“Master Sergeant Rossi here.” She wasn’t embarrassed by the quaver in her voice.
“Sergeant, this is Colonel Walling from General Angriff’s headquarters. Do I understand correctly that you and several others cross-trained on multi-engine aircraft at some point in your careers?”
The question startled her, being so far from anything she’d imagined as the reason for the call. For a moment she said nothing, trying to calm herself enough to answer coherently.
“Are you there, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry, Colonel. Uh… I wouldn’t say that I’ve exactly cross-trained on multi-engine fixed wing aircraft, sir. When I was based in the Philippines maintaining Apaches during Operation Gridley, we were based at Clark and I got to know a lot of Air Force mechanics who worked on C-130s and C-5s. There wasn’t much to do during downtimes, so I’d hang out with them and help them service their aircraft. Sergeant Moro is a different story, sir. He put in four years in the Air Force working on transports, left for the private sector, and then re-upped in the Army. He’s in a different bay. May I ask why, sir?”
“Because you and your crew, and Sergeant Moro, are flying out of here at nineteen forty-five hours. I’ll put Moro under your command for this op. Pack enough clothes for a week’s stay and all the tools necessary to put a C-5 Galaxy back into flying condition. We’re bringing in generators, so power tools will be available. Once on the ground, you’ll have approximately six hours to ready this plane for combat operations.”
“I… uh… when was the last time it flew?”
“Forty years ago.”
“But Colonel, that’s impossible.”
“And yet you’re still going to do it, Sergeant. You have less than one hour. I suggest you get to work.”
#
2125 hours
Motor Bay C rang with the clamor and chaos of vehicles being revved and pulled into line, power tools effecting some last-minute repair and hundreds of people shouting to be heard over the din. There’d been no time to arrange the Humvees, M3 Bradley fighting vehicles, M1127 Stryker reconnaissance vehicles, R-11 tankers, and various troop trucks into an organized column, so MPs stood in lines leading to the western exit, organizing traffic according to the orders of Norm Fleming, who stood in their midst like a maestro conducting his orchestra.
As for Angriff, he did what he did best. Walking around and between the waiting vehicles, he shook hands, cracked jokes, and made sure every officer knew the importance of their mission.
One woman leaned out of a Bradley and called out to him. “Are we crossing any bridges, General?”
“A few but don’t worry, we’re not burning any of ’em yet!”
The paratroopers were still loading their trucks when the driver got the green light to go, forcing the last of them to scramble aboard. Angriff saluted every vehicle as it passed him, while Fleming kept their order sorted out. By 2214 hours, the taillights of the last ones were fading into the night.
“There they go,” Fleming said as he walked over to Angriff. “Now only time will tell.”
“What have I done, Norm? We threw this operation together in an hour. There’s no way it can work. The whole thing is crazy. You’ve got to make nearly three hundred miles in under seven hours, at night, over broken roads, and God forbid there’s a bridge down. This can’t possibly work.”
“And yet somehow it always seems to work out, and this time won’t be any different. You did what you always do, Nick, what you had to do. And now it’s time for me to do what I’ve got to do.”
“I don’t like it. It’s damned dangerous, you leading this one personally.”
One side of Fleming’s mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “Now you know what it felt like back in Kenya. And besides, you know damned good and well that you’d be leading this convoy if Janine wasn’t here.”
“She’s never been close to my area of operations before, so I’ve never had to deal with it. But yeah, I probably would be. Anyway, drive like hell and don’t stop until you get to Creech. Don’t let anything delay you, Norm. Abandon broken-down vehicles, take chances. It’s dangerous but time is everything.”
“Throw caution to the winds.”
“If there was ever a time, this is it.”
“In order words, pretend I’m Nick Angriff.” Without waiting for an answer, Fleming got into a waiting Humvee and followed the line of armored vehicles into the night.
#
Chapter 73
Day has ended, night has come, time to rest my weary head;
To sleep, to dream is all I desire, please lay me in my bed.
Tomb inscription of Titus Metilius Cinna, along the Via Appia near Rome
3 miles west of Creech Air Force Base, NV
2226 hours hours, April 20
Jingle Bob kicked his horse in its flanks yet again, despite its frothing mouth and sweat-soaked skin. Nuff and Dalton galloped beside him, avoiding the dust cloud in his wake… not to mention the 25 riders chasing behind them. Bob knew this part of Nevada well and guided them by the bright light of a three-quarter moon. He knew they were almost at the old air force base where they might find shelter, but didn’t shout to his fellows because they’d never hear him.
They rode in the median of old Nevada Highway 95. Galloping on the road’s surface could have lamed the horses, so they chanced holes and rode in the center. Some of their pursuers used the highway to gain on their quarry. Inevitably some horses slipped on the asphalt or found a split, stepped in it, and careened screaming in a tumble that took down both horse and rider.
Ruined buildings appeared to either side, along with scrub trees, creosote bushes, and a wire retaining fence meant to keep speeding cars from driving into the houses lining the highway. Ahead, Bob made out the distant outline of mountains. On their left, more buildings appeared, but these weren’t as dilapidated and were much larger. Moonlight reflected from hard surfaces he knew to be runways, and the tall skeletons of utility poles marched across the landscape.
They’d made it to Creech ahead of the Red Riders, but that wasn’t enough. Somewhere in the vastness of the base lived its remaining garrison. They might welcome and help defend him, or they might be furious that he’d led enemies into their midst. As he steered his mount left across the highway and onto the grounds of Creech Air Force Base, he prayed for either luck or divine intervention.
That was when he spotted the lights. He’d never seen anything like them before. They weren’t fire because they didn’t flicker. He turned straight for them and kicked the exhausted horse again, when the lights went out. It took his tired brain a second to realize they hadn’t gone out at all; no, instead they shone around the outline of a man with a rifle.
#
First Joe Randall rubbed his eyes, then he twisted his head back and forth, trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. He sat sideways in the pilot’s seat of Tank Girl as Bunny Carlos riffled through a pack containing their food.
“You want spaghetti with meat sauce, chili with beans, chicken with egg noodles, or beef tacos?”
“I’ll take the tacos.”
Carlos handed over the LLMRE and picked out one for himself. “I feel like chili for some reason.”
“Then I’m glad we don’t have to fly for a while.”
They ate in silence and relief. The last of the base’s residents had finally gotten their fill of ogling the Comanche and asking every conceivable question about it. Few of them had ever before seen a working machine powered by an engine, much less one that flew and carried weapons. It had made for a long day.
Long-life Meals Ready to Eat differed in packaging from regular MREs by having a collapsible plastic dish or bowl to eat from. Heating the food was the same as with ordinary MREs. Through a chemical process, water activated an exothermic reaction in a flameless ration heater packed inside the meal.
Randall finished the tacos and scraped the last bits of sauce up with the edge of his fork. Carlos didn’t fool with the plastic sp
oon to get the last of his chili; he simply licked the bowl.
Randall belched, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat. “So what’s the deal with you and Rossi?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you still together? She seemed mighty pissed the other day.”
Carlos sat silent. Randall had known him long enough to know that meant he was deciding how much to share. He also knew that if he gave him long enough, Carlos would come clean. So he waited.
“I don’t know what the fuck her problem is, man. Two weeks ago everything was great, ya know? She’s funny, she doesn’t mind my language or my manners, she likes the same things I do. Hell, it’s kind of like dating another guy except for, ya know, the lady parts.”
“The sex is good?”
“C’mon, Joe, you know I don’t talk about that stuff.”
“Since when?”
“Not with her.”
“Ooohhh…”
“It’s not like that.”
Randall couldn’t help laughing. “It’s exactly like that. You’ve told me about every female you’ve ever banged and you probably made up most of them, but not Rossi? Come on, admit it, you’re hooked.”
“Yeah, I know. I think you’re probably right. But don’t say anything to her about it, and especially not to Morgan, okay? Bro code and all that.”
“What’s it worth to you?”
#
Nine seconds later, Sergeant Wardlaw appeared out of the darkness. “Sir, would you mind dousing that light?” He pointed to the cockpit lights Randall had left on so he could see to eat.
“Why? What’s up?”
“Armed riders on the perimeter. They say there’s a lot more on their heels.”
“Any idea who they are?”
“Not yet.”
#
Jingle Bob couldn’t see the two men escorting them very well by moonlight, but he could make out general details. Both wore helmets and something over their faces, with two long tubes projecting forward from their eyes. They reminded him of a desert caterpillar called the pipeline, which had two horns sticking out from its head.
Each man carried a rifle, wore a uniform and stout boots, and had something dark over his chest. All of that surprised him, but the real shock came when one of them lifted a rectangular object to his mouth and spoke into it, and got a crackling reply. It was a handheld radio! He hadn’t known such things still existed.
“Where are we going?” he said, letting desperation rush his words. “Didn’t you hear what I said about the riders on our trail? They could be here at any second.”
One of the men stopped, turned, and stared back the way they’d come. “They’ve withdrawn to almost a mile away, outside our perimeter. Time enough for an officer to interview you.”
Bob didn’t know how the man could be so confident about that. Could he see in the dark? But then he was distracted again, this time by two hulking shadows close ahead. Silvery moonlight reflected off metal. Only at a range of thirty yards did he realize they had propellers on their tops. Helicopters!
Four men formed a semi-circle around a fifth, all with the same rifles, helmets, and gear as their escorts. Men grabbed the horses’ reins and motioned for them to dismount, which they did.
“I’m Sergeant Wardlaw,” the tall man in the middle said. “Which one of you is the leader?”
“I guess I am,” Bob said. “Are you part of the American army?”
“That’s affirmative, sir, but right now I need to know about these incoming riders. Who are they?”
“Everybody calls them Red Riders on account of they wear red bandanas. They also have these marks on their wrists that say G and R. They kill anybody they come across.”
“That matches our information. What’s your name, sir?”
“People call me Jingle Bob.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”
When their two escorts resumed leading them and their exhausted horses away, Bob realized they’d been dismissed. “Sergeant, didn’t you hear what I said? They kill everybody they meet!”
“I heard you, sir.”
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Of course I am. If they start a fight, we’ll win it. We don’t lose, sir.”
#
Green Ghost and Kando listened in on the conversation via Wardlaw’s open radio mike. Neither officer was worried; the Green Berets had formed a perimeter around the hangar area and nearby buildings, and were prepared to defend it. When Ghost heard about the Red Riders’ tattoos and the name Jingle Bob, he started to rise from his chair.
But both he and Kando jumped, startled, when Nado’s excited voice shouted behind them. “Bob’s here!”
Before either could say a word, she was out the door and running. They hadn’t even known she was there.
#
“Bob! Bob!”
He squinted into the darkness. A familiar figure sprinted toward him through the moonlight. “Nado!”
The girl wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
“Excuse me,” Wardlaw said. “But these riders are getting close and if they’re enemies, I need to take action.”
“He’s already told you they’re enemies!” Nuff said, unable to stay quiet any longer.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, Sergeant!” Green Ghost jogged toward them. “Deploy your men for action. Randall, you and Plotz gets these birds in the air.”
“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” Wardlaw answered, angry at taking orders from a man whose rank he didn’t know for sure and who might even have been a civilian, “but our mission under your command is accomplished and now I take orders from either my C.O. or General Fleming.”
Green Ghost got within three inches of the man’s face. “I’m a colonel, Sergeant, and I have given you a legitimate order in a combat situation. Do you really want to get into a pissing match with me?”
Bob, Nuff, and Dalton had no idea who was who, or what everybody was angry about.
One of Wardlaw’s men called out, “He is the S-5, Top!”
Wardlaw backed up a step. “Very well, Colonel.” He wheeled and gave orders to his men, and they disappeared into the darkness.
“Why are you still standing here?” Green Ghost said to Randall and Plotz, who’d watched with amusement. “Get those birds off the ground!”
“Are we cleared to fire?”
“You’re cleared to vaporize those bastards. Oh, one more thing. Don’t fire on any incoming helicopters; those are ours. They’re carrying your ground crew, Randall, and a load of tools and maintenance gear.”
“My crew? Why?”
“Get airborne! We don’t have time to talk about that!”
“Why is my crew coming?”
“Get out of here!”
With that, everyone finally scattered. Bob and his friends stepped away from the giant helicopters.
“Come on,” Nado said. “This part’s windy. Let’s get inside.”
#
Chapter 74
The only thing worse than having to kill people is getting killed yourself.
Undated quote attributed to Augustus Caesar, but probably apocryphal
Creech Air Force Base, NV
2241 hours hours, April 20
Watching the distant fight while sitting in the cockpit and preparing to take off, Randall knew the muzzle flashes in the darkness came from the enemy; the Americans’ rifles all had flash suppressors. Two grenades detonated too close for comfort in bursts of bright yellow light. Tank Girl and Hell’s Hammer both had their rotors spinning at takeoff speed when the lights of a third helicopter appeared on their starboard quarter, three hundred yards away. Then a fourth came in right behind it. Both were Huey UH-1 Venoms.
Carlos unbuckled himself and removed his helmet, threw open the door, and shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back!”
“Get your ass in here!” Randall screamed.
But it was to
o late; Carlos was off at a dead run. The doors to the closest helicopter stood open, although the cargo bay was dark. In the pale ambient light, the face of Frances Rossi stuck out of the doorway, and in seconds he faced her. “Get out of here! This LZ is hot!”
To emphasize his point, a round ricocheted off the skin of the bird.
“No time,” she shouted as the slowing rotor stirred up dust and pebbles in a vortex around them. “We’ve only got hours to get the C-5 in the air again.”
“What?” Carlos leaned into the cargo hold, where the rest of Tank Girl’s ground crew were waiting to jump out and get to work.
“Go!” Rossi yelled, shoving him outside. “Do what you do best! But be careful. Your son needs his father!”
She kissed him, and then slid the cargo door shut as the crew bailed out the other side. He stood there trying to process her words, when something passed his face and creased his ear lobe.
“Ow!” He reached up and felt blood. That was all it took for him to sprint back to Tank Girl and clamber into the cockpit.
“What the fuck was that?” Randall screamed, genuinely angry, but his anger didn’t come close to matching Carlos’.
“Get us up, Joe! These fuckers are shooting at my kid! Get us up now!”
“Your kid?” The massive helicopter lifted off. Small arms rounds pinged off the armored side.
Barely one hundred feet in the air, Carlos switched on the FLIR targeting sight and the desert immediately lit up with targets. “Yeah, Frame just said she’s pregnant and these assholes are shooting at her.” His finger tightened on the trigger.
Randall immediately made the connection with Carlos’ odd behavior, deciding his co-pilot had already suspected it when he’d run over to her. “Light ’em up, partner.”
Firing over the heads of the Green Berets, Randall and Carlos worked like the killing team they were, directing streams of fifty-caliber rounds at the luminescent shapes filling their screens. When one went down, they went to another. Thirty yards to their left, Alisa Plotz and Andy Arnold did the same thing in Hell’s Hammer. Only the next morning would they be able to view the chopped-up evidence of what their bullets had done to the Red Riders.
Standing at the Edge Page 35
