Hicks let out a long breath. “O.K. let’s go through the file page by page and you can show me exactly how you came to those conclusions.”
“Sir, I have really good idea about what the real world targets represented in the file are,” Carter said.
“I’m sure you do,” Hicks replied. “We’ll just keep things theoretical for now, though.”
Carter raised a finger. “One more thing, Sir; if the targets are what I think they are; then destroying them won’t do any good unless the destruction is followed up a massive offensive; something like the invasion of Europe in 1944.”
Hicks’ lips curved into a wicked smile. “Let’s get started on breaking down your planning.”
[][][]
The spring air was damp with the promise of an impending storm sweeping in over Lake Erie. The Ohio country side, although still scared from bombing and chemical attacks, was beginning to recover. Fort Reagan, the headquarters of the Paranormal Army Corps, was located on the shore of the lake and surrounded by the city of Port Clinton. The fort, once a base for the Ohio National Guard known as Camp Perry, had been expanded during the war and the city and the fort now functioned in symbiosis.
Carter could smell the grass and trees of the country side that surrounded Port Clinton. He found that he enjoyed breathing in the scent of growing things more since his para-gene had been activated his and senses had been expanded; even when the grassy scent was diluted with the smell of jet fuel and the birdsongs were all but drowned out by the ruble of engines. He was on American soil and it was green and alive.
Hicks stood beside Carter as they watched the team deplane. “Welcome home Team Alpha,” the general said. “You’ve got the day off, but please don’t leave the base; you’re on standby.”
Hicks moved toward a staff car that had arrived as the group deplaned. “Doug, get yourself settled in and then meet me in my office in two hours.”
The staff car’s driver opened the door for Hicks and a woman in a P.A.C. uniform emerged. Carter was about to speak but was stopped in mid-syllable when he saw the female officer. When he had recovered from the surprise he managed a single word. “Monica,” he said finally.
Hicks grinned. “Did I forget to tell you that the Major would be waiting for you, Colonel?” he said suppressing a laugh.
Carter turned to Hicks. “Your wife put you up to this little deception, didn’t she, Sir.”
Hicks nodded. “It was Mary’s idea,” he said. “She’s wanted to be here to see your face, but she had twenty kids to look after at the base daycare.”
“That sounds like Mamma Hicks,” Carter said. “Her orphans come first.”
Carter fought the urge to run to his wife. She was in a new, well-tailored uniform and wore carefully applied makeup. The bangs of her short-cropped hair were moving slightly with the breeze and her extraordinary green eyes seemed to be actively luminous. She had taken pains to be attractive for her husband. After he had taken a few steps, she ran into his arms. Their embraced lasted for several seconds.
“Good God, it’s good to see you,” Carter said, touching her cheek.
Winters leaned into his touch. “I know. I’ve been waiting here for you for three days. I was going to call you on radio the second you were in range, but Mary wouldn’t let me. She said the surprise would be worth the wait.”
Carter’s grin broadened. “The wishes of a general’s wife are as good as orders from the general himself.”
Hicks had come to stand beside the couple. “Damn right,” he said. “This general’s wife has ordered the two of you to report for dinner tonight at nineteen hundred.”
“We’ll be there, Sir,” Carter said.
“See you both in two hours,” the general said as he ducked into the staff car.
Carter turned to Williams as the general departed. A truck had arrived to transport the team and they began loading their equipment into it. “Get everyone settled and makes sure our gear gets off of the plane and to our billets. Once the gear is accounted for, the team can stand down.”
Williams nodded. “Very well," he said, moving toward winters. “It’s good to see you Monica.”
Monica kissed Williams on the cheek. “Nice to see you too; all of you,” she said, turning to face Team Alpha.
Nagura stepped passed Williams and took Winters in a sisterly hug. “You are looking well,” Nagura said.
Monica stepped back, sill holding both of Nagura’s hands. “You like you’ve just spent weeks in a cramped submarine and hours on a plane," she said, chuckling. “It’s great to see you again my friend.” She patted Carter’s arm. “Have you been keeping an eye on this man of mine for me?”
Nagura blushed and looked away. Winters took her friend lightly by the shoulders. “Okesa, what’s the matter? I was only joking," she said.
Nagura forced herself to meet Monica eyes. “There is nothing wrong.”
Monica was about to press the matter, but McNamara came to Nagura’s rescue. “How is the rest of your bunch, Major?” McNamara asked, taking attention away from Nagura.
“Alive and well,” Winters replied.
“Good,” the sergeant said. “We’ll have to get the teams together for a drink; or ten, or twelve.”
“All of the teams are here,” Winters told him. “Team Alpha was the last to arrive.”
McNamara’s face became more serious. “They called everyone back from Alaska and Panama?”
Winters nodded. “All six teams,” she said.
Carter put up a hand to stop that line of conversation. “We’ll get orders soon enough," he said. “Enjoy your down-time for now.”
“Right,” McNamara agreed. “Everybody hop in,” he added as he climbed into the waiting truck.
Carter drew Winters back to his side. “I think we’ll walk,”
he said smiling at her.
“Very well,” Williams said.
The couple watched the truck drive away.” They seem to be in good spirits," Monica observed, as they walked arm-in-arm.
“Mac is good at keeping up moral. Besides we’re back at our home base,” Carter explained.
Winters agreed. “All of us are back home. Something big is brewing.”
Carter pulled her slightly closer. “Like I told the team, we’ll get orders soon enough.”
“How are you?” he asked her.
She stopped in mid stride and hugged him. “Good,” she said. “God, it’s been over six months since we’ve been together. I missed you so much.”
He touched her face again; seeing the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I missed you too, more than you can imagine.”
He kissed her. The kiss lasted for several seconds. When, reluctantly, they parted her eyes glistened with tears. “We’ve got some time together now; let’s focus on that,” Carter advised.
They resumed their walk as group of twenty soldiers passed by them in a loose formation. They were obviously exhausted as they lumbered by under the weight of sixty pounds of packs, weapons, and equipment. They were soaked from head to toe and covered with sand-encrusted mud. Their eyes were dull from lack of sleep. Instructors circled around them like angry birds of prey; screaming orders and criticism.
Carter regarded the group and smiled. “I see they they’re running the FIRE team selection and assessment course. This bunch will be the first recruits specifically selected and trained to be FIRE team operators instead of being drawn from other services.”
“It started last week. There were over a hundred candidates then. Now there are just those twenty. They went from a twenty-mile forced march, with full equipment, in the Wayne National Forest this morning, and then right into water survival training in the lake in the afternoon. They’ve been going for twenty-nine hours straight on two hours of sleep; four hours of that time was in the water.”
“And they’ll be back in the forest tonight for a land navigation exercise,” Carter added. “I helped design the selection course. By the end of the week, we’ll be
down to about ten candidates.”
“I know,” Monica agreed. “It reminds me of the Combat Controller course. By the end of that nightmare I was begging God to end my misery.”
Carter chuckled. “It was the same when I went through selection for the Combat Applications Group. That course made hell seem like paradise. The idea is to push candidates to the breaking point and find out which ones don’t break,” Carter said.
“But they all have the para-gene. Why make them run the selection course before it’s activated?” Monica asked.
“Because it’s harder to physically break an activated paranormal than it is a normal human,” Carter said. “Besides, it’s nearly impossible to establish uniform performance standards for paranormals because our physical and mental abilities vary too much from individual to individual. We would have to come up with tests for each individual,” Carter explained. “But,” he continued, “If you evaluate them before their gene is activated, you can have a pretty reliable baseline of what they can be expected to endure and achieve.”
“So how much more pain are those poor troopers in for?” Monica asked.
“In two weeks there will probably only be four or five candidates left; two or three of those will actually be selected. Those will go on to six months of operator training with either the Navy Special Warfare Development Group or the army’s Combat Applications Group.”
“You mean S.E.A.L team Six or Delta Force,” Monica said.
“They haven’t been officially called those names in years,” Carter countered.
“But Delta Force sounds so much better than Combat Applications Group. And Navy Special Warfare Development Group just doesn’t have the same ring as S.E.A.L. Team Six,” Monica observed. “Why is the PAC farming out the operator training to the Army and Navy?” Monica asked.
“Since there are so few people with the para-gene who can qualify for the FIRE teams, it doesn’t make sense to sense to set up a training course within the PAC,” Carter replied,
“Anyway,” Carter went on. “If they don’t get washed out of one of those training courses, their para-genes are activated. If they survive the activation process they’ll go through a one month evaluation of their para-normal abilities. Then, finally, whoever’s left after all of that starts six months of training as a FIRE team operator. If they don’t wash out during that training they’re assigned to an operational team.”
“That will mean that there will be six or seven new operators for the teams every year; since you’re only holding selection twice a year,” Monica said. “And we won’t be seeing any replacement troops out of the training program for over almost two years. What happens to the candidates that wash out?”
“Their par-genes will be activated and they’ll be assigned to the more conventional PAC units,” Carter replied. “The ones who came close to getting into the teams will go into the airborne regiment or the recon/raider battalion. Some of those may be asked to join the teams later on if they distinguish themselves in those units. The others will go into the PAC regimental combat teams or to the aviation battalion.”
They were nearing the quarters they shared: a one bedroom cottage built of cinder bricks and concrete. It was painted a whitish-grey color like most living quarters on the base. A welcome splash of color was provided by rows of flowers that were planted on either side of the front door.
Monica picked one of the blossoms. “The general’s wife has been busy,” she concluded.
Carter smiled. “She’s one of kind, my Mamma Hicks.”
When the door was closed Carter spun his wife to face him; pulling her close and squeezing her between her between his body and the door. “We have an hour and fifty minutes,” he told her; his lips almost touching her earlobe.
“One hour and forty eight minutes,” she replied, her hands moving to remove his uniform’s tunic. After that there was only a mutual need to be touch and be touched.
[][][]
One hour and forty-five minutes later Carter and his wife arrived at the headquarters office building and began the process of being checked through the necessary security protocols. They were joined within minutes by the four other FIRE Team leaders.
Mason Price extended a hand toward Carter. “Good to see you Mace,” Carter said, taking the offered hand.
“You as well my friend,” the English Major replied.
“How are you, Rene’?” Carter asked the African woman standing next to Price. “Those lieutenant’s bars look good on you.”
“I am very well, Sir. It will be good to have all of Red Team back together,” Garba replied.
“Beauchamp, Muller nice to see both of you.” Monica said.
“It is very good,” the Cajun said. Muller nodded a response.
Hicks met the group just after the last checkpoint. “Good to see all of you again,” he said. “Let’s go get the answers to those questions spinning about in your heads.”
He led them through the maze of corridors until they arrived at another check point in front of a set of blast doors. It was manned by two sergeants in an armored booth. Beginning with Hicks they carefully examined the credentials of everyone present then directed them to retinal and palm scanners. Finally, they passed through a full body scanner that would reveal the presence of unauthorized weapons or surveillance devices. Steel doors, six inches thick, then slid open and the group stepped into a freight-sized elevator.
“I always thought I would have at least one star on my uniform before I was allowed to see this part of the base,” Price remarked.
“Perhaps whatever mission they have planned for us is so deadly they do not believe that any of us will live long enough to receive our next promotion,” Muller remarked flatly. “They are showing us the inner sanctum to assure us our deaths will be appreciated.”
“Ah, Muller, how much we have all missed our Austrian ray of sunshine,” Beauchamp quipped.
After descending for nearly a full minute the elevator came to a halt. They passed another checkpoint and navigated more mazelike hallways before coming to yet another set of blast doors guarded by a squad of fully armed and armored troops. Passing through yet another series of biometric security measures, they were admitted to the room beyond the blast doors.
Fort Reagan’s strategic operations center was the size of a college gymnasium and dominated by a large oval table made of polished hardwood. Three very large video displays had been installed on the far wall and dozens of smaller screens lined the other walls. The perimeter was lined with computer workstations manned by young technicians; none of whom looked up from their monitors as the team leaders entered. There were several high-ranking officers seated around the table.
“You all know Admiral Collier, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Hicks remarked, taking his place at the table.
“Mac had it right,” Beauchamp said; “this much brass in one place is never, never a good thing.”
“We’ve brought you all here because we have a job for you and your teams,” Hicks said, “But you’ve already figured that out from the theoretical target folder I asked each of you to review. While details in those folders were changed or obscured the mission outline comes from the real world.” Hicks paused and studied the faces of the assembled team leaders, then continued. “Before we let you know what that mission is, we want to ask you some questions about your assessment of the information in those folders.”
Admiral Collier stood and came to face group. “All of you estimate a very high casualty rate,” he said. “Our computer models gave us casualty numbers that were substantially lower. Lieutenant Colonel Carter, I’d like to know why, in your opinion, your assessments differ from computer models to such a degree.”
“Sir, we all know from experience that no plan survives first contact with the enemy,” Carter began, gesturing to his fellow team leaders. “In fact, no plan survives first contact with reality. The computer modelers say they can factor in all the random factors that could go wro
ng; but they can’t. The fact is, no matter how well planned an operation is, something always, always goes wrong. Most generally, several things go wrong. Computers just can’t account for the all the variables in an operation like this.”
“But all of you can?” Collier asked.
“Not really Sir; but we can adapt to them. Computer models don’t adapt; they recalculate,” Carter answered. “I think I speak for all of the team leaders when I say that the casualty figures we gave you are based on experience. Our conclusions are based on dozens of similar raids that we’ve actually participated in. A computer uses mathematical calculations that are abstract but, for the boots on the ground, nothing is abstract.”
“But you all agree that the targets can be destroyed?” Collier asked.
Carter glanced at the other team leaders and saw agreement in their faces. “Yes Sir; the sheer boldness of the plan means we have a good chance of achieving initial tactical surprise. Given that operational security is solid beforehand, there is a reasonable chance that the mission objectives can be achieved.”
Collier looked briefly at the officers at the table. “Alright, then,” he said, turning to Hicks “I guess we can let the cat out of the bag.”
Hicks nodded to a technical sergeant manning a computers console. “Put it up.”
The sergeant typed a few keys and maneuvered his mouse. A large map of Brussels, Belgium appeared on the largest of the display screens in the room. On a smaller display to the left was an aerial photograph of a facility that, according to the caption, was located in the Ural Mountains. Beneath this display was another of similar size showing a topographical map of the area surrounding the Ural facility. To the right of the largest screen a smaller screen depicted a detailed map of a military compound near the center of Brussels.
Hicks stood in front of the screen. “As most of you have already figured out, the targets we’ve been talking about are the WCA’s military central command center in Brussels, Belgium and its backup facility in the Urals. Destroying these two facilities would effectively lobotomize the W.C.A. military’s command and control system worldwide.”
The Fate Of Nations: F.I.R.E. Team Alpha: Book One Page 9
