First Strike c-19

by Keith Douglass

  Or, maybe not. One man standing at the fringe of a group looked toward Maskiro and an uncertain look crossed his face. He studied Maskiro for a few moments, as if considering whether or not he should do anything. But then a poke in the ribs from one of his compatriots and a new round of jokes drew his attention back away from the Russian.

  “Down here,” the man said, leading Maskiro down the hall. There was a door that required a pass to open. The man produced a thin, credit-card-sized security pass and swiped it through the scanner. Something clicked and he pushed the heavy door open.

  “Up four flights,” he said. “There is an elevator, but we won’t use it.”

  “And at the top of the stairs?” Maskiro asked.

  “Just a hallway, and then a well-marked door. No security, no more locks.”

  Unbelievable. Even though Maskiro had heard about the legendary slackness at this airport, he still found it difficult to understand. Control the airport and you control access to the country. The first priority of any landing force was to obtain access for aircraft.

  Maskiro trotted up the stairs, not deigning to use the handrails and holding his weapon well away from his body. He paused at the very top, not even the slightest disturbance in his breathing, and glanced across at his associate. “You understand, there are to be no shots fired. For this to be successful, no one must know we’re here.”

  “They will, soon enough,” the man said.

  Maskiro nodded. “Soon enough gives us enough time. Remember, no shots.”

  At the top of the stairs was a small foyer with one door leading off of it. On the door was a large red sign that warned, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — STRICTLY ENFORCED. But there was no card reader, and no other security measures.

  Maskiro could have laughed out loud. Easy, far too easy. As would be the rest.

  It wasn’t necessary to kick the door in or even to use any force at all. Maskiro simply turned the knob, opened the door, and walked in.

  The room was dark, circular, and lined with radar screens. A low murmur of voices filled the compartment as the air traffic controllers worked their various parts of the skies. British accents of the native voices mingled with American voices and the overall impression was one of controlled chaos.

  There was one loud yell from a woman, and then all the heads not covered with earphones turned toward him. A man in the middle standing on a podium, turned, scowled, and shook his head. He opened his mouth as though he were about to give an order, and stopped abruptly when he saw the weapons.

  “Don’t move. Not an inch,” Maskiro ordered. He saw the supervisor’s hand inch toward a button — a security alarm of some sort, no doubt — and Maskiro lifted the barrel of his weapon ever so slightly to point directly at him. “No alarms. Do as we say and no one will be harmed.”

  Without taking his eyes off Maskiro, the man said, “Everybody, just keep doing your job. Do exactly what they tell you.” He raised his hands slightly, palms facing toward Maskiro, as though to demonstrate he had no weapon. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” Maskiro said. His companion moved off to the side to keep an eye on the other air traffic control operators. “The only difference is there will be several unscheduled flights arriving. I expect you to give them the highest priority, and to bring them in safely. They will taxi immediately to the far end of the runway. At that point, you will hold all incoming traffic for a period of thirty minutes. After that, you may resume normal operations and we will be gone.”

  “Is that all?” Now that he was over the initial shock, the supervisor seemed to be regaining his courage. Maskiro hoped he would not be foolhardy.

  “That is all.”

  “And when will we see these flights you’re talking about? And how many of them?” He moved two steps toward Maskiro, who shook his head warningly.

  “I believe your people will be able to inform you. And I would prefer that you stay right there. Hands where I can see them, please. And, all of you,” he continued, raising his voice slightly, “just remain calm, do your jobs. If an alarm sounds or your security forces are otherwise notified, this man will die first. And she,” he said, gesturing to woman who screamed first, “will be next. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, you understand. This is a holy war.”

  And that little piece of this information should keep your security forces busy for quite a while, figuring out what this means. I hope that they will assume we are Islamic. Foreign accents — they all sound alike to these people.

  “Notify me immediately if you have any unidentified contacts,” the man said, raising his voice slightly to be heard by everyone in the room. A series of quiet “Rogers” acknowledged the order.

  Air superiority — the most critical part of any military operation, and yet so often overlooked in civilian contexts. Security checks concentrate on passengers arriving but not those people who come in from the outside to greet them. And there are weapons available everywhere in the world — yes, even here. Especially here.

  Then, Maskiro heard what he’d been waiting for.

  “Unidentified air contact at…”—the air traffic controller reeled off the latitude and longitude—“at thirty-one thousand feet, speed four hundred and fifty, descending; please advise of your intentions.”

  There was no answer. Maskiro motioned to the supervisor with his weapon, and he crossed over to stand behind the air traffic controller watching the area to the northeast of the island.

  “Unidentified contacts, I repeat, state your intentions. I do not hold you on any flight plan or regular commercial schedule.”

  The technician kept his gaze locked on the scope, but toggled a button so that his voice spoke in Maskiro’s ears. “I think this may be what you’re looking for.”

  “Any IFF?” the supervisor asked.

  “No,” the air traffic controller said. “Nothing.”

  “That is it,” Maskiro said. “You’ll bring him in immediately, as well as the next two aircraft following.”

  “What kind of aircraft is it?” the supervisor asked, and then an impatient look crossed his face as Maskiro started to raise his weapon. “Don’t give me that — I don’t care who you are or what you want. All I want is to get you out of my control room. I need to know what sort of aircraft we’re talking about to get them on the correct runway. Otherwise, he rolls off the end, smashes into a couple thousand pieces and we’re both real unhappy. So, just tell me — how big is it?”

  “It is the equivalent of a very large transport aircraft, perhaps a 747. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” He clicked over to the next circuit, and said, “Allen, bring it in on thirty-one.” Without looking at Maskiro he said, “That’s our longest runway — I don’t know how loaded down he is or how much fuel he’s carrying so I’ll give him every foot of runway I’ve got.”

  “That will be acceptable,” Maskiro said. Even though he deplored their security measures, he marveled at the way they went about their business, as if a major disruption in the flight schedule occurred every day. And perhaps it did — perhaps they trained for this very possibility. If they had been Russian troops under his command, they certainly would.

  Voices coming from the inbound aircraft were protesting the go-arounds they were given, pointing out that they would be behind schedule, that their passengers would not make their connections. As if that would matter — making their connections was the least of their worries at this point.

  The minutes ticked by and aircraft inched closer on the scope. He and the supervisor moved from console to console, tracking the aircraft as they came in. His companion watched the rest of the room.

  Finally, a monitor pointed at the runway showing the first massive transport touching down. It touched down the very farthest point of the runway, still going too fast, and seemed like it would roll out forever. For just a moment, Maskiro was afraid it would not stop in time.

  Then, ever so slowly, i
ts speed decreased, and it finally rolled to a stop with only 200 feet of runway left. It turned, cleared the end of the strip, and rolled in to the terminal area. As it did, the second transport touched down. Just as the third was touching down, the back ramp on the first transport lowered. Troops with automatic weapons poured out and vanished into the terminal building. Maskiro watched as the second, then the third, repeated the maneuver.

  Moments later, they heard feet pounding up the stairs to the tower. The door slammed open and four heavily armed and fully combat-ready Spetznatz stormed in. Without speaking, they took positions around the room. One sat down at the approach controller’s console and held out his hands for the earphones. The Bermudian controller yielded them up immediately.

  The three troop-transport aircraft backed away from the terminal and began taxiing toward the service area just off the ramp. Maskiro said, “Refuel them,” then turned to the lead man. “Report.”

  The man saluted crisply. “All positions secured, sir. Estimate complete control of all critical facilities within one hour.” A slight expression of disdain crossed the man’s face. “They are not well prepared, sir.”

  “I noticed that.” Maskiro said. “But overconfidence will kill you quickly. Do not expect it to go quite so easily at the American naval base.”

  The leader stiffened at the reproach. “Of course not, sir. But we are prepared to deal with them.”

  “Very well.” Maskiro felt the familiar thrill of adrenaline course through him and felt a brief flash of regret that his responsibilities required him to remain at the airport. How he would have enjoyed watching them take the base! “Keep me posted,” he said, regret in his voice. “I want to know the second that the military base is secured.”

  Naval Station Norfolk

  Flight Operations Terminal

  1700 local (GMT-5)

  Lab Rat was at the terminal building, waiting for his flight to be called. The senior chief would be flying back out to Jefferson tomorrow, after he completed an inventory on some additional material they were picking up for CVIC. Lab Rat felt faintly guilty about leaving the senior chief to finish that onerous task, but he had to admit that a few days away from the senior chief would be welcome.

  It was evident that the senior chief had made up his mind to accept Omicron’s offer, and his enthusiasm for his new life was evident. There was a new fire in his eyes comprised of equal parts hope and expectancy. No, he had not slacked off on a standard military bearing or courtesy, but Lab Rat could sense it was chafing at him. The senior chief seemed to be yearning for his new civilian world. He would no longer be kept out of certain decision-making loops because he was only a senior chief, not an officer, even though he was far more qualified to command than many officers Lab Rat had met. Now, the senior chief would take his much-delayed and well-deserved place in the highest levels of management.

  For his own part, Lab Rat felt confused. He still had two years to go before he could retire from the Navy, and the idea of wasting those eighteen years of service without staying for retirement was deeply troubling. No, not wasted — but he worked hard for it, hadn’t he?

  I was never working for the retirement. And it still seems so far away — I’m here because I like what I do, because I like the people, the ships, and the deployments. And because what I do makes a difference.

  But wouldn’t his work at Omicron make a difference as well? Maybe even more than staying in the Navy, if the system were truly deployable. Lab Rat leaned back, felt the hard plastic edge of the seat cutting into the back of his neck. Choices, too many choices.

  Am I uncomfortable with that? To put it bluntly, do I prefer the Navy because there are fewer choices? Someone tells me when to go to work, what to wear, what time to get up — is that what it is?

  It was all too much. He would get back to the ship, think it over, see if his world seemed different now that he knew he had options.

  “Mr. Busby?” a voice asked. Lab Rat opened his eyes, immediately on edge but determined not to show it. It wasn’t someone in the Navy — no one in the Navy would call a full commander “mister.” Not unless he was in serious trouble.

  “Yes?” Lab Rat answered.

  There was a man in the seat next to him. His hair was too long for military, and he was dressed in jeans and a casual sweater. An expensive watch gleaned at his wrist. He held out his hand. “Bill Carter, from Omicron. I wanted to catch up with you and make my pitch before you headed back out to the ship.”

  Lab Rat pulled himself upright in the chair, and rolled his neck. “Your people already made a pretty strong case, Bill. I’m not sure what you could add.”

  “Pretty impressive stuff, wasn’t it?” Carter asked, as though Lab Rat had not spoken. “And Armstrong speaks highly of you. He asked me to take another shot at getting you on board.”

  “Senior Chief Armstrong knows I’m not even eligible to retire.”

  Carter nodded. “I know, he was very clear about that. But he’s really hot and heavy on getting you on the team, too. I know you’re the only person he’s considering for his number-two slot.”

  That got Lab Rat’s attention. “His number two?”

  Carter looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. You’d be working directly for Armstrong as his chief of staff. And I must say, we have a number of people who are very eager to take the slot — and who are very well-qualified.”

  Somehow, this particular configuration of responsibilities had not occurred to Lab Rat. He just assumed that if they were both at Omicron — well, but that didn’t make sense, did it? The senior chief had extensive experience with the system, had even been involved in the development.

  “I see,” Lab Rat said slowly. Does that make a difference? Am I too good to work for Armstrong because he’s just a senior chief? The possibility that that was indeed how he felt sounded ugly.

  “I wanted to introduce you to what we might call a signing bonus. You can think of it as a buyout offer.” Carter extracted a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. “If you agree to come on board with Omicron, we will give you an annuity that will pay you an amount each month equivalent to what your current retirement pay would be. The payments start two years after you sign up with us, and are guaranteed whether or not you stay. In other words, you live on your Omicron salary for two years, and then start getting your Navy retirement just when you would have originally.”

  Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m quite serious. Here, look over the details and talk to the lawyer on the ship. Armstrong can fill you in on anything you need to know. And as for living on your Omicron salary, well — how does triple your current pay sound?”

  Lab Rat felt stunned. This was all moving too fast.

  Just then, Lab Rat’s flight was called. He stood and slipped the papers Carter had given him into the side pocket of his suitcase. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lab Rat,” Carter said easily.

  Lab Rat groaned. It was clear that the senior chief had made the nickname known to Omicron. Will I never live that down?

  “Just let Armstrong know when you reach a decision,” Carter continued. “I hope to be working with you next year. I think you’ll find that it’s very gratifying to make a difference for world peace.”

  “I’ve got to get going,” Lab Rat said. “Yes, I’ll let the senior chief know.”

  “Officers first,” a flight technician called. Lab Rat walked numbly to the front of line, aware of just how much his way of life would disappear if he accepted Omicron’s offer. And, yet, it was still very generous — and very very tempting.

  I’d be working for the senior chief.

  Just as he reached the gate, a petty officer wearing headphones stopped him. “There a problem?” Lab Rat asked, suddenly anxious to be back on Jefferson, where the issues were much clearer.

  “Don’t know, sir. I’m getting reports that — hold on—” And then the petty officer’s jaw dropped and h
is face turned pale. “Holy shit.” He turned to Lab Rat, disbelief in his eyes. “Sir, we’ve been put on hold. Three unscheduled troop transports just landed in Bermuda.”

  “So?” Lab Rat said.

  “They’re Russian, sir. Russian. They’re not on any flight plan and now the tower in Bermuda is not answering up. Jefferson is northeast of Bermuda, and, until they figure out what’s going on, they don’t want the COD launching.”

  “Russians troop transports?”

  The petty officer nodded, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the voice coming over his headphones. “Might as well go back into the terminal, sir. We’re cleared to launch in twenty minutes — as soon as a fighter escort arrives!”

  USS Seawolf

  The Navy Pier

  Bermuda

  1931 local (GMT-4)

  If anything, the sunset was even more glorious than sunrise had been. Ensign Forsythe made his rounds below decks, checking each watch station, observing the general condition of the ship. He stopped by Cowlings’s stateroom and gave him a brief rundown on the status of the ship, including engineering plan configuration, depth of water in the bilges, and the status of shore power. When he was done, Cowlings nodded. “It’s been a quiet watch so far, but don’t let that fool you. Expect it to get busy after midnight. You know the procedure for picking up somebody that shore patrol has taken into custody, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cowlings leaned back in his chair. “How you coming on your quals?”

  “A lot to study, sir. There are so many details — prototype school didn’t cover the half of it.”

  “It will be that way on your next boat, too. Not quite as bad, though.”

  “Sir?” Forsythe asked. “About this morning… well, I understood the point you were making. But I’m wondering, the stuff I’m learning for my qualifications is an awful lot of detail. Things like the engineering equivalent of where the flag is kept. How do you decide what you have to know and what you can look up if you need to? There’s no way I can remember everything. And I’m supposed to use my chiefs’ and my troop’s expertise, right? But I’m supposed to know every detail of their jobs as well, right?”