“What about the other four aircraft?”
“Lost or unavailable,” Lynche said quickly.
Hunter didn’t flinch or change his expression, but McGee heard something in Lynche's quick, almost-dismissive comment.
The four-star general faced the CIA man. “I think that’s a great idea, and it solves a lot of problems. Rob, if we could get your aircraft on loan, we’ll work getting the others out of the museums and from NASA.” He looked at Lynche. “I take it you’d want them to come here?”
“We don’t want to advertise the fact that those aircraft are being restored. This is a secured facility with cleared personnel. Saul, we could expedite the resto-mods?”
”We could put all new wiring with new glass cockpits,” Saul Ferrier said. “You’d need to select which FLIR you want and any other extra systems, like GPS, encrypted comm, radar hazard and warning. Someone will need to provide a requirements document.”
Excitement rose among the men around the table.
“How do we get them to Afghanistan?” the four-star general asked. “They can’t fly there.”
“These are basic, very special gliders,” Ferrier said. “The wings can be removed or installed inside twenty minutes. They travel in a trailer or shipping container.”
“Unless someone has other questions,” the four-star general said, “I say we have work to do.” He stood, as did the others.
The men exchanged good-byes, and the CIA man and the general led the congregation to their jets.
Lynche turned to Hunter. “I can’t believe you were reading National Geographic during this. Were there pictures of naked Liberian women in it?”
“You wish. OK, get this. There’s an article in here about how the ozone layer has become so big that the tip of South America, the region called Patagonia, is experiencing significant plant damage from the additional UV that isn’t being filtered out.”
Lynche sighed, closed his eyes, and said, “He’s doing it again.”
McGee and Ferrier were confused. “What?” they asked simultaneously.
“High levels of UV kill or maim plants, even the hardiest ones in Patagonia,” Hunter explained. “Why couldn’t we use a UV laser to kill or maim poppies in Afghanistan at night with a Night Rider? We could hit cocoa or marijuana, too.”
The three men stared at him, trying to find words to respond.
After ten seconds, McGee said, “That’s brilliant. I don’t know what else to say. That is positively brilliant.”
“I have to agree,” Ferrier said. “That’s a very interesting concept. Wouldn’t take long to determine if someone else thought of it and patented it.”
Lynche shook his head. “He does this shit to me all the time, but I have to admit this one sounds incredibly interesting. How’d you come up with that?”
“I had a physics professor who asked, ‘How do you make a black hole using the escape velocity equation?’”
The three men stared at him, waiting for the rest of the story.
Hunter walked to the blackboard. “It goes something like this. Escape velocity is….” He wrote the equasion on the board.
“G is the universal gravitational constant, M the mass of the earth, and r is the distance from the center of gravity of the earth.”
Ferrier, the engineer, nodded. “That looks right.”
All three wondered how that connected with UV lasers and quiet airplanes.
“Something that isn’t obvious is that black holes supposedly exist when light can’t escape the gravitational pull of whatever you’re trying to escape from. In this case, it’s the earth. I told my physics professor that if we make V sub e equal to C, the speed of light, then the mass of a photon probably couldn’t escape the gravitational pull.
“Since the other values are also constants, you turn the crank and do the math to solve for r, the only variable. So for the radius of the earth, if it were a black hole and weighed what it does today, it calculates to be the size of a medicine ball. Or something bigger than a breadbox.
“Anyway, I was thinking there had to be a similar equation that calculates the probability of kill based on some constants of dosage, dwell, and power. Move some figures around, and I think we could kill bad plants with high levels of UV. It’s a function of power and maybe the type of UV. I know UV-C is lethal. Since UV’s invisible to the eye, we could zap poppies at night, and no one would know we were there if we used a quiet airplane. The more I think of it, we wouldn’t have to kill or torch them. I’ll bet we could make them so sick, they couldn’t bloom. A kill is a kill.”
McGee shook his head and laughed. “Wow. That’s amazing, Hunter.” He turned to Lynche. “I asked Security to check out Duncan after we met. They pulled his military records and said he had a GT score of 154. No one ever saw that before and thought it was a misprint. It’s pure fucking genius. That’s what I just saw, and I still can’t believe it. That’s impressive, Sir.”
“Only Duncan could go from ozone holes to black holes to killing poppies,” Lynche said. “Hey, I just got it! Ozone holes to black holes. Black holes was an out-of-the-box solution, and so was the ozone hole. I think…”
Hunter looked a bit embarrassed. “Thank you, Sir. I have to say it was the easiest A I ever got in college. Dr. Simmons was so impressed by my answer, he said I just earned an A for the class. I thought he was BSing me, but he wasn’t.”
“Speaking of which,” McGee said, “we have class tomorrow. What do you say you give that big brain of yours a rest, and I sit up front on the way back?”
Hunter gave a thumbs-up. Lynche grinned, and Ferrier smiled, shaking his head.
As the three men bid the Schweizer CEO farewell, they left the warm office building for 10°F sunshine and wind, walking quickly to the Skymaster. Lynche tossed his coat in the back seat and took the left seat to begin the checklists, while Hunter retrieved all the red engines covers and pulled the chocks. McGee waited outside until Hunter finished.
Hunter and McGee got in, tossing their coats into the back seat. Lynche started the engines, called Ground for taxi clearance, taxied to the hold short, set the GPS for Newport return, and received clearance.
“What do you think if we call it Weedbusters?” Hunter asked suddenly.
McGee turned with a big smile. “That has a nice ring to it. Now I’ll have, ‘Who you gonna call? Weed…busters,’ running through my head for the next week.”
Lynche took off. “Look for sailplanes. Sometimes they’re thick, but it might be too cold for flying. No heaters in a glider.” He pointed out Harris Hill and the National Soaring Museum. “Your airplane.”
McGee learned quickly and said, “My airplane,” as his hands went to the yoke.
Over the interphone, Lynche said, “That was a lot easier than I expected. I’m not sure what else there is for us to do if Rob and Jones can work out a deal to support Bill’s folks in the field. I’ll see Rob this week at the yacht club and give you a status report. Bill, you might give it a couple days and ask your guys if everything’s going well.”
“This is so cool!” McGee said. “I never sat in the pilot’s seat before. I appreciate your letting me fly.”
As McGee piloted the Skymaster, Lynche showed him the instruments and the communication and navigation systems.
Hunter turned down the volume of the Bose noise-canceling headset and closed his eyes.
After scanning the horizon for traffic, Lynche glanced in the mirror and saw Hunter sleeping. “I guess using all that brainpower at one time is exhausting.”
McGee, glancing back, saw Hunter raise his middle finger without opening his eyes. He smiled and said to Lynche, “I never expected to be doing anything like this. It’s amazing what happens when you’re around Duncan.”
“You have no idea.”
As Lynche gently bounced them to a landing, he told McGee, “I have to be careful when Duncan lands. He’s so used to slamming an aircraft down on the carrier deck, I think he sometimes forgets he’s
in a Cessna, not a Phantom.”
“Oh, yeah. They’re so similar.” All three men smiled like fools.
Ninety seconds after clearing the runway, Lynche parked in front of the FBO and set the front engine at idle with the prop feathered. Hunter and McGee said good-bye and crawled out of the airplane. Lynche checked the door was closed, waved, and powered away toward the runway.
Hunter and McGee went toward the double doors of the FBO to use the bathroom. They chatted as they walked toward their vehicles. Hunter saluted, as McGee suddenly disappeared out of sight between two cars.
Thinking his friend had fallen, Hunter raced around his car and saw him on his knees, studying the Riviera’s underside.
“Old habits die hard,” McGee explained. “You can never be sure if some husband or boyfriend would like to see me blown to pieces. I always check when I leave a vehicle parked for an extended period.” He moved from the right rear to the right front, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
“That’s smart,” Hunter said. “I recall discussing doing that during SERE but never thought I needed to.”
“Survival strategies, Duncan. In my line of work, they saved several guys here and overseas.” After checking the left front wheel well, McGee stood, unlocked the car, and started to slide in. “It’s too cold. I had a great time, Duncan. See you tomorrow.”
Hunter waited outside his car, as the Riviera drove off. He paused, he looked around the parking lot before he dropped to hands and knees to take a cold, hard look at the race car’s underside. “I’d know if I found something.”
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he got in and started the low-slung beast. The engine rumbled softly, as huge volumes of hot gasses roiled from the dual exhaust in the subfreezing air, nearly enveloping the car in steam.
At the far end of the parking lot, a nasty-looking Honda with bad blue paint started its engine, too.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1000 December 17, 2002 Scout Sniper School Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, California
“Sir, he’s a natural shooter. We’ve seen a bunch of great shooters over the years come through here, but, as you know, some don’t get the conceal-and-maneuver phase and wash out. He’s struggling a little with C&M, because it’s hard to hide when you’re six-eight, but I thought he’d be OK. He’s working hard, and you know we work with the ones who come close.
“The lad almost broke the all-time long-range record of seventy-two consecutive bulls’ eyes at 1,000 yards at the West Coast meet last week. He was simply incredible. He hit seventy consecutive and won three gold medals, including overall champion.
“I don’t know what to make of this report. It seems Miller is being investigated by the FBI for trying to locate and purchase a….” He checked his notes. “…a Unique Alpine TPG-1 with an integrally silenced barrel.”
“Is it against the law to look for or purchase a sniper rifle?”
“Sir, that’s a yes-and-no answer. It’s not against the law to look at sniper rifles, as the basic weapon is considered a standard target rifle, chambered for a .338 or a magnum round where the ammo is commercially purchased.”
“But…?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s against the law to purchase silenced weapons and especially silencers. Guys go to jail for attempting to buy or make them.”
“Ah. Well. Recommendations, Gunny?”
“Sir, he’s almost finished with the program. Graduation is next week. He’s being investigated and will have to answer some questions. The FBI might not think anything of it, since these guys are being trained as scout snipers. Everyone here loves finely crafted, precision firearms. Half of this group are part-time armorers.
“On the other hand, there may be some imaginary line he crossed that makes him a person of interest. We’ll have to work with him a little on concealment and maneuver, but he could be the greatest long-distance Marine scout sniper we ever produced.”
“Gunny, I know you’ll hate to lose him. Pull him off the program and assign him to the barracks until we get a read from the FBI.”
“Wilco, Skipper,” he said, feeling exasperated.
“Guns, I’ll talk to Legal and see what else we need to do. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
0200L January 15, 2003
White Mountains, Afghanistan
SEAL Team Six-Blue fanned out over the rocky terrain, night-vision goggles suspended in front of their eyes, scanning the mountaintop at 15,000 feet and three feet of snow. Video feed from the Schweizer Night Rider low-noise-profile aircraft, operated by a CIA Air Branch aircrew, provided the team wide-ranging thermal imaging of the battle space.
An Air Force AC-130 Spectre was on station twelve miles away in audio contact with the SEAL radioman and Night Rider. A dozen targets, probably Taliban and al-Qaeda, were on the back side of the mountain, trying to make tea and settle in for sleep. No one was at the top of the mountain, as that would silhouette them for snipers with night-vision scopes.
The sensor operator from the SA2-37B Night Rider broke the silence in the radioman’s headset. “Apache, all known seven lookouts are on the north side having tea.”
The radioman clicked the microphone twice to indicate acknowledgement.
The Tora Bora cave complex, locally known as Spin Ghar, was heavily protected from above and below by 300 Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters. This mountain had a dozen, while the surrounding hills had ten or more. The closer one flew toward Tora Bora, the more fighters were waiting and watching for US forces.
The group having tea was the first line of defense for protecting Black Cave and the Tora Bora entrance. The fifteen members of SEAL Team Six-Blue, code named Apache, led by twenty-two-year veteran Commander Robert “Roberto” Garcia, flew in from Kandahar to the base of the White Mountains by a single MH-47 Chinook, call sign Cochise, from the 160th SOAR.
Two days of concealed movement in their German military snow-camo gear brought them to the point of surprising the lookout team and trying to snatch the leaders for interrogation. The sensor operator in the Night Rider had a lock on which image was probably the leader. Even through the milky white images, it was clear which man commanded the most respect. The airborne eyeball provided the shooters on the ground a running dialog about where the other men were in proximity to their leader.
Apache’s radioman, Dash 5, provided hand and arm signals to the main assault party. A raised index finger indicated priority one, the leader, then he told the others where the rest of the Taliban were. The smell of tea and unwashed Afghanis drifted toward the SEAL team, which was downwind.
Five SEALs crept into position, strung out from the edge of a boulder to the top of the mountain, their Tasers armed. The sensor operator from the Night Rider said, “Perfect placement.”
Dash 5 clicked the interphone system in each SEAL’s helmet three times, twice, then once.
Backed by five SEALs with silenced M-4s, five men simultaneously stepped from their concealed positions and fired Tasers into five surprised Taliban. The compressed nitrogen propellant ejected two bared darts that tore through the men’s kurtas and slammed into their chests, sending 50,000 volts from the pistol grips. The insulated wires from the handgrips delivered a sizzling pulse of electricity, incapacitating the Afghanis’ neuromuscular capability in microseconds.
All five Tasers hit the startled men center mass simultaneously, rendering them momentarily unconscious. The two sleeping Taliban never woke. The two nearest SEALs double-tapped the men’s heads with silenced Glocks. Contrary to what many thought, suppressed pistols were still very audible. At night, even a silenced weapon could be heard at great distances.
The SEALs employed a top-secret active noise-canceling system that effectively neutralized any sound coming from their silenced pistols. Flexible sensors weaved into the materials of their uniform forearms and chest protectors analyzed the sound from a noise source and generated another sound
exactly out of phase with the incoming sound waves. The result was that a silenced Glock produced a personal sound shadow in which everything but the unwanted noise was audible. The SEALs called it Pop Stop.
The SEAL shooters holstered their Tasers and moved quickly to bind the Talibans’ hands behind their backs with zip-cuffs and bound their feet with zip-ties. Duct tape strips were roughly placed over their mouths and beards.
Once all the Taliban were fully functional with eyes open, another SEAL injected a sedative into each man’s arm. Another SEAL placed a black hood over their captives’ heads.
In seconds, the trussed Taliban were sleeping. “Everyone OK?” Night Rider asked.
The radioman replied with a double click.
Commander Garcia ascertained that the op had gone according to plan, with five Taliban bundled for shipment to Kandahar. He flipped up his NVGs and jerked up the hoods of the sleeping prisoners for a closer look.
Twelve minutes after Apache clicked “go,” Commander Garcia radioed Cochise they were ready for extraction. Night Rider monitored the other outposts, as Cochise closed on the pickup point.
Aboard the helicopter, Commander Garcia moved to the front of the helicopter and handed the pilot a note to transmit to the command post, which read, One Sierra, four Alphas. They had one Saudi and four al-Qaeda, not Taliban.
Apache radioed Night Rider. “Thanks for the great support, November Romeo. I hope we get to work with you again in the near future. My skipper was very impressed and wanted me to tell you, ‘Nice job.’”
“Our pleasure,” Night Rider replied. “Know we got you on tape. It’ll be at the JSOC tent tomorrow if you want it. Safe travels, Apache, and Godspeed.”
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