“You think you’re a big, tough guy, don’t ya, mister. Well, I think you’re nothin’ but a lowlife coward, shootin’ unarmed boys and cutting’ the throats of defenseless dogs. I dare ya to put down the rifle and fight me like a man.”
Mariano laughed.
“What do you think this is, a schoolyard?
Some redneck bar? You want some of me, fine.” And before Tiny could even flinch, Mariano took two quick steps forward and slammed the butt of his carbine into Tiny’s forehead. Tiny went down like a bag of wet sand.
Vince found himself anxiously balling up his fists, thinking about taking Mariano while he was distracted. He passed the Stoddards and noted that the Vice President was attempting to tie an improvised tourniquet around Junior’s bullet-ridden leg, and was already covered in the youngster’s blood.
“Skipper!” yelled an excited voice from the other side of the cavern.
Vince halted in mid-step, and watched a green-faced, BDUclad commando join Mariano in the center of the room. Though Vince couldn’t hear what this newcomer proceeded to whisper into Mariano’s ear, he clearly heard the ex-SEAL’s surprised response.
“He what?” shouted Mariano.
“Why, that penal-pushing asshole!
Didn’t he think we could carry out this gravy-train mission?”
He waved the muzzle of his rifle at the prisoners.
“Lock up our friends here, and this time there’ll be no MREs intentionally left behind. I’ve got to get on the horn with the man, and straighten out this cocksucking mess before all of us get butt fucked
Chapter 44
Friday, July 2
Freeman Hollow
They set up their tentative ORP inside the clearing where they had discovered the bodies of the young man and the German shepherd dog. Jody Glickman identified the unfortunate victim as a local named C.J. He’d been a close friend of the Stoddard family, and Thomas could only hope that Vince and the Vice President hadn’t shared his fate.
Captain Christian’s MPs discovered signs of a struggle, and a trail covered with footprints leading farther down into the hollow.
They also found the green plastic claymore fragment that had most likely cut down C.J. Thus when they began their way down this promising new trail, it was with the utmost caution.
Thomas volunteered to be part of the point unit, a five-person Sapper team that would be conducting the initial route-sweeping operation. His responsibility was security, and he stayed right on the heels of their RTO, Sergeant Reed, and the two mine-detector operators.
Their NVGs lit up the night with a ghostly green tint. Thomas fought back the natural urge to hold his breath as they slowly inched their way forward. It was eerily quiet, with not even the barest of breezes present to rustle the limbs of the overhanging oaks.
While one of the mine-detector operators checked the trail for trip wires with a grappling hook that had fifty feet of rope attached to it, his co-worker crawled forth on his stomach, poking the earth with a ten-inch-long, stiff plastic probe. It was slow, tedious work, and just when Thomas began wondering if it was worth all the bother, the grappling hook snagged the first trip wire.
The taut nylon wire was all but invisible to the naked eye. It was set up to be triggered by either a foot or an ankle, and Sergeant Reed carefully followed it into the brush by the side of the trail.
Thomas was surprised when Reed beckoned him and pointed toward the device to which the trip wire was tied.
“What do you make of it. Special Agent?”
Illuminated in the red-tinted beam of Reed’s flashlight was a fist-sized metallic object, anchored into the ground on a wooden stake. It looked much like a large hand grenade, with the trip wire attached to a firing pin that was set into the top portion of the device. It definitely wasn’t a claymore, and the doughnut shaped rings that encircled the object’s body, were unlike anything that Thomas had ever seen before.
“Perhaps Colonel Callahan can help us identify it,” he suggested.
Ted Callahan had been following in the next team, and it didn’t take him long to join them. Only a single glance on his part caused him to audibly gasp, and when he spoke, it was with shocked reverence.
“That, my friends, is a Yugoslavian Type PMR-2A antipersonnel mine. It’s got a kill radius of fifteen meters, and is designed to kill and maim by fragmentation. Our units in Bosnia were the first to encounter it, and, I’m afraid to say, it appears we’ve finally found one of the mines that were stolen from Leonard Wood.”
Chapter 45
Saturday, July 3, 0307
Zulu Nightwatch 676
“Well, I think someone should go down there and check on his condition,” said Lucky from the copilot’s seat.
“It’s not like Coach to go and get sick like that.”
Major Owen Lassiter was seated beside Lucky, and the pallid faced backup pilot voiced himself while reaching up to make a minor adjustment to the navigation display.
“None of us are immune to food poisoning. Captain. It can strike without warning, and take down the most healthy of individuals. I’ll never forget my honeymoon in Acapulco, when I came down with the worst bout of diarrhea of my life. Poor Peggy, ‘cause I didn’t leave the toilet for three whole days.”
“Ole Montezuma’s revenge,” mused Jake Lasky, their current flight engineer.
“Yes, I know it well.”
“That’s only to be expected when eating in Mexico,” countered Lucky as he pushed back his chin mike.
“But all of us ate the same chow this evening, and none of us got sick.”
“Look, Captain, I’m only passing on what the Op chief told me,” Lassiter retorted, a caustic edge to his voice.
“And the initial prognosis was that Major Foard has come down with food poisoning, and that he’s resting in the Chairman’s stateroom.”
“Come to think of it. Lucky,” offered Jake, “Coach did order his club sandwich without bacon. I bet it was made especially for him, and that’s why none of us hog eaters came down with the runs. It only further proves my case that health diets are nothing but dangerous fads, and that a body needs a variety of nutrients.”
Lucky adamantly shook his head.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Jake. There are some foods that are—”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Lassiter, “would you mind piping down and keeping the idle chatter to a minimum? A guy can’t get a moment’s peace up here.”
No sooner were these words spoken, than the nasally voice of the AGO broke over the intercom.
“Plight, prepare for wire out and the transmission of flash traffic.”
“Roger, Comm,” replied Lassiter into his chin mike.
“Initiating orbit entry checklist.”
Nowhere was the order to prepare for wire-out and the transmission of flash traffic met with more dread than in the 747’s forward entry area. It was here beside the galley, in a small private nook reserved for the Operations staff, that Brittany and Red had gathered, on the pretense of taking a coffee break.
“I tell you. Red, I feel totally out of the loop,” revealed Brittany, a mug of steaming black coffee cradled in her hands.
“The Chairman and Major Hewlett have been playing their cards extremely close to their vests. They won’t even include me in the standard SIOP briefings, and I’m afraid they suspect something.”
“Don’t feel alone. Commander,” replied Red as she finished stirring her hot chocolate.
“For the first time in the entire flight, neither I nor Sergeant Schuster is being allowed to place the Chairman’s phone calls. From what I understand. Major Hewlett is making them personally, leading me to believe that our SIOP advisor is an inside player.”
“If only Coach were here with us. He’d know what to do next,” Brittany said worriedly.
“Food poisoning, indeed,” retorted Red with a disgusted shake of her head.
“That has to be one of the lamest excuses I’ve ever heard. He looked
perfectly fine the last time we saw him. And what’s this I hear about Coach being allowed to recuperate in the Chairman’s stateroom?”
Brittany sighed.
“Before meeting you here, I took a stroll by Warner’s quarters. Coach appears to be in there, all right, along with an armed sentry outside and a do not disturb sign posted on the closed door. They must have caught him red-handed talking with General Spencer, and then placed him in detention.”
Red’s troubled expression suddenly brightened, and she put down her drink, bent forward, and whispered, “You know, there’s a way to get into that stateroom without going through the front door. The majority of my transmitters are located in the forward lower equipment area, directly below us. Behind the SHF SATCOM transponder is an access shaft, utilized both for ventilation and to hold power conduit. It’s designed to fit a single individual, with iron footholds extending up the shaft, which extends right past the Chairman’s stateroom, before terminating behind the flight deck.”
“That’s certainly good to know. Red. But before we’re forced to go to such a dangerous extreme, I’ll see if I can get some additional information on the nature of this flash traffic we’re about to send. If it’s indeed Yankee Hotel, our first priority should be to warn General Spencer.”
Both of them had to reach out and grab their mugs when the aircraft suddenly initiated a steeply banked turn, this extreme maneuver but a precursor to the tight racetrack orbit that was next on their flight plan.
“Orbit entry checklist complete,” came Owen Lassiter’s flat voice over the conference room’s intercom.
“Wire-out in three minutes and counting.”
The Chairman expectantly met the glance of his SIOP advisor, who was seated to his right, a laptop computer open on the table in front of him.
“So the moment of truth is almost upon us, Major. When we originally made the difficult decision to support the movement, we knew there was the possibility that this dark hour would come. Brave Americans have already died, and now it looks like many more are about to join them. But such is the steep price of our continued liberty.”
The sharp angle of the airplane’s canted deck further steepened, and the Chairman alertly reached out and grabbed his fountain pen before it slid off the table.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“Bring up Yankee Hotel on your screen. I want to take another look at that warhead selection.”
Hewlett addressed his keyboard, and the monitor filled with a complicated targeting graphic, with the heading yankee hotel emblazoned in red at the top of the page. To better see it, the Chairman slipped off his bifocals, then scanned the screen, thoughtfully rubbing his temples.
“I realize it appears to be a major overkill just to eliminate a single individual,” remarked Hewlett.
“But now that we’re certain Chapman is contained inside the wilderness area, we’re going to need, at the very least, three lOOkt MIRVs (Multiple Independently targe table Reentry Vehicles) to ensure complete saturation.”
“And the number again on the estimated civilian casualties?”
asked the Chairman.
“If we strike sometime within the next couple of hours, we can take advantage of favorable meteorological conditions to guarantee minimal fallout drift. The last weather report showed continued high pressure over the target area, with light, westerly winds prevailing.”
Hewlett looked up from the screen, and made certain to directly meet the Chairman’s gaze before adding, “Since St. Louis and Memphis are at the extreme edges of the fallout envelope, I believe the number of immediate fatalities can be kept below five thousand, with long-term radiation exposure limited to the towns of Poplar Bluff, Sikeston, Paducah, Bowling Green, and Memphis.”
“That’s a hell of a price to pay for one man,” commented the Chairman.
“But at the moment, we have no other options. If we don’t get back on schedule, this entire operation is threatened, and until we get positive confirmation that Chapman’s dead, we need this strike to be one hundred percent certain. Now, what’s the word from FEMA?”
“Sir, the Director is prepared to issue an immediate press release blaming the blast on an explosion at an experimental nuclear reactor site located at a heretofore-top-secret Department of Energy research facility buried beneath the Mark Twain National Forest. The Secretary of Energy will support this claim, and will issue her own press release shortly after General Clayton at NORAD announces news of the test of a high-altitude. Star Warstype antimissile weapon off the coast of Georgia and the subsequent crash of Iron Man One. He’ll note that all other details must, of course, remain classified.”
“To think that such a tragic accident will be responsible for taking the life of that esteemed hero of the Cold War, General Lowell Spencer,” mused the Chairman, whose further comments were cut short by an unexpected knock on the conference room door.
Brittany poked her head inside and nervously cleared her throat.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said before entering the room.
“What the hell do you want. Commander?” barked the Chairman.
“Can’t you see that we’re up to our necks with work in here?”
“That’s just it, sir,” returned Brittany, holding a legal pad and a pair of pens in her hand.
“I understand that we’re about to transmit an EAM, and as part of the SIOP team, I was wondering what I can do to assist you.”
The Chairman shook his head in disgust.
“Your services aren’t needed at the moment. Commander. So get out of here, and shut that door behind you.”
Brittany had already noted that Hewlett’s laptop was activated, though from this distance she was unable to get a clear look at the flickering screen. Well aware of the steeply canted deck, and determined to secure a closer look at the monitor’s contents, she “accidentally” dropped her pens. As calculated, they rolled down the slick linoleum floor, passing beneath both the Chairman’s and Hewlett’s outstretched feet.
Both of them bent over to retrieve the fallen writing instruments, giving Brittany the opportunity to take several quick steps forward and hurriedly scan the screen. She was able to make out only the two words emblazoned in crimson type at the head of the page before Hewlett emerged with her pens. Stunned by that which she had seen, she mumbled apologies, excused herself, and headed at once to Red’s console in Operations.
Brittany’s startling findings in the conference room gave Red no choice but to risk contacting General Spencer. She accessed a Milstar relay satellite to reach Iron Man One as it was flying over the Atlantic, some two hundred and fifty miles off the coast of southern Georgia.
As it turned out. Spencer was anxiously awaiting her call, and Red was able to confidently relate the strange facts regarding Coach’s detention, and the alarming nature of the EAM that Nightwatch was preparing to send. Spencer was particularly interested in the EAM’s contents, and one mention by Red that it concerned Yankee Hotel, and was about to be transmitted to the U.S.S. Rhode Island, was enough to cause the General to ask for additional details.
Red’s reply was cut short by the hard barrel of a pistol shoved painfully into the back of her ribs. At the same time, the line with TACAMO went dead, and Red anticipated the worst, when Hewlett’s gravelly voice urgently whispered into her ear.
“Sergeant, I think you know what this is all about. So either you can come with me quietly and no one else has to see this pistol, or you can resist and be shot. The choice is yours, ma’am, but please make it quickly.”
Chapter 46
Saturday, July 3, 0317 Zulu
Iron Man One
General Lowell Spencer sat dumbfounded before his console in the battle-staff compartment, the abbreviated Milstar transmission from Nightwatch still ringing in his ears. Though he never thought he’d be relying on an unknown master sergeant to deliver a strategic briefing of this importance, this entire situation was unprecedented. It was a
lso extremely disturbing, and Spencer couldn’t help but feel that it had an almost surreal quality to it. Yet reality struck home when the voice of the AGO sounded from his headphones.
“General, I’ve just monitored a rather puzzling VLF transmission from the U.S.S. Rhode Island, acknowledging the receipt of a properly formatted EAM. Since it didn’t originate from us, and because we’re the only TACAMO presently working the Atlantic, it must have come from Nightwatch.”
Spencer ingested this news and fought the impulse to pound his fist into the overhead console. As shocking as it might appear, the threatened coup that he had been warned about appeared to be yet one step closer to fruition. It was completely against NCA protocol for Nightwatch to instigate an EAM without first informing either Iron Man One or the NMCC. And Spencer was beginning to wonder if Trent Warner was still in control of his faculties.
Once more his headphones activated, this time with the voice of their pilot.
“We have some company headed our way. General.
Radar shows a pair of highperformance jet fighters approaching our sector. They appear to be Tomcats, range a hundred miles and rapidly closing.”
Spencer’s stomach tightened; he was well aware that he knew nothing about any such fighter escort. Was it just a routine intercept by a pair of bored jet jockeys, or could there be a nefarious reason for their sudden presence, with Warner the one responsible?
He was unable to forget that the airspace directly above them was one of the supposed targets of attack scenario Yankee Hotel.
Ever fearful that the F-14s had been sent in by the coup supporters to ensure that Iron Man One wouldn’t interfere with the launch by challenging the EAM, Spencer knew that he’d have to act quickly.
“Flight, prepare for an immediate wire-out,” he commanded into his chin mike.
It didn’t take long for Iron Man One to begin a tight racetrack orbit. While the VLF antenna was deployed from the tail of the plane and the amplifiers powered up, he mentally formulated the EAM that he planned to send personally.
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