heading to Sao Tome, to the famous SpacePort One you have no doubt heard so much about.”
There were some stirs among the men at this news.
Neal went on, “Your personal effects are being gathered and will be sent on separately, and those of you that have families back in DC will be given the opportunity to bring them to Rolas Base once initial operations are set up and the base is secured.”
As he filled them in on their new assignment, including details of the training they were going to receive at the hands of Quavoce Mantil once onsite, the F-22s banked away from them, their job complete, their flight path already extending out over the Atlantic.
As their slower escorts left them, the black jet began to climb once more, up, into the stratosphere. They all felt it, and Neal explained, “Gentlemen, as you can no doubt tell we are climbing once more. The plane you are flying on is the first of its kind, but it will not be the last. It is called a StratoJet, and, like the suits you are wearing, it is a little special. We are currently climbing up out of the lower atmosphere, to a cruising altitude of 85,000 feet.”
A few helmets were coming off now, revealing surprised looks on the faces of the commandoes crammed into the tight cabin. Hektor was removing his, getting comfortable for the long flight to Africa.
“We are also still accelerating, though not as dramatically as when we took off.” Neal said with a smile he simply could not get under control.
“It is six thousand miles to our destination, my friends. A flight that would take a normal passenger jet twelve hours. Concorde could have done it in five …” they waited for the punch line and Neal paused a second to relish it.
Finally he said, with undisguised glee, “We will be there in two. Welcome to the StratoJet, my friends.”
- - -
Cutting a swathe through the jungle on the southern peninsula of Sao Tome, the long, broad airstrip ran almost from one side of the island to the other. Though the strip was actually north of the perimeter fence that isolated the southern tip of the island, landings were still strictly controlled. Jack knew he could have easily outrun the Typhoons that came to meet him, but he stayed within the stringent parameters laid out for him and landed at a leisurely 120 knots, his StratoJet’s wings now spread wide once more, after the stratospheric Mach 4 flight they had enjoyed.
Quavoce and General Milton greeted them at the landing strip. After saying hello to Neal, and exchanging a heartfelt reunion with Jack and Jennifer, Quavoce turned to the eleven black suits beh
ind them. While the general guided the other three to a jeep, Quavoce walked along the line of men and greeted each of them by name.
On the plane ride down there, Neal had told them that they would be falling under the supervision of a Brazilian major by the name of Garrincha when they arrived at their destination, and that they should prepare for a very rigorous regimen indeed.
Quavoce did indeed have a strict training program planned for them. Though the battleskins vastly magnified their wearers’ strength, in the end they were only an extension of the wearer’s own skill, and Quavoce intended to expand that skill significantly.
Hektor did not realize it, but everything he had learned about hand-to-hand combat was about to be turned on its head. With Amadeu’s help, Quavoce was going to wire these men into their suits and expand their understanding of what their bodies were capable of. Without further ceremony, he ushered them aboard a truck and took them to their barracks.
Ahead of them, Neal, Jack, Barrett, and Jennifer were approaching the first gate on their way into the compound. In the front seats, the general explained to his longtime prodigy Major Toranssen the details of the security procedures they had put in place.
In the backseats, Neal turned to Jennifer, “We haven’t really spent much time together, Captain Falster.”
The statement seemed open-ended, but Neal left it there.
Jennifer filled in for him, “No, sir. Your colleagues Major Toranssen and Ms. Cavanagh have kept me very busy over the last few months.”
He felt like she had been about to say the word ‘since,’ and he knew what she would have been referring to. Since she had been kidnapped. Since her partner had been killed in the dogfight that had also claimed Neal’s friend Martin. Since she had come within a hair’s breadth of an ignominious end in a dungeon in Iran. Did she know that Neal had been the one who had come up with the plan for that mission? Did she know he had ordered it?
