And to a certain degree, Jack Stallion was the keeper of all this gas.
A man of ruddy Irish complexion and a shock of gray-white hair that went well with his last name, Stallion was in charge of the small army that guarded the fuel-tank storage area of the refinery. More than a hundred men were under his command, and their weaponry—ranging from NightScope-equipped M-16’s to TOW antitank rockets, and even some small surface-to-air missiles—was judged to be more than enough to discourage any troublemakers from nosing around the sprawling hundred-fifty-acre waterfront facility.
Now, on this night, as Stallion looked out of the tower at the full moon rising above his little protectorate, he knew it was time to begin his quarter-hourly security check.
“Station One?” he routinely called into the microphone of his elaborate radio setup. “Report …”
“Station One, OK …” came the reply.
“Station Two?”
“Deuce is OK …”
“Station Three?”
“Trips is OK …”
On and on it went, each of the three-man outposts around the perimeter of the facility calling in that everything was quiet.
But still, Stallion felt uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something in his craw was telling him everything wasn’t as it should be.
Acting purely on instinct, Stallion quickly completed the security check and then sent out a general order for his troops to go up to a Yellow Alert, the middle stage of readiness.
His troopers—mostly veterans of the Big War as well as the more recent civil wars—knew better than to question their commander’s order. Instead, reacting like a well-oiled machine, each outpost went to Yellow. All weapons were checked for ammunition load and all safeties were turned off. Each NightScope operator widened his range of field, and the reserve force of troopers back in the barracks quickly suited up and reinforced their assigned stations.
As it turned out, Stallion’s action would be responsible for saving the lives of many of his soldiers.
The first sign of trouble appeared ten minutes later.
The NightScope operator at Station Twenty-two was scanning a section of oily beach about an eighth of a mile from his position when he got a reading of two figures walking up from the water’s edge. He immediately alerted the two other troopers in his pillbox, and one of them in turn radioed a quick report back to Stallion’s tower command post.
As luck would have it, Station Twenty-two was the most isolated position on the facility’s perimeter. Stuck out on the far eastern edge of the storage area, it looked out on a little-used shipping channel that at one time handled sizable oil tankers arriving from overseas. Now the channel was collared with tall bullrushes that somehow managed to live along the heavily polluted shoreline. It was in these weeds that the NightScope operator first saw the intruders.
No sooner had the warning call gone out to Stallion and the rest of the security force when the number of mysterious figures on NightScope increased to six, then eight, then twelve, then twenty. Stallion immediately bumped the whole facility up to Red Alert. Already a small force of twenty reserve troops were quietly making their way to the area, but Station Twenty-two’s isolated location being what it was, they would not arrive for several minutes.
By that time, it would be too late.
The voice of the radio operator in Twenty-two took on an ever-increasing anxious tone as he radioed the situation back to Stallion.
“We have a reading on as many as thirty-six individuals approaching our position,” Stallion heard the man say in a controlled but undeniably nervous whisper. “They are definitely armed.”
Stallion had turned his own NightScope on the area by this time and he, too, could see the faint images of a crowd of figures walking up from the water’s edge. Because of the volatility of their surroundings, the rules of engagement around the storage facility were stridently low-key and by the book. No one wanted any panic firing when just one or two bullets could light up one hundred-thousand gallons of explosive aviation fuel.
Still, Stallion knew that nothing less than a small army was approaching his facility, and according to the rules, no prior warning had to be given to anyone acting in an aggressive manner around the area.
“We count more than fifty now …” the radio operator reported, his voice shaky and apprehensive. “Closest is just thirty-five yards from our position.”
Stallion knew he had no time to mull it over.
“Engage with secondary weapons at twenty yards,” he called back to Station Twenty-two. Then he dashed across his small office and pushed a series of buttons, at the same time yelling out the message back to his open microphone that he was “flooding the tanks.” Immediately, the small moats around each storage tank began filling up with thousands of gallons of Purple K, a fire-retardant foam. But it was a symbolic act if anything—should even one tank ignite, a million gallons of foam would do little to prevent a conflagration.
“Intruders at twenty-five yards …” came the staticky report from Station Twenty-two. “Twenty-three … twenty-one.”
Suddenly it seemed as if the whole eastern edge of the facility was lit up bright as day. Even though he knew that the men in Station Twenty-two had just shot a dozen flash grenades—the so-called “secondary weapons”—at the approaching force, Stallion was startled nevertheless by the sudden flare.
“Station Twenty-two, report!” Stallion yelled into his microphone.
“They’re still coming,” came the almost-immediate reply.
That was it, Stallion knew. The flash grenades, little more than glorified fireworks, were intended to scare off any potential intruders and the tactic hadn’t worked.
Now he had no choice but to order the use of “real” firepower.
“Engage with primary weapons!” Stallion yelled into his radio mike.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth when the first fuel tank went up.
It was Storage Tank Red-Four, a small, half-filled vessel close to Station Twenty-two. Only later would Stallion find out that it had been hit with a somewhat rare British-made Swingfire antitank weapon, fired by the mysterious intruders. The resulting explosion instantly incinerated the men inside Station Twenty-two, as well as more than a few of the intruders. A small mushroom cloud climbed up into the night sky, lighting up the landscape for miles around and giving even a veteran like Stallion a moment of terrifying pause.
“All units engage!” he yelled, grabbing his own rifle and exiting the tower to join the battle.
He was halfway down the tower ladder when Storage Tank Green-Six exploded. Although it was more than a quarter mile away from his position, the force of the sudden blast very nearly blew Stallion off the ladder. His ears ringing, his eyes nearly blinded by the light of the explosion, Stallion scrambled down the remaining twenty-five feet to the ground in less than three seconds.
By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder, new sounds were filling the weird day-for-night scene. The unmistakable chattering of many M-16’s firing at once was interspersed with the whooshing noise of rockets flying back and forth. Running full speed toward the action, Stallion saw that several of his squads were already in a sharp firefight with the vanguard of the enemy force, and more were converging on the area. Yet he could also see that a stream of more than a hundred of the enemy was swarming through the breech blown in the perimeter line near the vaporized Station Twenty-two. With no small amount of amazement, he watched as the enemy troops—dressed all in black and wearing strangely shaped silver helmets—dashed from fuel tank to fuel tank, planting what looked to be explosive satchels.
Christ, they’re not here to steal the gas, Stallion instantly realized. They’re here to blow it all up!
What was even worse, the light of the flames revealed that another hundred or more intruders were mulling around near the water’s edge, observing the battle in a bizarrely serene fashion.
“Where the hell are these guys comin
g from?” he wondered aloud.
Once again, Stallion had to make the right decision quickly. As well drilled and professional as his security force was, it was not equipped to throw back a small invasion. Nor was it expected to. The commander also knew that even if most of the enemy sappers were stopped, all it would take was for two or three more fuel tanks to go up and the whole area would look like a suburb of hell itself.
In a split second, Stallion knew that what was important now was the lives of his men.
Skidding to a stop next to one of the fuel farm’s many fire klaxons, he broke through the protective glass with the butt of his rifle and manually punched the warning button three long times.
That was all it took. The eighty-odd men left alive in his command instantly recognized the order to evacuate the area.
Just as quickly as they had run to join the fight, now the security troops withdrew from it. Stallion stationed himself at the far gate of the storage area, waiting until the last survivor hurried through. Then he, like the others, moved across the highway and into a marshy area that eventually led to the nearby beach. Already, United American helicopter gunships were racing overhead, sent from Boston’s airport to investigate the explosions. But they quickly fell back, too, instantly recognizing that a disaster was in the making, one that no amount of manpower could stop.
By the time Stallion and his men reached the relative safety of the ocean waves, the mysterious intruders had also withdrawn to positions of reasonable safety and were systematically destroying the storage tanks by detonating their planted satchel charges, one by one.
The resulting explosions looked like many little atom bombs going off.
There’s going to be a lot of airplanes sitting on the ground because of this, Stallion thought.
Chapter Sixteen
Cape Cod
“GET READY TO TAKE it away!”
Yaz lifted the last bale of hay up onto Hunter’s dilapidated pickup truck, and with a whistle of relief, he wiped the sweat from his brow and yelled: “OK, that’s it. We’re loaded …”
Thankful that the long hot day’s work was done, Yaz all but ignored the cloud of exhaust that shot out of the truck’s tail pipe as Hunter shifted gears into forward. Instead, he climbed up onto the classic shitbox’s rotting fender and held on for the bumpy ride back down to Hunter’s barn.
He had never worked so hard in his life. Not during his teen years, not during his stint as an executive officer aboard a US Navy nuclear submarine, not in his role as a multi-faceted soldier in the days since the war. They had gathered more than twenty truckloads of baled hay today, just he and Hunter, and between the heat, the bugs and the absolute lack of ocean breeze, it had been a wearying, sticky, humid affair.
But now, the job was nearly done and Yaz had to admit that he actually felt good as a result of the day of honest work. Once the pickup was unloaded, all of the hay would be safely under the roof in Hunter’s barn, protected from any rain that would have ruined the whole shebang had the dried-out cut grass been soaked while still on the ground. And then he planned to claim at least half of the dozen bottles of beer he knew were icing in Hunter’s fridge.
As they pulled off the last thirty bales from the truck, Hunter explained that tomorrow they would drive up to the farmer’s market in North Eastham and sell the whole lot for about twenty-five bags of silver. It didn’t take Yaz more than a few seconds to calculate that the amount was equivalent to less money than Hunter used to make in a half day back in his old flying days.
But in the same instant, he realized it didn’t matter. Hunter’s retirement to the hay farm wasn’t about money or profits. It was about living a simple life—and he was beginning to fall in love with it.
Yaz had been at the farm now for three days, and with each one he had grown more envious of Hunter’s situation. To see his friend working his way through acres of hot and buggy hay, whistling happily and even bursting into periods of unself-conscious singing was a sight to behold. Here was a guy who could fly a jet fighter blindfolded through a hoop at Mach 2, good-naturedly swearing and punching his steering wheel as the battered pickup fought him for control over the rough furrows of his hay fields. Here was a guy who could instantaneously formulate military strategies that would make Patton, MacArthur, and Alexander the Great drool in envy, planning nothing more than how he would distribute his crop the next time. Here was a guy who carried the flag against dozens of enemies of America—and defeated every last one of them and yet was now losing a months-long struggle against the family of woodchucks who dined on Dominique’s tomato garden anytime his back was turned.
Observing all this, Yaz was quickly coming to one of the eternal truths: Simple was better. In life. In love. In the pursuit of happiness.
Ten minutes later, Yaz was guzzling the first of his dream beers.
“This damn stuff never tasted so good,” he told Hunter as they finally retired to the shade of the farmhouse’s front porch.
“Brewed nearby,” Hunter said, plunging his smudged and sweaty face into a handful of ice. “Some weeks it’s better than others.”
Dominique had been sitting on the porch for most of the hot afternoon, drinking ice water and reading one of her many books on psychic phenomena. Already somewhat of an expert of paranormal subjects before moving to the farm, she now spent much of her time wading through vast volumes detailing serious studies of things ranging from precognition, synchronicity, psychokinesis, up to even odder themes such as spontaneous human combustion and radiohalos.
But neither the bizarre subject matter nor the ninety-degree temperatures could ruffle her appearance—she still looked beautiful, cool, and collected despite the blazing heat. Try as he might, Yaz just couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was dressed in simple cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, but everything fit her so damn well, the outfit appeared to have been designed just for her. Being only twenty-five years old, Yaz just barely knew of the 1950s actress, Brigitte Bardot—he had seen photos of her maybe once or twice. But like everyone who had ever met Dominique, he had to agree that she was an exact duplicate of the French sex kitten/actress. Only younger. And more luscious. And more …
Suddenly Yaz found himself guzzling the last of his beer, a defense mechanism to prevent his imagination from running away with him.
Goddamn, he thought, as he watched Dominique casually rub Hunter’s tired shoulders. No wonder he wants to stay down on the farm.
Yaz opened another beer and quickly began draining it.
“Are you leaving room for dinner, Yaz?” Dominique asked him sweetly.
He nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry about that,” he replied, once again falling into the habit of patting his stomach. “Though I bet I’ve gained about ten pounds since I’ve been here.”
Hunter put his cold beer bottle up to his forehead. “You worked off a few of them today,” he said. “By the way, there’s a big clambake down on East Line beach tonight. It’s an every Friday night thing: Whole town gets together. Plenty of food and booze. Fireworks, too. Loads of babes …”
Dominique gave Hunter a mild slap as punishment for the sexist remark.
“He meant to say that you probably could meet a nice woman,” she told Yaz, in a sweet voice that dripped French as thick as salad dressing. “I’ll introduce you …”
“I’m in,” Yaz replied enthusiastically.
Hunter and Dominique looked at each other and laughed.
“He’s learning,” Hunter said with a wink.
Less than two hours later, both men were cleaned up and ready to climb into Hunter’s pickup for the ride down to East Line Beach.
Loaded into the back of the truck was a bushel of corn, a basket of tomatoes and onions, plus a dozen crabs Hunter had pulled from his traps just an hour before.
Now, as he and Yaz waited for Dominique to finish getting ready, Hunter produced a small brandy flask. Shaking its contents briefly, he uncapped it, took a swig, and handed it to Yaz.
“T
hanks for the help the past few days,” he said.
“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Yaz replied. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so relaxed. Even though I’ve worked my butt off.”
Hunter took a deep breath of the cool evening air. “This place does that to you,” he said finally.
Yaz took a longer gulp of brandy and handed the flask back to Hunter.
“The only problem is, I’ve got to get back to Washington sometime,” he said, his voice showing a commensurate amount of disappointment. “Although it’s about the last fucking thing I want to do.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, pal,” Hunter replied, capping the flask and throwing it onto the front seat of the truck. “It would take something pretty big to drag me away from …”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he stood up straight and cocked his head toward the north.
“Hmm, that’s strange,” he said somewhat mysteriously. “We’re about to have some company …”
Yaz had to think a moment to figure out what Hunter was talking about. But then it came to him just as the faintest sounds of the approaching helicopter reached his ears.
“Damn!” Yaz cried out. “They’re coming to get me, the bastards …”
He knew he couldn’t last forever. Although he’d been “hiding out” at the farm for the three days, he had called Jones on the shortwave radio down in the village every morning, somehow convincing his commanding officer that Hunter and he were studying the report on the Nova Scotia incident. In reality, they had discussed it only two times and on both occasions, only briefly.
The helicopter was hovering above their heads just a minute later, its rotors kicking up dust, sand, and leftover stray pieces of hay. With a blast of engine smoke and noise, the chopper—the same deep-blue UH-60 Blackhawk that had dropped Yaz off—landed with a thump right in front of the farmhouse.
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