Eyes of the Hammer

by Bob Mayer

  "No air activity since a quarter to ten. Had two F-11’s land then. You can't see the runway from here but it's over to the northeast, beyond those trees up there."

  "What about the grating?"

  "All taken care of."

  Riley considered the situation. He looked at the glowing dial of his watch. The team still had four hours before they did the job. After giving Partusi some final instructions, he went back to the rest of the team. Gathering them in close, he briefed them on the information that Partusi had imparted. Finishing that, he updated the tactical situation.

  "Everything stays as planned. Except I want you, Haley, to take out that armored vehicle under the tower right away. Miller, you hit the guard with the M203 in the southeast corner with your first shot. I've already detailed Partusi to take out the other 203 on the west side with his first shot."

  He looked around at the faces darkened with burned cork. "Any questions? Now you all know that the air force takes this nuclear stuff real serious. So when the time comes, let's do what we came here for and get the hell out before they even know what hit them."

  1:15 A.M.

  An army two-and-a-half-ton truck with New York National Guard stenciled on the front bumper rumbled up to the main gate of Plattsburgh Air Force Base. The air policeman on duty stopped it, checking the ID cards of the two men in the front. As he matched the pictures on the cards to the two faces in the front seat, he queried the driver, "Where you heading?"

  The driver gestured toward the back of the truck. "We're dropping off unused field rations at your warehouse from our annual training."

  The guard waved the truck through. He glanced at the back as it went by. The canvas covering was down and he couldn't see in. He was a little curious as to why they were dropping off rations so early in the morning. The guard shrugged as he turned his attention back to the road. Part-time soldiers, he thought. Probably had to be back at their regular jobs in a couple of hours. He felt a little sorry for them having to be up so late.

  1:30 A.M.

  Riley signaled the six men forward. They slithered into a dirt drainage ditch that linked up with a creek farther back in the woods. Riley led the way in the opposite direction, crawling through the mud in the bottom of the fold in the earth toward the fence. After passing through the culvert under the perimeter security road and coming out the other side, Riley peered ahead to where the drainage ditch passed under the fence.

  This potential weak spot in the perimeter had not been overlooked by the designers of the compound. A metal grating allowed water to drain out but blocked entry to anything bigger than a small squirrel.

  However, this avenue of approach had an additional advantage besides being out of the line of sight of the guards. The security specialist they had consulted had given them an 80 percent chance that the bottom of the ditch wouldn't be lined with sensors as was the rest of the perimeter, since the type of ground sensors used here by the air force tended to short out when constantly wet. The fact that Partusi had successfully completed his task the previous night confirmed that the ditch wasn't wired.

  Riley crawled up to the grating, ignoring the mud that soaked the front of his shirt and pants. He reached up to the iron bars and carefully pulled on them. Partusi had done a good job. The hacksawed metal parted under his tugging. He glanced over the lip of the ditch toward the nearest guard shack twenty feet away. There was no indication that anything was amiss. Placing the grating aside, Riley led the way in, taking the left fork as the ditch split around the end of the road.

  1:33 A.M.

  Powers, sitting next to the driver of the army National Guard truck, checked his watch. The truck was parked next to the ready building for the pilots of the squadron on alert—or where the pilots would be if there was an alert. Presently, the building should be empty except for a duty officer.

  Peering ahead, Powers could see the raised, corrugated tin roof covering the four F-lll fighter bombers that were parked in the alert ready area. Fueled and armed, the aircraft were ready to fly in the event of an alert. From the asset's briefing, Powers knew that the pilots were not in the building but on a fifteen-minute recall confined to the limits of the air base.

  Powers could also see two air police Chevy Blazers parked at opposite corners of the ready area with their engines running and lights on. Two more guards on foot patrolled the area.

  Off to his left, three hundred meters away, Powers could see the airfield's control tower piercing the night sky. Below it, to the right, stood the short, squat building that housed the airfield defense reaction force. Several vehicles were parked outside.

  Powers calmly checked his watch again. Only a few more minutes.

  1:35 A.M.

  They'd made it inside without being spotted. That in itself was a major accomplishment. Like a snake, with Riley as the head, they low-crawled in the knee-high grass toward the second bunker up on the west side. That was their target.

  As he edged forward, Riley felt the seconds go by, willing each one to last a little longer. Every inch they managed to crawl forward undetected was that much less they'd have to make under fire. He slid up to the first berm, shivering in the surprisingly cool August night air. He had never expected to make it this far without being spotted. He glanced at his watch. Any second now.

  Shots ripped through the calm. The initial crack of the sniper rifles was lost in the roar of a machine gun spitting flame into the compound from the darkened tree line.

  Riley and his comrades leapt to their feet and ran toward the next bunker. They still hadn't been spotted as the incoming rifle and machine gun fire riveted the guards' attention to the outside of the compound. Already, six of the perimeter guards were out of action. The attacking forces' machine gun in the wood line was dueling with the one in the tower. A roar and flash seared the night sky in the vicinity of the eastern wood line. Riley knew that indicated Haley had fired the Viper antitank rocket. The armored vehicle was out of commission.

  Riley made it to the target bunker. Quickly, three of his men went into the routine they had rigorously practiced for the last three days. One taped detonation cord, known as det cord, along the seams of the doors, taking care to keep the cord from crossing itself. The other two men followed along, hooking in charges at premeasured points and priming them.

  Riley and the three others fanned outward, ten feet from the massive doors to provide security. They were in position just as a reinforcing guard came running down the road between the berms from his northern guard post. The hapless air policeman was shot before he even realized there were intruders on the inside of the compound.

  The M60 in the tree line won the battle with the tower as the gun up there went silent. An air policeman ran out of the immobilized Avenger with an M60 on his hip, blasting away at the tree line. Another started climbing up the tower to try to put that gun back into action.

  Riley shook his head. Too many John Wayne movies. He raised his AK-47 and fired, picking off the man climbing the tower. The supporting fire from the wood line raked the hero with the machine gun on his waist, who tumbled forward to the ground. Riley was impressed. Nice performance.

  The men rigging the demolitions were done. The det cord was tied into a short section of time fuse, which in turn was attached to a fuse igniter. The man with the igniter glanced at Riley, who nodded. The man pulled the ring and the fuse was lit.

  "Let's go!" Riley yelled and gestured toward the southern fence. He pulled up the rear as the men ran for the hole. The outgoing fire from the compound was diminishing, with just a few surviving guards still returning fire. As Riley and his crew were spotted heading for the fence, two of the guards shifted fire. One of Riley's men was hit. The man didn't even notice and kept running until Riley stopped him and had two others carry him.

  As Riley slid back through the hole, the time fuse finished burning and the explosives behind them went off with a bang.

  1:38 A.M.

  The firing to the south had start
ed two minutes ago. Powers patiently watched as the reaction force poured out of the building next to the tower. The air police jumped into three Blazers and two trucks and headed across the runway less than three minutes after the first shot. Both the Blazers at the aircraft ready site turned on their sirens and roared off to join the procession.

  Powers pounded on the wall of the truck behind him, then opened the right door and hopped out. Men tumbled out of the back of the truck. Quickly, Powers counted heads. Fourteen. All present.

  "Let's do it." He gave a thumbs-up to the driver and turned toward the aircraft. His men spread out behind him. At a slow jog they moved across the open tarmac, closing the distance between themselves and the F-111s. The truck slowly followed behind them.

  The two air police on foot patrol watched the approaching men warily. They'd heard the firing off to the south and were confused by the two unexpected developments. One policeman tentatively raised his Ml6 to his shoulder and called out, "Halt!"

  The reply was a roar of gunfire from the approaching men.

  1:44 A.M.

  Riley experienced a slight feeling of relief. They were in the wood line and running, but two men had been shot. Carrying them slowed down the entire procession. Riley could hear the sirens of the reaction force behind him. He wasn't sure if the air police would chase them through the woods. He doubted it. Once the air police figured things out, they would probably try to circle around using the base perimeter road to beat the intruders to the fence. Riley was confident that his team could make it to the motorcycle shop before the air police were aware of what was going on and made it to the point where they'd entered the air base.

  Another six hundred meters and they'd be at the fence.

  1:48 A.M.

  Powers guided the truck as it backed up to the F-111. He nodded to himself as he checked his watch. With six men they could easily remove one of the bombs slung under the aircraft and heave it into the back of the truck.

  1:49 A.M.

  Riley piled his men into the van and ran around to the front. He threw his web gear onto the floor and slammed the door shut. "Let's hit the road."

  The driver roared out of the parking lot and turned toward the Northway.

  Riley held up a hand. "Whoa! Slow down, man. We don't want to get stopped by cops."

  As if that was the cue, the flashing lights of a state police patrol car came on a hundred meters behind the van. The big man turned to Riley. "What do I do now?"

  "We stop."

  1:53 A.M.

  The two-and-a-half-ton truck pulled off the flight line and onto the road heading toward the main gate. Powers allowed himself a brief smile, but it was wiped off his face as the driver slammed on his brakes and Powers's head barely missed the dashboard.

  "Shit!" Powers looked up. Two air police cars with lights flashing were straddling the road in front of the truck. With drawn pistols, the drivers stood behind the vehicles, aiming at the truck's windshield.

  1:54 A.M.

  Riley watched the state trooper approach the van warily. The driver rolled down his window. Riley slouched in his seat trying to appear inconspicuous—a hard task considering his darkened face and dirty camouflage fatigues. He crammed his AK-47 under the seat and tried wiping some of the burned cork off his face with his shirt sleeve.

  "Would you step out, please?"

  The driver obliged. Riley slid lower in his seat.

  "You, too, over there on the right."

  Riley sighed. He opened his door, got out, and walked around the van. The policeman stared hard at his appearance. The trooper's right hand unclipped the tie-down on his pistol. His fingers rested warily on the butt. "Open the back."

  The driver shot a pleading look at Riley. Riley shrugged and nodded. Shaking his head, the big man led the state trooper around to the back. He unlocked the door and swung it wide open.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FRIDAY, 23 AUGUST

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  8:00 A.M.

  Hanks didn't say a word as Strom entered and took a seat across from him. He simply leaned forward, putting his chin in his hand, and waited for his deputy director to speak.

  Strom flipped open his ever-present file folder and studied his notes for a second before beginning. Hanks felt it was all part of an established little performance. He wanted to see how good this one was.

  "The secretary of state met with the Colombian ambassador this morning for approximately forty-five minutes. The ambassador again denied any knowledge of who the people might be behind the assassination of Judge Santia. Nothing new there." Strom flipped a page. "The FBI's investigation is—"

  "Hold your horses for a second." Hanks sat back in his chair. He was going to enjoy putting Strom in his place. "That's all you got out of that meeting?"

  Strom sensed something was amiss and used the time-honored defense of removing himself one step from the information. "That's all my source relayed."

  Hanks smiled. "There was quite a bit more to that meeting than protestations of innocence by the Colombian ambassador. In fact, a deal was offered. A deal that we are probably going to be very involved in if the president buys off on it."

  Strom frowned, obviously wondering how Hanks could be privy to information that he wasn't aware of. "What kind of deal, sir?"

  "President Alegre is offering a way for our two countries to meet mutual goals. We get to strike back at the drug cartel and reduce their production. Alegre has a dangerous internal problem in the form of a powerful criminal element attacked."

  "Strike back how, sir?"

  Hanks decided he would play with Strom a little longer before dropping the bombshell. He liked watching Strom dangle in ignorance. "That hasn't exactly been spelled out yet. Some of it has to do with a matter before the United Nations that comes up for preliminary vote at the beginning of next week."

  Hanks watched as Strom processed that. "The sea-bottom rights issue?"

  The director was impressed. "That's part of it."

  "What are they offering?"

  Hanks couldn't resist the barb. "I thought you could tell me that."

  Strom had to admit defeat. "I haven't heard anything, sir."

  Hanks was satisfied. "That's good, because this whole thing has got to be kept in real tight. Even if the offer isn't accepted, the very fact that Alegre has made it puts him in a precarious position. If word of this deal leaked, the government down there wouldn't last a week. The cartel would go to war.

  "We can't afford to have Alegre fall. He's not the greatest, but at least he's loyal and we can count on him in the crunch. We don't need any loose cannons in power down there."

  Hanks could tell he had Strom totally mystified and also extremely interested. Alegre's offer was presently known by only four people in the United States: the president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, and Hanks, who had been informed of the proposed deal just twenty minutes earlier over the secure phone line by the secretary of state himself.

  Hanks leaned back in his chair. Enough games. "All right. Here's the deal that Alegre presented through the ambassador this morning. Basically the Colombians are offering to allow the United States to conduct covert, unilateral military raids into their country to destroy cocaine processing laboratories."

  Strom sat quiet for a few seconds digesting that. "What are the president's feelings on that, sir?"

  "The president bought off on it. As you can imagine, Defense wasn't too happy about it, since they're the ones stuck with the dirty work, but the president's so upset over this Springfield thing that he's lost a lot of his patience. The fact that Alegre was the one to offer this deal made the president very inclined to take it up. There still is no solid evidence on who was behind the Springfield attack, but everything points to the drug cartel."

  Strom's mind was obviously leaping to some of the implications for the CIA. "How are they going to know where to target?"

  "As part of this deal, the Colombian government will
provide, through a contact to one of our agents already in country, locations for processing labs they know about."

  Hanks looked up. "You know Jameson in Bogota?" Strom vaguely nodded. "Well, he's going to be the one getting the intelligence. Once we get a location, we verify it using satellite imagery. That way we can be sure they aren't leading us on a wild goose chase."

  Strom shook his head. "We already did something like that several years ago and it didn't work. In 1986 the army sent some helicopters with pilots down to Colombia on a mission they called Operation Blast Furnace. Basically it involved using our helicopters with their troops. It was pretty much a failure." Strom obviously decided to temper the comparison. "However, this proposal does sound somewhat different."

  "It is," Hanks noted dryly. "They're offering to allow our people to hit the processing labs without any Colombian involvement. We have carte blanche. As far as Alegre is concerned we can use anything we want against the designated targets. The president's exact words were that we could wipe them off the face of the earth.' They're not talking about arrests here. They're talking direct military action."

  Hanks continued. "Our forces are authorized to violate Colombian air, water, and land space whenever and however they need to, to conduct these missions. All that Alegre asks is that we do it covertly. If word leaked that the government down there was allowing us to do this, he wouldn't last twelve hours before being toppled—both by the drug dealers and by the people. We all know how sensitive Latin American countries are to the presence of American forces."