White Collar, Green Flame - A Technothriller

by Shain Carter

  "Bird two to bird leader. We are at the coordinates. The position has been compromised and we are coming under ground fire."

  The words struck Dawson like a blow. The others had been found by the Iraqis! Despite their every precaution to hide the truck from the road, it had been found and, worse yet, taken. Dawson’s head spun as he thought of Meredith and the kids, and wondered what sort of chance they would have had to escape when the Iraqi troops converged on them. However low their odds of escape, Dawson knew the situation would be even more desperate for the other three, who were completely immobile. The thought paralyzed Dawson; he could only stare powerlessly at the radio on Krieger’s chest.

  Krieger depressed the microphone around his neck. "This is bird leader. What is the nature of the ground fire?"

  The reception was getting worse, but the reply was still intelligible.

  "Rockets. Unknown type. They give off green flashes when fired. Request to return fire."

  A jolt of energy surged through Dawson. "No!" he shouted. "Tell them no! Those are the Americans. There aren’t any lights on the truck - they're just signaling the helicopter with some chemical flares."

  Krieger depressed the microphone. "Negative big bird two. Those are your packages. Please proceed with pick-up."

  The radio reception had deteriorated even more, and while Dawson could hear the distorted voice above the static, he couldn’t understand most of the reply. At the end of transmission, though, for brief second, the signal cleared, and both Dawson and Krieger could hear three words as distinctly as if Kasanovich was standing next to them.

  "... we're opening up..."

  Images flashed through Dawson’s mind, images of Meredith and the children as their relief in seeing the helicopter turned to shock and terror when it opened up on them, unleashing its near limitless firepower. Images of the men in the bed of the pickup, unaware of their coming death. Dawson could imagine the helicopter, brimming with weapons, mowing them down with savage efficiency. It was nearly incomprehensible that they had come so far, survived so much, only to perish at the last moment, not at the hands of a cruel enemy, but by friendly fire.

  Dawson opened his mouth to shout to Krieger, but no words came out. He lunged at the radio on Krieger’s chest, but Krieger deftly shifted half a step to his right, hooked Dawson’s ankle, and smoothly pushed Dawson to the ground with his left arm, all the while pressing the microphone with his right hand. His actions were automatic, almost casual, but a quaver in his voice betrayed the alarm he was feeling.

  "Break away, big bird two - repeat, break away! Green flashes are your packages! Acknowledge, over."

  The reply was immediate and crystal clear. "Acknowledged and repeating. We are on the ground, and we’re opening up the doors."

  There was a slight pause, then the voice continued. "Seven packages are being loaded. Several appear damaged. We will rejoin at your position in three minutes."

  The indifferent confidence returned to Krieger's voice. "Negative, big bird two. Take the packages back to the nest. We'll meet you there."

  Relief, terror, disbelief - confused emotions coursed through Dawson's brain. He struggled to his feet, then all the energy suddenly drained from him, and he began to sway. Krieger reached out and grabbed Dawson’s shoulder, steadying him. Despite the confidence in Krieger’s voice, he could not hide that he, too, had been rattled by the miscommunication. Dawson regained his strength and stepped back from Krieger.

  "Close one,” Dawson mumbled. Krieger nodded and pulled a flask from his belt. He unscrewed the top and held it out to Dawson.

  "Whiskey?" he asked. A pleasing aroma drifted to Dawson and he reflexively inhaled it deeply. It was fruity and pleasant and seductive, and completely unlike the harsh lab alcohol he had been drinking for the past eight weeks. Dawson’s hands shook and his legs felt weak and rubbery. His mouth, which had gone completely dry in his panic, was suddenly moist.

  If he ever needed a drink, now was the time. His eyes closed as he savored the sweet fragrance. He was still thinking of Meredith and the children, now safely in the helicopter, completely unaware of the danger they had been in. Then, unexpectedly, his mind turned to the conversation he and Meredith had had the night before. He suddenly heard her words with new ears, with an insight that he had not known. How clearly she had seen his drinking for what it was - not a crutch to help him weather the bad times, but instead the cause of the bad times themselves.

  Dawson opened his eyes. Krieger stood there, impatiently holding the whiskey out to him. Dawson held up his hand, turning down the offer.

  "No thanks,” Dawson heard himself say, "Not now."

  Krieger shrugged, twisted the top back onto the flask and placed it back in his belt. He resumed his search for the break in the barbed wire fence and almost immediately found it. Using a strong penlight, Krieger illuminated the breach for Dawson and the other marine. The three men crossed through it and walked towards the central clearing. They had covered about twenty yards when a marine ran to them.

  "Captain Krieger!” The soldier snapped a salute. Krieger returned the salute but continued walking fast.

  "Well?" Krieger growled.

  "Simple operation, sir." The soldier motioned towards the prisoners. "They're mostly technicians. Except for the guard towers it looks like they didn't go to a lot of trouble protecting the place."

  "What about casualties?"

  "Two minor gunshot wounds and a broken leg, sir."

  Krieger pulled the cigar from his mouth and spat. “Good. But it’s not over yet. Let’s hope they find the stuff.”

  As if on cue, the five men in white suites emerged from the door they had entered. The first two came out together, carefully carrying one of the metal cases between them. The next man carried the other case by himself. Then the final two men in suites emerged, followed closely by the marines and the prisoner.

  One of the marines shouted and shoved the prisoner forward. The five men in white suites walked to the nearest helicopter. They carefully handed the metal cases to someone inside, then one by one dragged themselves on board. The door was pulled closed as the pilot revved the engine. Within seconds the helicopter rose from the ground and disappeared into the black night.

  Krieger smiled and put the cigar back in his mouth. He fumbled with his shirt pocket and pulled out a stick match. With a smooth motion he struck the match on his helmet, then lit his cigar and inhaled deeply. He tipped his head back and leisurely blew white smoke rings into the air.

  Meanwhile, the marines began an orderly evacuation. While most continued to stand guard over the prisoners, a group of about half a dozen others, including one man who was carried by two others, clambered into the other nearby helicopter. Immediately it pulled into the air, tipped forward and sped out of sight. Dawson glanced towards the field from where they had come and saw the two remaining helicopters lift off the ground and fly towards the compound. They cleared the fence by only a few feet, then touched down in the area vacated by the first two helicopters.

  “Move it!” Krieger shouted, glancing at his watch. “The cruise missiles will be here in two minutes.”

  Dawson’s group sprinted fifty yards towards the nearest helicopter. A dozen men beat them to it, though, including the prisoner who had gone into the building. Dawson recalled Burt saying that they had a source within the machine shop, and realized this man must be him - the marines weren’t taking him as a prisoner, but rather pulling him out for his own safety.

  The marines and Iraqi clamored in and the helicopter took off. Krieger, Dawson and the remaining marines converged simultaneously on the last helicopter. Krieger grabbed Dawson by the belt and threw him on board, then scrambled in himself. The two men scooted against the far wall, just behind the pilot, as the last of the marines pulled himself in. Krieger carefully counted the men as they boarded, then pounded on the back of the pilot’s seat. “That’s everyone - let’s get moving.”

  The engines revved, but the helicopte
r stayed on the ground. It strained on the verge of lift-off for several seconds, then the engine revved down. The pilot and co-pilot leaned into one another, apparently trying to communicate over the whine of the engines.

  Krieger slammed his hand into the back of the pilot’s chair. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

  The co-pilot turned around. His face was obscured by an air mask, everything except for his eyes. They sparkled in the dim light, and Dawson had the distinct impression that the man was smiling. He pulled down his mask with one hand and pointed to toward the still open door with the other. “Sorry sir,” he shouted, grinning broadly. Over the door a sign read, in bright red letters: NO SMOKING

  Krieger cursed and threw his still lit cigar over two marines and out the door. The engines revved again. One of the men pulled the door shut, and the helicopter jerked into the air. The nose tipped down, and through the front window Dawson caught a glimpse the prisoners thirty feet below. Most were still kneeling, hands on their heads, but a few had jumped to their feet and were looking up at them. The scene slipped quickly from sight as the helicopter accelerated forward.

  Krieger turned to Dawson. “You O. K.?”

  Dawson nodded yes, but in fact he felt horrible. The adrenaline rush that had kept him going since the marines first landed was rapidly fading. Dawson realized he was hungry and thirsty, but most of all he just felt exhausted. He asked for and received a canteen of water. After draining it he leaned back against the pilot’s seat and promptly passed out.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Dawson was jarred back to consciousness by Krieger, who was shaking him roughly by the shoulders. He felt as if no time had passed, but as he gained his facilities he realized that the helicopter was motionless and nearly empty. Dawson groggily climbed to his feet and shuffled to the open doorway. Two marines watched him from just outside the door. When he reached the opening they stretched their arms up to him and eased him to the ground.

  It was drizzling, and Dawson welcomed the cool drops on his face. Looking around, he saw several marines milling about, as well as men dressed in white uniforms. Four other helicopters were nearby, and a large gray building stood forty yards in front of him. As he continued to look around, other structures came into view. Some large, some small, all were made of gray metal. Dawson suddenly realized he was not on the ground, but was in fact standing on the flat deck of a ship - the largest ship he had ever been on.

  Dawson flashed a quizzical look at Krieger, who answered with a grin. “Welcome aboard the aircraft carrier USS Brandywine, Professor.”

  Dawson turned slowly around, now looking towards the distant horizon. On three sides was only water, as far as the eye could see, subtly offset from the light gray sky. In the fourth direction, though, there was a thin strip of land, far in the distance, bathed in the gentle orange glow of the dawn.

  Dawson turned back to Krieger. “Where are we?”

  “The Mediterranean, a few miles off the coast of Syria. Turkey denied us the use of the Incirlik air base for this mission, so we’ve been using the Brandywine as our command base. We’ve been parked here at Singleton’s disposal for the last few months. ‘Til last night we were mainly just running reconn and communications missions. Last night - well, you know what happened last night.”

  Dawson looked around at the ship in amazement. “Are you’re telling me that Burt - Burt Singleton - had a ship this size do nothing but support him for several months?”

  “Sure,” Krieger shrugged. “They’d have given him ten more ships if he’d have asked. This mission’s a big deal.”

  Dawson’s first reaction was that Krieger was joking. He turned and looked Krieger in the eye. Krieger’s expression, and the respect in his voice as he continued talking, were clearly genuine.

  “They say Singleton’s a magician, and I’m inclined to agree with them. That missing plutonium was giving Homeland Security conniptions, and with it being in Mustafi’s hands I’d say they had plenty of reason to worry. No one had a clue where it was, but after just a couple months in the field, with just a small team of inexperienced civilians - including two little kids - Singleton was able to give us it’s exact coordinates, a strike time and the probable routes of MSA guard reinforcements so we could take ‘em out before they turned into a problem. Extracting the plutonium was one of the easiest operations I’ve ever been on - just one casualty to speak of, and that was some moron who tripped over a rock and broke his leg. Hell, I could have grabbed that plutonium with a troop of Girl Scouts. And to top it off, Singleton brings his whole team out with just a few scratches.”

  Dawson stared speechlessly at Krieger. While what the man said was technically correct, Dawson felt it hardly painted an accurate picture of what had gone on in Anjawan. Dawson’s fists clenched in silent anger as he thought of Burt’s deceptions over the last months, of how he had manipulated him and the entire team, of the special pleasure he must have felt in raising Dawson’s hopes about the green flame fuels.

  Dawson turned back to Krieger. “Speaking of ‘Singleton’s team’, where are the rest of them? Is everyone really O. K.?”

  By way of answer Krieger pointed to a doorway in the large structure in front of them. The two men walked to it and entered. Krieger silently led Dawson down a long hall, then motioned him through a door. Dawson entered into a small cafeteria. Several tables were set up in two rows, and in one corner a TV set flickered. Meredith sat at one of the tables, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and looking at the TV. A rowdy group of marines, their faces still black with camouflage paint, sat at another table loudly recounting to one another their own feats of skill and bravery during the mission. Krieger followed Dawson in and closed the door behind them with a loud bang. Meredith startled, then, when she saw Dawson, leapt to her feet.

  “Dawson!” she cried, relief showing on her face. “They said you were fine, but at this point I don’t know what to believe.”

  Dawson smiled mutely and quickly looked her over from head to toe. Her clothes were dirty and rumpled, and there was a large brown stain on the front of her shirt. Dried blood, Dawson thought, but probably from handling Burt and Ted, rather than from Meredith herself. Her hair was matted and her face stained with dirt and sweat. Dawson was certain that she must have been as exhausted as he was, but she beamed so brightly that he couldn’t tell it.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he told her, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “How are you doing?”

  “Great, now,” she replied. “The wait was terrible, but they finally came for us.”

  “What about the others? Are Andy and Cindy alright?”

  Meredith pointed to a corner of the room. Dawson stepped around her and saw both kids lying fast asleep on the floor next to the wall. Andy clutched a half eaten donut in his hand.

  “They didn’t get much rest last night,” Meredith said. “They came in here and basically collapsed, but they’re fine. I’m not sure about the others, though. Burt took a definite turn for the worse after you left. He was shaking and complained he was cold, even after we covered him. After a while he got quiet, and by the time the helicopter arrived I’m not sure he was even conscious. I don’t know about Derek, Ted or Alec. They seemed all right, all things considered, but they were carried out of the helicopter and taken away on stretchers. One of the medics told me he’d let me know how they were all doing after the doctors had a chance to look them over.”

  Krieger, who was still standing by the door, suddenly bolted across the room to the television set. “Shut up, you idiots,” he barked at the marines as he reached for the volume control on the set. He turned the sound up, then stepped beside Dawson and Meredith.

  The screen showed a news anchor sitting behind a desk. Behind her left shoulder was a graphic showing an air force fighter jet superimposed over a map of Iraq. There was a red star on the north-west corner of the map, roughly where Dawson guessed they had been for the past few months. A caption below the graphic
read “Air Strike” in bold letters.

  The anchor began reading from a sheet of paper. “This just in. The Pentagon has confirmed that U. S. jets fired missiles on several Iraqi military installations a short time ago. This was apparently in response to Iraqi anti-aircraft weapons locking-on to a U. S. jet enforcing the northern no-fly zone. Air Force sources tell us that several military targets were destroyed and there are unconfirmed reports that at least one Iraqi helicopter was shot down.

  “Iraqi leader Avi Mustafi disputes these claims and says that several errant missiles struck heavily populated civilian centers. Iraqi TV has released this footage of the affected areas.”

  The screen changed to images of low buildings burning in the night. The color of the orange flames mixed with the red and white of flashing lights as several emergency vehicles, their sirens warbling, arrived on the scene. The camera panned to a crowd of people standing over several motionless bodies. A group of women on the periphery of the crowd appeared to be wailing, but they could not be heard over the sound of the sirens.

  Dawson’s stomach knotted as he and Meredith watched in stunned silence. “Is that Anjawan?” he asked Krieger in disbelief.

  Krieger shook his head, staring uncertainly at the screen. “Both the complex that we picked you up at and the one you were working in were bombed, but not the town itself.”

  As Krieger spoke the picture changed to a distance shot of the smoldering wreckage of a collapsed building. Severely damaged apartment buildings teetered on either side of the destroyed building. The view was from slightly above - Dawson guessed from the roof of a nearby building - with the yellow glow of dawn visible on the horizon. The camera zoomed in on a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, kneeling in front of the rubble and sobbing uncontrollably. After a few seconds the camera zoomed out again and panned the horizon. The gray outline of tall city buildings, barely visible in the dim light proved clearly that this was not the small village of Anjawan. The camera swung to the left, bringing the black smoke and orange glow of several distant fires into view. One of the more fierce fires engulfed a large structure with several thin spires.