The human eye, in spite of its shortcomings in some respects, progressively developed in all people; even children and people with poor vision. The eye aligned itself with the brain in such a way as to recognize faces at very long distances, and even under poor light conditions. A person who couldn’t see a bus at fifty paces at midnight and without their glasses would still see a face peeking around the corner of the same invisible bus. So Fire Team Eclipse, with Vashti Nicanor’s expert advice, applied the green and gray and black matte paint to their faces in patterns that broke up the normal outlines recognizable as a face.
Darkon Ben-ammi refused, declaring, “I am a pilot and I have never seen any valid reason for jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft. I’ll stay. That is, if Lieutenant Fong would do me the honor of allowing me to copilot for him.” In spite of his declared condescension for helicopters—he called them “potato mashers”— Darkon Ben-ammi had been taking lessons from Deacon Fong and was secretly enjoying learning how to fly a helicopter. At any rate, he was a little too old and a little too meaty to safely rappel or parachute. Vashti nodded to him with understanding, and moved to Sergeant Rio Valdosta, ordering him to sit down and stop complaining so she could put makeup on his face.
Darkon Ben-ammi reflected, as he watched the men of Fire Team Eclipse, how very much he’d learned from them. This mission, tonight, was an encapsulated example of the American military as a whole. Their orders were to test the stealth features of their Apache AH-64D; they were to go out into the desert, decide and navigate to a landmark, and practice their covert insertion-extraction technique. That was about as detailed as their orders were, Ben-ammi knew, for Captain Con Slaughter confided in him pretty openly about military matters. Ben-ammi had intuited that the higher command always worried about how, exactly, to keep their elite fighting units at top condition, at maximum readiness. The military phrase for it was “optempo,” or “operational tempo.” It was always a problem to keep soldiers at an optimum state of readiness without burning them out. It was an especially delicate problem when they weren’t in actual combat—or ever likely to be.
And so, Ben-ammi had observed, the units that were especially well-tuned, such as Fire Team Eclipse, often had great latitude in their training mission orders. In other words, their commanders often kept them stimulated and at an acceptably high operational tempo by giving them expensive toys to play with, and then assigning them a loose set of testing parameters, or a hypothetical tactical situation with rather vague outlines, and let them devise their own missions, rather than a line-by-line set of orders to follow. Such discretion of command worked well with these smaller four-or six-man teams, when they obviously wouldn’t work with a less closely integrated company or squad.
Everyone, including Con Slaughter, knew that while he might get a dressing-down for temporarily kidnapping his new Apache and harassing the Germans, there would be no real serious consequences. In fact, the brass probably would secretly admire the team—especially if they could pull it off without the Germans ever knowing. The Luftwaffe airmen in America were considered fellow soldiers, and there was a sort of stilted camaraderie, but still there was a fierce competition between them and the American forces. One-upping them with the Americans’ new stealth helicopter would make up a little for the fact that the German F4 Tornadoes were about the meanest thing flying these days, though they never actually, statistically, beat the army’s FA/20’s or especially the FK-120 stealth penetration strike fighters. It was just that the Tornadoes looked so sleek, so streamlined, so ominous. They were flashy jets, all black, with the Iron Cross outlined in blood red. Arrogantly disdaining any pretension to stealth, they had a high-pitched, nerve-shattering scream that clearly announced their ground-hugging 900 mph bombing runs. The Air Force hated them.
As they neared Holloman Air Force Base, Deacon Fong whistled. “Man, what is it, German New Year or something?”
“Germans have the same new year as we do, Fong,” Darmstedt grumbled as he re-tied his paratrooper’s high boots. “I mean, everybody’s been on the Gregorian calendar for a coupla thousand years now.”
“Not everybody,” Fong retorted smartly. “The Chinese have their own new year. Have had for more thousands of years than Julian has.”
“Well, the Germans have the real one. The one everybody else has.”
“Just keep it down, people, this is supposed to be a covert mission, remember? That means that people four or five miles away shouldn’t be able to hear us arguing,” Slaughter ordered. “Sergeant Mitchell, get Baby BAD heated up, check to see if they might have outlying sentries. Lieutenant Fong, I want a slow circle at 21,000. Keep out about a mile from the base perimeter.”
“Uh, Captain, I gotta tell you, with that high-intensity glare over the base, one mile might not be far enough out to keep somebody from spotting us on simple visual,” Deac Fong maintained. “What is going on down there, anyway?”
“What’s the deal?” Sergeant Valdosta finally demanded, moving to lean over into the cockpit so he could see out the canopy. “Great grief! What’re they doing down there?”
“Could someone give us a hint?” Lieutenant Darmstedt complained. “I mean, if we’re gonna jump into it, I’d kinda like to know what it is. A glare? What is it, a bonfire? UFO’s? Candlelit dinners?”
“It’s lit up, all right,” Slaughter answered. “The whole base.
Looks like they’ve even set up their air searchlights, but they’re not searching the air, they’re lighting up the grounds.”
Darmstedt shrugged. “Oh, well, that’ll just make a close insertion easier. If you’re standing in front of bright lights, you can’t see past ‘em.”
“That’s true,” Slaughter agreed. “Okay, Sergeant Valdosta? Is your rappelling team in order?”
“Yes, sir!”
“On the ready line?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then let’s drop, people. Sure you don’t want to tag along with us, Colonel Ben-ammi?” Slaughter asked respectfully.
The big man grinned. “No shinnying down a rope for this old man, Captain.”
“All right—Deac?” he said into his helmet comm.
“Yes, sir?”
“You and Colonel Ben-ammi land this bird a kilometer due north of the insertion point. The team and I will rendezvous back with you on the ground. While we’re out here flying by the seat of our pants and just kinda doin’ whatever feels good, we might as well work a simulated combat pickup.”
“Heard, understood, acknowledged, sir.”
“Whatever the devil in this galaxy are they doing?” Rio Valdosta exclaimed. He spoke in a normal tone into his small walkie-talkie. Besides being harshly lit, Holloman was noisy.
“I don’t know,” Slaughter answered with frustration. “But I want to figure it out. Any ideas, Mitchell?”
“Not an idea in my head, sir,” David Mitchell answered, clearly mystified.
Five black figures, unseen except when they moved, lay belly-down at the far end of Runway L6 of Holloman Air Force Base. Normally, at 0130 hours, this end point of the base would be dark and deserted; it was the longest runway, and only used for the great transports like C-140’s or C-5’s. The Tornadoes didn’t need nearly this much room to swat down from the skies.
But on this night, it was as garishly lit as if it were a Broadway stage. Great searchlights had indeed been positioned everywhere, but instead of pointing long light-fingers into the sky, they were trained downward, lighting every square inch of the base. It seemed as if every piece of equipment that the Germans had was dragged out onto the runways, onto the grounds: Jeeps, motorcycles, autos, trucks, helicopters, airplanes, portable generators, communication equipment, and weapons were everywhere, making a strange surreal techno-landscape architecture. Hundreds of men, dressed in head-to-toe loose silver jumpsuits, were spraying a fine mist onto every inch of every piece of equipment from great barrels with no identifying markings.
“Those look like Level 5 bio-suit
s,” Mitchell said, worried. “We might be in danger of exposure, Captain Slaughter, and we don’t have chem-gear, sir.”
“No, look, Mitchell. Over there, at the—uh—what are those monsters, anyway?”
“Those are Messerschmitt-Kawasaki BK 2000’s, sir,” Sergeant Valdosta breathed enviously. “They’re sort of the Rolls-Royce models of helos. Usually used as a fast but relatively luxurious transport for their chancellor and ministers. They’re not really military aircraft. And I’ve never seen any in the States. They usually keep those limos close to home.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, see there, Mitchell? Two men, civvies, standing over there talking. No protective gear. So what are the guys in the Jupiter suits spraying?” Slaughter muttered.
No one answered, for no one knew.
Mitchell lifted his head, then sniffed. “Smell it? What—it’s not paint . . . what is that smell?”
Vashti, sniffing delicately, whispered, “Captain Slaughter, I do some artwork, and I’ve done some of my own mounting and framing. I’m not sure . . . but I think it’s a spray mount. Like an aerosol glue? It’s very weak, though. It’s not nearly the concentration of the sticky kind of spray mount one buys in art stores.”
“That’s it, it does have a very faint glue smell,” Slaughter agreed. “But why would anyone want to spray glue all over such delicate equipment? It’s insane!”
No one answered that, either, though they all agreed with him.
They watched for a long time without speaking. The men just kept meticulously spraying the fine mist all over everything. David Mitchell noted that they ensured complete coverage; they were methodically spraying a small area with vertical strokes, then covering the same small area with horizontal strokes.
Ric Darmstedt saw that, although they were spraying the exteriors, they were being very careful not to spray the interiors of the autos, the helos, and the jets. Sergeant Valdosta also pointed out that there were two teams going around, checking the Tornadoes and the helos, and sealing some parts of them up with a sort of grout. Rio speculated that when the sprayed substance dried, or took, or whatever, the grout could be removed.
“But what the deuce is the grout for?” Slaughter growled. “So they’re spraying perfectly good machinery—with something that they have to protect it from? I just gotta figure this out, people. Something’s up here with the Goths. Something’s definitely up.”
David Mitchell said slyly, “Sir? I think what we need to do is get a sample of the spray. We can take it back to the base and get it analyzed.”
“Yeah,” Slaughter said slowly. “I’d like to have a sample. But I don’t think anyone needs to try to get in any closer. I know they’ll never hear us, with the roar of all those pressurized hoppers and with the helmets they’re wearing. But we’re really too close; they could see us if they just happened to scan the ground right here. If it weren’t for them being in those moon suits, and those zillion-kilowatt lights, I wouldn’t have come in this close.”
“Whatcha gonna do, Mitchell? Volunteer to be a sprayee?” Darmstedt asked.
“No, just thought we oughta complete the mission,” Mitchell replied. “Look over here, Captain. Just to my right, about fifty feet. Right under the left wheel. See it?” A Tornado, a phantom black shape hulking in the bright lights, was just to David Mitchell’s right.
Slaughter lifted his binoculars, and his teeth, titanium white against his mottled gray-green-black face, showed in a reluctant grin. “Yeah, I see it, Mitchell. Think you can snake up there?”
“Yes, sir, sure do. He’s on the other side now anyway. It’s gonna take him until next Tuesday to get that side covered.”
Slaughter nodded once. “Okay, it’s a go, Mitchell.”
Just like a snake, David Mitchell belly-crawled, torquing his slender body along in the grass by the runway. He was clearly visible in the harsh light shining down on the jet, if someone had happened to look right down at the ground where he was. But as soon as he crossed into the jet’s knife-edged shadow, he became invisible. Within moments he was squirming back toward the team.
“Sir, I would like to report that I have successfully completed the mission,” Mitchell intoned.
“What’s going on?” Vashti hissed.
Captain Con Slaughter turned slightly and held up a bulky brown object. “Sergeant David Mitchell just completed a successful covert extraction of a rock.”
“It’s been a week, Captain Slaughter,” the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Brigade task commander growled. He was a short chunk of a man, with a square head and face and no neck. He was Lieutenant Colonel J. P. Nix, and though everyone called him “Nixie” behind his back, no one—not even generals—called him that to his face. Only his wife did. Now he was staring at Con Slaughter, chewing and talking around a stub of a cigar. “You boy geniuses got any better ideas what the Goths were up to? Anything else you can tell us? Anything at all?”
“No, sir,” Con Slaughter answered rigidly. “We’ve been over and over it again among ourselves, sir. We haven’t been able to come up with anything more than we gave you in debriefing.” He was sweating profusely, because he had just finished his Punish Run with his “disgraced” fire team. Of course, the fact that almost everyone on the base had sidled up to them to secretly congratulate them on sneaking up on the Goths at Holloman had softened the punishment somewhat. But Colonel Nix still looked grim, so Captain Slaughter took care to stand at a handsome and crisp “at-ease” in the B. C.’s office. “But sir, Fire Team Eclipse would like to volunteer to make another covert surveillance of Holloman. We’re ready at a moment’s notice, sir.”
“Aren’t you though,” Nix said dryly, removing the sloppy stub from his mouth and surveying it with great interest. “Or even without a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir,” Slaughter sighed resignedly.
Nix shook his head and averted his face slightly to hide a grin. “Sit down, Slaughter.”
“Thank you, sir.” Con Slaughter sat in the wooden straight chair in front of the brigade commander’s desk about as comfortably as he had stood “at ease.”
“Relax, son,” Colonel Nix said, with a touch of unusual warmth. “I didn’t call you in here to hand down more punishment. By the way, how’s the daily five-mile PR going?”
“Excellent, sir. My team has tackled it like troopers. We’re clocking some good times.”
“I’ve noticed that Colonel Nicanor and Colonel Ben-ammi are running with the team.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They volunteered to do that?”
“Uh—they just sort of—did it, sir. We didn’t really talk about it, actually.” Hastily he added, “I certainly never tried to impose the punishment on them, sir.”
“No, guess not—Captain.” Colonel Nix harrumphed. The Israelis were colonels, after all. “But how are their times?”
Slaughter’s golden-brown eyes focused smartly on a point just beyond Colonel Nix’s left shoulder. “Their times are fine, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Everyone still keeping up with the other PT and weapons and tactical training?”
“Yes, sir!”
“The entire team?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Including your Israeli advisers?”
“Yes, sir!” Slaughter replied snappily.
Nix was relieved—even glad—to see no hesitation in the fire team leader’s backup of the two Israelis. If ever there was a time to complain about having two outsiders—one a woman, and one an older man—tagging along with a tight young team, Nix had given it to Slaughter now. If Slaughter had any gripes, he sure didn’t want to air them with his commanding officer. This was interesting; evidently Slaughter himself had come to regard Colonel Vashti Nicanor and Colonel Darkon Ben-ammi as an integral part of his team, and defended them, just as a good leader always did for the men under his command.
“Good,” the colonel said quietly. “The reason I brought you in here, Con, is because we got the results back on the rock from Fitz
simmons Medical Center labs.”
Slaughter’s eyes lit up alertly. “Yes, sir?”
Nix stuck his cigar back in his mouth and chewed contemplatively for a few minutes. Then, picking up a single piece of paper, he read—with a pronunciation that would have been amusing if he hadn’t had the power of life and death over Con Slaughter— “Trichloroethane, isobutane, cyanoacrylate ester, and some diox-ane thrown in there. And here, lookit these jobs—how do you read these things?”
Obediently Slaughter looked at the line Nix pointed to on the piece of paper: NaCl, MgCl2, KI, NaF, CaCO3, BaSO4, KCl. He looked up at his commander and said evenly, “I don’t know how to say them, sir, and I sure don’t know what any of it means.”
“Me neither,” Nix growled. “Blasted tech-heads. I called ’em and told ’em to give it to me—the English translation.” He eyed Slaughter speculatively, then said, “It’s a sticky spray that has a high concentration of sea salt in it.”
Slaughter stared at him in disbelief. “Sea salt? Sir, is there— could there be some mistake at the lab?”
“Yeah, I told ‘em there must be,” he said dryly. “Told ’em to do all their fiddlin’ and faddlin’ all over again. They ran the tests again, twice.”
“So—the Germans are spraying multimillion-dollar equipment with—with—salt?”
“Looks like it. In a sticky spray. At least, it has a very light adhesive quality, but it also has elements of a polymer sealant. The tech-heads said it would stick to whatever you sprayed it onto, but the salt wouldn’t actually—uh—be touching the surface you sprayed. It’s like a separate layer.”
“Like—like-–” Slaughter was so dumbfounded, he was struggling to organize his thoughts. “You’re saying it’s sort of like a protective coating, but it has sea salt in it?”
“I ain’t sayin’ it. If I said it, you might think I was stupid,” Nix grunted sarcastically. “The lab techies are saying it. Swearing it.”
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 20
