by Dale Brown
“Heck, that won’t be hard—they’re ready to kick us off already,” Ari said wryly. “All Jason needs to do is something asinine—like talk to the news media about what we’re doing, right, J?”
Jason turned away from Kristen and fully toward his friend and colleague. “Listen, Ari, I need you with me on this,” he said. “If you’re not, I’ll stop this and we’ll go back to helping DeLaine and Jefferson do whatever it is they want to do.”
“Riddle me this, J—why are you doing this?” Ariadna asked. “You told me that the powers-that-be were impressed with CID—I think they’ll put us online eventually. Why do you feel the need to step out like this?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone I’m working with,” Jason replied. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel like anyone’s being straight with us. Do you?”
“I don’t know, J,” Ari said. “I’m just an engineer—same as you. I’m not a soldier or a spy. I write computer code to instruct computers to design futuristic weapons. I do it for the U.S. Army because I love my country and I think my designs can help, and because they pay me a lot of money to work hard for them. I don’t get paid to worry about who’s pulling the strings or whose agenda is being played. What is it with you, J? It’s not just distrust. You seem unhappy, or dissatisfied, or paranoid, or something. What is it you’re looking for, Jason?”
The army major sat back, his eyes adopting a faraway look for several long moments. He looked back up at Ariadna and shook his head. “I’ve been working on CID for three years, Ari—it’s almost the only thing I’ve done in the army,” he said. “I was so damned proud, of our gear as well as myself, when we were able to save those people at Kingman City. I felt like we could take on the world. Almost immediately we get the call, and it’s like my dreams suddenly came true: they wanted us to fight.
“But then I look at the players involved, and I know they don’t want the same things I want,” he went on. “I don’t know what it is exactly, but it’s as if they don’t want to fight the terrorists, like they have their own secret agenda…”
“And you don’t, J?” Ari asked.
“Me? Hell no. I told you what I want: to use my technology to get the terrorists…”
“And when the powers-that-be don’t put CID at the tip of the spear, all you want to do is squawk and pout and break off and link up with a reporter and do your own thing,” Ari said flatly. “Who’s not being the team player now?”
“I…” Jason stopped, looking at Ariadna’s accusing expression, then away. He stayed silent for several moments; then shook his head. “Sure, maybe I’m pissed. I know CID works, and I proved it can do some good. I want it to do some good.
“But the army or the powers-that-be could’ve taken CID away from us and used it however they wanted,” Jason went on. “They didn’t: they put us in charge. That makes it personal. I want to win, Ari. No matter who else is involved or what they really want out of this thing, I want to win. CID can do it. I don’t think they want us to succeed. I’m going to do everything I possibly can to win.”
Ari looked at Richter with a serious, concerned expression, and her smile didn’t return. She put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. “Okay, J. I don’t know if what you’re doing is legal or right or even smart, but I think your heart at least is in the right place—even if your brain maybe isn’t. But one thing’s for sure: we’re a team. We have been ever since you showed me your drawings for CID three years ago. If you want to do this, then I’m with you.”
Jason smiled, nodded, then leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ari.”
“Sounds like a discussion that needed to happen,” Kristen said. She wrote some information down on a business card and handed it to Jason. “That’s a secure e-mail address, although how secure it is from the government I’m not sure.”
“We’ll check it. If it’s secure, we’ll send information on how you can contact us.”
“Good.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be in touch, guys.” Jason slid out of the booth as Kristen walked away; he looked back at Ari, who rolled her eyes and waved him on with mock impatience, like a school chum urging a buddy to slip a valentine to the prettiest girl in school who just walked by. He hurried to catch up to her.
It was clear and slightly cool outside, with the fresh smell of a late-afternoon thunderstorm and welcome rain on the desert still lingering. He looked for her but couldn’t see a thing in the gloom of the dark street outside the terminal and restaurant.
“She seems to care quite a bit about you.” Jason turned and found Kristen standing in the shadows beside the terminal building, stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette.
“We’re friends,” Jason said, walking to her. “We’ve worked side by side for many years.” He stepped close to her. “Isn’t there anyone you’ve worked so closely with that you tell them everything, even if it’s not work-related?”
“You mean, other reporters? Hell no,” she said.
“No. I mean friends. Someone you’ve known for a while, shared something of yourself, opened up to a bit.”
He could hear Kristen’s leather jacket rustle as she shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember. So many cities, so many assignments, so many persons you get thrown together with to get the job done. It all kinda gets jumbled together. Boyfriends don’t hang around too long if they don’t like being second banana to the job.”
“Sounds lonely—like you’re never by yourself, but always by yourself at the same time.”
“It is.” As if she was afraid she was opening up too much, she straightened her shoulders. “But it’s exciting, and it pays well, and once in a while I get to do something really cool…” She patted his chest playfully and added, “…like work with Superman.”
He took her hand in his. The toughness she tried to portray instantly melted away. She used her other hand to pull him to her, and they kissed. The friendly kiss turned into a long, passionate one.
Jason didn’t quite know what happened next, except that she had slipped her rental car keys into his hand, then the keys to her room at the Clovis Inn just a few minutes later when they pulled up, and then they were in each other’s arms and undressing one another. They didn’t do much talking that night either.
Hours later, she kissed him good-bye and dropped him off again at the airport terminal. Ari had caught a ride back to the base on her own, as he knew she would do. Partners to the last, she knew it would not look right for a world-famous investigative reporter to be dropping off the commander of a secret military task force at the gate to a military base late at night.
Pecos East Training Range, Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico
Several days later
The eighteen commandos who formed the operational strike members of Task Force TALON, along with Kelsey DeLaine, Carl Bolton, and Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, were assembled on a weapons-training range in a special area of Pecos East shortly before dawn. With them were six specialized vehicles resembling narrow, fat-tired, high-tech dune buggies they had nicknamed the “Rat Patrol,” designed to fit inside large transport helicopters or small fixed-wing transports. Out in the distance was a group of buildings they were going to use for target practice as a warm-up for their big training exercise later that morning.
Standing apart from the other task force members were Jason Richter and Doug Moore, both mounted inside Cybernetic Infantry Device units. Richter had a grenade launcher backpack, while Moore wore another backpack that launched small observation drones called GUOS, or “Goose,” short for Grenade-Launched Unmanned Observation System. The two CID units were not really part of the morning exercise, but were allowed to use the range and targets after the rest of the task force were finished.
Again, Jason thought ruefully, Kelsey and the sergeant major still weren’t interested in merging CID’s capabilities with Task Force TALON. What an incredible waste.
The other members of Task Force TALON were busy checking their weapons, equipment, and r
adios, and were now standing before a short platform awaiting their final briefing. “Okay, ladies and gents, listen up,” Sergeant Major Raymond Jefferson began. “Welcome to Task Force TALON’s first field exercise. Our first objective this morning is simple: get used to moving and communicating as a team.
“Our primary means of tactical transportation on our missions will be by helicopter, which is why we’ve chosen to use the ‘Rat Patrol’ dune buggies for fast ingress and egress,” he went on. “There are three men per vehicle. Each vehicle is fitted with a machine gun or M19 grenade launcher. Top speed is about a hundred kilometers an hour. They’re designed for rough terrain but they’re nimble and top-heavy with the guns mounted on their pedestals, so be careful your first time out and get the feel of steering and handling these things on uneven ground.
“In about an hour we’ll bring in a couple of MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopters and try a helicopter assault on a simulated oil refinery out on the range, but right now we’re going to get the hang of riding and attacking from the dune buggies by attacking that small group of buildings out there. Hop in, try some turns and fast starts and stops, then spread out and try firing on the buildings from the buggies and on foot. Charlie Range is heavily instrumented, so we’ll have multiple cameras on all players and will be able to do an intensive debrief later on. All communications, weapon hits, and player movements will be recorded. We’ll have some time to iron out procedural problems later on, so let the glitches happen. Questions?”
The officer in charge, Jake Maxwell, nodded toward Richter and Moore. “What are the CIDs’ roles today, Sergeant Major?”
“They are here to observe,” Jefferson responded. “They will test-fire their grenade launchers after you are finished. Sergeant Moore in CID Two will use his drones when we move on to the second phase.”
“I’d like to watch those things in action,” one of the commandos said. “Why don’t they come along with us and see if they can keep up?”
“We can wax your ass, Yonker,” Moore said with his electronically synthesized voice.
“In your dreams, robo-toy…”
“Can it,” Jefferson interjected. “CID tactics will be merged with the task force once a training syllabus has been drawn up and approved. Any other questions?” There were none, so he turned to the others beside him. “Ma’am?”
Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine stepped up before the team. Unlike the others, she and Special Agent Carl Bolton wore black FBI fatigues and headgear instead of the high-tech pixilated fatigues worn by the commandos. “Welcome to our first field training exercise,” she began. “This will be the first of many exercises we’ll do to fine-tune our daytime procedures; then, we’ll advance into night exercises and finally some urban terrain training. Our team members come from all segments of the special ops and tactical law-enforcement community. You are all superstars in your own units—now, we need to see what it will take for us to work together as a team.” The troops appeared very anxious to get out into the field to prove what they could do. “Be careful out there. Lieutenant Maxwell, take charge.”
“Yes, ma’am,” army First Lieutenant Jake Maxwell, the TALON platoon leader, responded. Maxwell looked impossibly young, but he was an experienced Army Ranger and special-operations commando. He turned to his platoon and asked, “Any other last-second questions?” He waited only a few heartbeats, but no one said anything. “Okay, mount up and let’s do it. Follow me.”
As Kelsey moved off, she said over her shoulder, “Major, Sergeant, we’ll meet you over at the oil refinery.”
“I thought I’d do some target practice with the team,” Jason said. “I’ll bet CID can move faster and shoot better than the guys on those buggies.”
“We’re trying the GUOS drones today,” Kelsey said. “We’ll try assaults later. See you there.”
The commandos loaded into their buggies, started them up, then lined up in a column behind Maxwell. They started out on a paved road up to maximum speed for a few miles, then took the buggies off-road, first on a dirt road and then cross-country. The gunners stayed seated for the first few minutes off-road, but soon Maxwell directed the gunners to take their places up in their braced mounts behind the weapon pedestals to get the feel of riding while standing. Soon the buggies were racing across the open range at full speed. A few of the buggies had to stop because the gunners got jostled a little harder than they expected, and several had some scary moments when the drivers took a few turns too tightly and they threatened to roll over, but it did not take long for all six vehicles to stay in a tight column while racing full speed across the desert with the gunners standing behind their weapon mounts.
“Pretty damned impressive,” Kelsey DeLaine said as she watched through binoculars. “Looks like they’ve been doing this for years.”
“These guys are pros, ma’am,” Jefferson said approvingly. “They’ll be up to speed in no time. Shall I send them over to the target buildings?”
“Absolutely,” Kelsey said. “I’m anxious to see how well they shoot while moving.”
Jefferson made the radio calls, and the buggies headed south toward a small group of metal and plywood target buildings located in a circular berm made of sand, rock, and dirt dug up from the desert. The buggies lined up at a range of fifty meters and began firing smoke rounds into the buildings from the grenade launchers mounted on the back of the buggies and from the M203 grenade launchers carried by the commando riding in the passenger’s seat. They moved out to one hundred meters, then two, and finally three hundred meters. After firing several rounds from stationary positions, the buggies lined up and began firing from fifty meters with the buggies traveling just twenty kilometers an hour, gradually stepping up the speed.
“Amazing,” was all Kelsey could say after the exercise was completed and they had assembled to talk about their performance. “My hat’s off to you guys. You were up to sixty kilometers per hour and consistently making hits. Well done.”
They had a fifteen-minute break to check their weapons and equipment and brief the next portion of the morning exercise. DeLaine, Bolton, and Jefferson were picked up by a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter and taken out to the next exercise target area, and minutes later two massive MH-53 Pave Low III special-operations helicopters approached their location. The rear cargo ramp lowered, and the loadmaster and crew chief emerged and waved them in. Three dune buggies fit in the cargo hold of each of the big choppers with room to spare. The flight was not very long, and the cargo ramp remained lowered as they dropped to low altitude and sped in toward the landing zone.
The two massive MH-53 Pave Low III special-ops helicopters stirred up an immense cloud of dust as they translated from racing just a few meters above the desert floor at ninety knots to zero airspeed in just a few seconds. Within seconds the high-tech dune buggies drove off the choppers into the dust storm kicked up by the massive rotors. Their objective was about five kilometers in the distance, just outside the reach of simulated “enemy” rocket-propelled grenades or shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons: a small compound, thirty-six acres in area, with oil derricks, pumps, tanks, and electrical control buildings, built to resemble a small oil-pumping facility. Normally they would deploy and fight at night, but this was their first practice and it gave them an opportunity to take it a little easy until they got the hang of using their new vehicles.
Even with fat tires and wide stances the buggies were top-heavy with the gunner and their weapon situated above the driver, and it made for some exciting moments when the drivers executed all but the gentlest turns. Bouncing across the open desert in the buggies demanded a lot from the gunners. They rested against a metal back brace and wore a harness attached to the weapon stand, but they were still wildly bumped and jostled around while racing at nearly a hundred kilometers an hour. Aiming the weapons while moving at more than thirty kilometers per hour was nearly impossible. But at a slower speed or while stopped, the gunners did an incredible job and showed off their marksmanship s
kills, hitting practice targets with great precision even from as far as a hundred meters.
Kelsey DeLaine, Carl Bolton, and Sergeant Major Jefferson watched the six buggies approach and then encircle the “facility” through high-powered binoculars. They were inside the “oil terminal,” watching the task force as they started their raid. “I thought Crenshaw was going to lose it for a second there—he took that last turn a little sharp,” Kelsey commented. “But they’re doing great. Twenty-one minutes to surround the compound and hit all the perimeter targets—not bad.”
“I’d sure like to see it done in less than fifteen,” Bolton commented.
“This is their first time out, sir—they’re not pushing those buggies too hard yet,” Jefferson commented. “A few more days and they’ll be moving at top speed.”
“I hope so, Sergeant,” Bolton said. “Otherwise we’ll have to re-think this whole ‘Rat Patrol’ idea.”
“They’ll get better, sir,” Jefferson insisted.
“I still think we can parachute or sneak in some snipers and have them take out any Stinger air defense sites first,” Bolton argued. “Then the choppers can move in closer.”
“It takes time to put snipers in position properly, sir,” Jefferson said. This was an old argument, and he was tired of making it. “Our mission profile calls for a light, rapid-response force. It could take days to move three or four snipers into position.”
“Then what about getting Cobra or Apache attack helicopters to launch precision-guided weapons from outside Stinger range? A Hellfire missile has three times the range of a Stinger…”
“It’s only twice the range, sir, not three times,” Jefferson interjected. “But the main reason is that the support necessary for even one Cobra or Apache helicopter is enormous—we would need our own C-17 transport, maybe two, and probably double our personnel.”
“We were lucky to get two MH-53s and the buggies sent out here,” Kelsey admitted. “If we can get additional funding or get a change in our operational profile, then perhaps we can get some attack choppers.”
