Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Go ahead.”

  Soames found the canopy control and raised the rear canopy. Desert air, surprisingly cool, rushed in. It felt dry, but after his years in the Southwest, not uncomfortably so.

  A couple of Chadians, Soames didn’t know whether or not they were military, directed them into parking places.

  “Damn,” Brabham said. “They’re only giving us two helpers? I’m the only mechanic here.”

  “But the best one,” Soames reminded him.

  “Goes without saying,” Brabham said.

  After Nackerman shut down, the four of them unstrapped and took turns descending to the ground.

  Brabham rubbed the toe of his polished and worn cowboy boot over the surface of the asphalt. There was a heavy coating of sand on it.

  “First thing, I’ve got to get the intakes and exhaust covered. Close the canopies. Otherwise, we’ll be taking this desert along with us.”

  The protective covers were aboard the transports, Soames knew.

  “You want my flight suit for that, Tex?” he asked.

  “Naw. These guys’re bound to have some canvas around somewhere.”

  Brabham walked off to meet the Chadians.

  Soames stretched his arms out and took a deep breath.

  “I may be getting too old for this, Kim.”

  “Can’t see it, A.J. You like hot airplanes and strange new air fields too much.”

  “I like showers, too.”

  Nackerman, Kimball, and Soames started walking back toward the hangars they had passed.

  “You’d think somebody would have sent a car or a bus,” Nackerman said.

  Soames told him, “You can bet there was a Frenchman in charge of ground transportation.”

  *

  At six o’clock in the morning, which was not an unusual time for him to be up and around, Major General Brock Dixon stopped on his way to work at his nearby 7-Eleven. He went inside and bought a large, hot, and black coffee.

  He carried it and a morning Post outside, skipped getting into his Buick, and went to the end of the building to lean against the brick exterior. He sipped from the cup and leafed through the first section.

  All around him, Alexandria was coming awake. The traffic on the streets was picking up.

  At 6:06 A.M., the phone rang, and he reached into the bubble and picked it up.

  “Six-oh-six,” he said, checking his watch. It was six minutes after eleven in Chad.

  “Cable car,” Crider told him.

  “Status?”

  “All the players are here.”

  “And the condition?”

  “I think they all look good.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dixon said. “There should be an accident.”

  “Fatal?”

  “Of course not. But embarrassing would be all right.”

  “One embarrassing event coming up,” Crider said and hung up.

  Kimball was tired, but not sleepy, and he spent the morning in his hotel having breakfast and getting cleaned up. The hotel was bare bones, but presentable, and the menu had a Continental flair to it.

  His room had a telephone and a radio, but no television. The radio lacked a tuning knob, and the station it was locked into broadcast staccato Arabic.

  He was rereading his fact sheet in preparation for the afternoon meeting with the defense ministry officials when the phone rang.

  He picked it up. The connection was weak, and he found he had to double his volume.

  “Kimball.”

  “H’lo.” Almost unheard.

  “Kimball,” he said louder.

  “It’s Susan”

  “Hi, boss lady. What’s up?”

  “Everything is fine here, Kim. 1 wanted to make sure you’d arrived all right.”

  “Now, mother …”

  “Don’t give me that. I’m not asking for much, and some of the wives have been calling.”

  “All personnel are healthy and present. We went through Atlanta just as planned. Equipment-wise, we had one hydraulic leak, and that was on a Starlifter. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. He had to strain to hear her. “How’s Sam Eddy?”

  She could have called McEntire directly, but Kimball didn’t mention it.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Good. Call me tomorrow, after the demonstration.” He sighed, remembering his collegiate days, when his mother had insisted on a call a week since he wasn’t writing letters. His parents were both dead now, and every once in a while, he regretted some of those missed phone calls.

  Kimball left the hotel at noon, still feeling some of the effects of jet lag, and shared a cab with McEntire out to the airport.

  “Susie called.”

  “Oh. Any particular reason?”

  “Wanted to know if we made it.”

  “We did,” McEntire grinned.

  “Wanted to know how you were.”

  “And you told her?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re a terrific observer, Kim.”

  McEntire obviously wasn’t going to get into personal discussions, and Kimball wasn’t going to probe any deeper. They talked tactics for the rest of the trip to the airport.

  Their space at the north end of the air field had been cordoned off with standards and yellow tape. Two men with slung, and unloaded, M-16s walked the perimeter. The two Starlifters were parked side by side, with their tails pointed toward the row of KAT aircraft. The ramps were down, and people hustled in-and-out of the cargo bays, which were being used as portable workshops.

  By the time Kimball and McEntire crawled under the yellow tape, Carl Dent was supervising the uncrating of the first practice missiles. A stack of wood was growing next to the ramp as the crates were pried open with crowbars, and the small portable crane was used to lift the missiles from their wooden cradles and move them to dollies.

  A few Chadian pilots were being escorted for sneak previews of the fighters by KAT pilots.

  They found Soames in the middle of the confusion, directing it with clipboard in hand. “About time the executives showed up,” he said.

  “Where are we at, A.J.?”

  He checked his clipboard.

  “I’ve got Conrad and the demo pilots at the hotel, sleeping. Ito and Jimmy joined some of our hosts and flew out to the target site by helicopter. They’re going to show them how to best set up their radar and defensive network.”

  “Not that it’ll do them any good,” McEntire said.

  “Of course not. Howard Cadwell and George Wagers are briefing the Chad pilots who will act as the defenders in tonight’s exercise.”

  “It’s not often that the aggressors come in and brief the defenders before an attack,” Kimball said.

  “They need all the help they can get,” Soames said. “There seems to be quite a few French advisors tagging along.”

  “I’m not going to worry about that,” Kimball said. “In fact, it’d be nice if we could impress them, too.”

  “I’m resting the guys every twenty minutes,” Soames said. “It’s a hundred and four degrees on the asphalt, and I sent Keeper into town earlier to buy a few hundred pounds of ice. There’s iced tea and water in the first Starlifter if you want it.”

  “I want,” McEntire said.

  They climbed the ramp into the plane and got tall paper cups of tea from five-gallon, insulated vats. The shade of the interior was deceptive; the temperature wasn’t three or four degrees less than on the tarmac.

  Carrying their iced drinks, Kimball and McEntire ran down Brabham and the three of them toured the airplanes. Brabham assured them that every system hummed.

  Carl Dent stopped Kimball and asked for permission to start loading missiles.

  Kimball gave it.

  Despite the oppressive heat and the heavy work, everyone was in good spirits. Kimball didn’t hear one argument. If someone needed help, someone else jumped to his aid, mechanic or pilot.

  At 2:30 P.M., the Kappa Kat and two Alpha Kats took
off for the afternoon demonstration. The short daylight exercise was necessary so that observers on the ground could see that the Alpha Kats actually engaged and destroyed an aerial target under the direction and control of the Kappa Kat. The target was one of a dozen weather balloons they had brought along.

  The aircraft were back on the ground by 3:30 P.M., Brabham and his technicians swarming over them, sweating profusely in the heat.

  At 4:30 P.M., Kimball, McEntire, and Soames gathered their easels and other paraphernalia and carried it the half-mile to the small building near the large hangars that housed the air defense headquarters.

  The briefing was scheduled for five o’clock, and they spent the waiting time meeting the officials who were there to attend it. Almost all of them spoke English, and for those who didn’t, there were interpreters available.

  The defense minister was there, along with a gaggle of assistants. Most of the officers present carried hats with lots of braid on the visors. There were three French advisors meandering around the conference room.

  McEntire, who was KAT’s vice president for public relations, was in fine form. He melted into the crowd, shaking hands and slapping backs and promising grand receptions in the United States, should anyone ever get over there.

  Kimball often envied Sam Eddy his ease with people.

  He and Soames tended to get locked into serious discussions with people who didn’t understand the first thing about the technologies involved. There was a great deal of hand movement and sign language involved in the dialogue.

  At five o’clock, the defense minister achieved silence by raising his arms. The man was almost seven feet tall, and raising his arms almost raised the ceiling.

  Kimball moved to the head of the room to start his presentation. McEntire stood next to the easel, ready to flip the charts in coordination with Kimball’s prepared speech. A.J. Soames stood by on the other side of him, holding a thick binder, ready to come up with factual responses to any detailed questions.

  Kimball cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for inviting us to your country. You’ve been very kind hosts.”

  The defense minister smiled.

  At Kimball’s signal, McEntire flipped up the chart cover, revealing a large, detailed rendering of the Alpha Kat, bristling with firepower, and adorned with the blue, yellow, and red flag of Chad on her canted rudder.

  “Please take a close look at the Alpha Kat, gentlemen. As soon as night falls, she will disappear, and try as you might, you will be unable to find her.”

  Flight

  Ten

  “We could always abort the mission,” Ted Simonson said.

  Wilcox had to watch the eyes of the Deputy Director of Operations closely to be certain he was sincere.

  “I … well, we have got three million invested,” Wilcox said. “Not to mention the favors we called in with other agencies in order to secure all the permits.”

  He got up from the easy chair in Simonson’s office and crossed to stand at the window. It was a nice view, better than his own, which had part of a parking lot in it. The one o’clock sun was hot in a clear sky, bringing out a wide range of color. The green forest that encircled the CIA headquarters had a tinge of yellow to it. It would not hurt to have some rain.

  “You really worried about the money, Ben? It’s cheap at ten times the price. We spent thirty mil trying to change leadership in Iraq.”

  “No, the bucks don’t bother me. I’m worried about the consequences. If the timing is off by a day or two, Kimball’s shit outta luck.”

  “Can we push him ahead?”

  “I don’t think so. His schedule is locked in, Ted. Changing it means raising questions in too many governments.”

  “They’re going to be suspicious anyway.”

  “After it’s over, and if it goes as planned, they’re going to be suspicious,” Wilcox said. “With precision and a hell of a lot of luck, that’s all they’ll ever be, suspicious. There won’t be any evidence.”

  Wilcox moved back to the desk and leaned over Simonson’s shoulder to study the map spread over the blotter. It was a coarse scale depiction of Southeast Asia, and it had come off the laser printer in color. The colors did not follow national boundaries. A yellow stain inundated the Shan State of Burma, but also slopped over into Kayah State and Kachin State, as well as into northern Laos and a piece of Thailand. There were a few dots of yellow beginning to bleed into the blue that was Kampuchea. On the northwestern coast of Burma, around the cities of Sittwe and Myebon, the yellow had also taken over.

  The yellow represented local governments and influences that had moved to the Lon Pot camp.

  “I knew Lon Pot could move fast,” Simonson said, “but I didn’t think it was going to be this easy for him.”

  “Two reasons, I think. Those are the areas where he’s bought his loyalties. There was little resistance to change, according to the numbers we’ve gotten so far. Only sixteen dead.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “The Burmese military is tunnel-visioned right now. The government’s in disarray, and they’re mainly worried about the banditos in the hills who are yelling about human rights and democratic reform. They’re not paying attention to the Lon Pot faction because he’s spent twenty years being nonpolitical. His influence has been economic, and Rangoon thinks that’s all right.”

  “I can buy that,” Simonson said. “Plus, Pot’s cadre of advisors and henchmen is multinational. From one point of view, that might seem less threatening. On the other hand, it gives him entree into at least four countries. I don’t think he’ll tackle China.”

  “Pot is simply moving into a political vacuum. The same thing is going to happen in Laos and Kampuchea. Two bits Kampuchea goes next,” Wilcox offered.

  “No bet.”

  “There will be resistance from the dissidents and revolutionaries with other visions in their heads when Pot hits Sagaing State and maybe parts of Kachin, but Pot’s too well organized. He may just bypass them and starve them out. Arakan State, along the coast, is mostly his for the asking.”

  “But the peninsula? Pegu?”

  “I think, Ted, that he’s got a lot of the key bureaucrats in his wallet pocket. They’ll roll over, and they’ll bring the military and police with them. It won’t be as tough as we think it could, or should, be.”

  “You’re going to have an intelligence estimate for the White House in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Best guess?”

  “Right now,” Wilcox said, “we’re going to project that Burma falls to Lon Pot in ten days. Call it July twenty-sixth, and give it a day or two tolerance. That date is fifteen days ahead of our last projection.”

  “Damn.”

  “On down the road, we think he’ll wrap up Kampuchea by the end of the year, and Laos shortly after that. Then he’s got Thailand encircled. Three years, maybe.”

  “In three years, he controls … what?”

  “Eighty-six million people. Six hundred thousand square miles, about half the size of India. In ten years, with either outright invasion, or by treaty, he could encompass Malaya and Vietnam.”

  “Drug money,” Simonson said, “turned into a mini-superpower. One that will be just as ruthless and just as unpredictable as Saddam’s.”

  “Money talks. Fear talks. Lon Pot has twenty billion personal dollars that we can track. With what we can’t trace, we can figure at least a fifty billion dollar total, and that much moola leverages maybe another two hundred billion. When he gets control of Burma, he’ll better than quadruple his fiscal control.

  “For the people who disagree with him, he’s got a little squad of zombies, headed by Micah Chao, who specializes in erasing disagreement.”

  “Plus his army,” Simonson added.

  “It’s not large, but it doesn’t have to be. He’ll subvert existing military organizations. They tend to report to the people footing the payroll.”

  Simonson went back to the
timetable. “So, if Kimball doesn’t get there in time, rather than taking a poke at the big, bad druggie, he’s attacking a sovereign nation.”

  Simonson’s comment was not a question.

  “The U.N. probably wouldn’t take kindly to that. Unapproved aggression is frowned upon,” Wilcox said.

  “Kimball’s not stupid,” the DDO said. “He’s going to read a paper, now and then. He’ll know if Burma falls to Lon Pot. Will he cancel on his own?”

  Wilcox turned and sat on the edge of the desk.

  Simonson pushed his castered chair away from the desk and put his feet up on the map, waiting.

  “Maybe not.”

  “Jesus, Ben, I hate all these ‘maybes.’”

  “Kimball had a baby brother, ten years younger. Good kid, straight-As through high school, played football. Got to graduate school and got into heroin.”

  “Deep into it?”

  “Yeah. He was home for summer vacation, driving his parents somewhere, flying high, and took them into the back end of a semi-truck stalled on the highway.”

  “Shit! No survivors?”

  “None,” Wilcox said.

  “That’s why you knew he’d go along with you, isn’t it? More than the precarious financial position of Kimball Aero?”

  “I thought that might be the kicker, yes.” Simonson’s chin dropped to his chest as he pondered the alternatives.

  “You want to try getting a shooter close to Pot?” Wilcox asked.

  “It’s not going to happen, Ben. He’s too well insulated by either space or bodyguards. That’s why I went along with your massive firepower scenario.”

  “How do you think the White House is going to react to the new timeline?”

  “Not well, I assure you.”

  “Any guesses?” Wilcox asked.

  “If Kimball can make a move before Pot hits Rangoon, we’ll get a green light.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “I’m not going to guess at that,” Simonson said.

  “Even if we get a red light, 1 don’t know if I can stop Kimball. He bought into the drug concept, and he may not put the brakes on just because Pot owns a country.”

  “The Agency’s at arm’s length?”