Assault on Alpha Base

Chapter 8

“You’ll have to check out the staging area by yourself. I’ve got to go to Baja.”

“Why?” Vikki Osborrn pushed back her hair. “I’m getting close to finding all we want to know about Alpha Base, including the call signs and map. We can’t afford to blow it now. Can’t you wait to go?”

Anthony Harding stood silent for a moment. He sounded weary. “I have to finalize the plans with this mercenary group that NUFA dug up.”

Vikki eyed Harding as he walked across her apartment. An old television sat in one corner, facing a threadbare couch and a coffee table. A card table and three folding chairs made up the rest of the room. Ashtrays held just as much residue from marijuana as from tobacco, and the double bed in the bedroom was unmade, with clothes were strewn over boxes.

She raised an eyebrow at Harding. Here she was, prostituting her body, giving herself to Britnell, all for a higher cause. The zeal that she and Harding had once felt was gone now, and even their lovemaking was replaced with a mechanical, almost predictable, rhythmic grinding.

Britnell’s caresses brought back the fervor — but it was tempered with the knowledge that she was no better than some slut on the main strip. It almost made her vomit to go through with it.

But it was that elusive higher law—the end justifies the means—that kept her smiling while courting Britnell. Through all his groping, she kept that one goal in mind: she’d put up with anything to get rid of the nukes, or at least be able to prove to the rest of the nation how easy it was to steal one.

And now Harding wanted to go cavorting off and leave her to finish his work.

Harding placed his hands on the back of the couch. “While I’m away you’ve got to find a landing strip in the mountains, one big enough for a C-130, so it will have to be at least a mile long. Plan to get up there, spend a few days to find what we need. I’ve got to hammer out the assault plans.”

“No. If we’re going to pull this plan off, I’ve got to keep seeing Britnell. His ego is too fragile. If I leave now, he’ll go to pieces. Even for a few days. Can’t you do it when you get back?”

Silence. Harding held up his hands. “Britnell can wait.”

Vikki bit her lip. She couldn’t believe that he was dismissing the whole reason for what she was doing. She spoke with an edge to her voice. “If we steal those nukes, the U.S. will take so much heat they’ll be forced to upgrade security, hopefully even get rid of most of their arsenal. If NUFA wants to bring the country to its knees, this is the way to do it. And that means working through Britnell.”

“Look, these mercenaries are running the assault,” Harding snapped. “They can’t fly in here unless we find a staging area. They’re the key — not Britnell. And they’re pretty dammed serious about it, too.”

“Screw the mercenaries. If they’re threatening you, then they don’t really care about the nukes. Remember why we got involved with NUFA in the first place: to get rid of the nukes. That’s the only thing that counts. Let’s do what we came to do.”

Harding slammed a hand against the wall. They remained silent for some time, staring at each other.

Jumbled thoughts roared through Vikki’s mind. The nukes, she thought. There’s nothing more important than getting rid of the nukes. If that wasn’t true, then she wouldn’t be leading Britnell on — having sex with the airhead every moment they were together.

Or Harding, as it was turning out. The sacrifices were piling up, but the end in sight seemed ever smaller, constricting.

Harding spoke with his back to her. He picked up his bags. “Do what you have to. But remember, no staging area, no raid. It’s as simple as that. I’m going to Baja.”

“So this is a Jolly Green Giant.”

The flight-suited man whirled and shot a glance at McGriffin’s name tag. “That’s right, sir. Actually it’s a highly modified Super Jolly Green. I’m Captain Manny Yarnez. I’ll be taking you up today.”

“How do you do, Manny. Bill’s the name.”

Manny returned McGriffin’s handshake with a firm grip. Red-haired and lithe, Manny’s infectious grin sparkled. The airman who had escorted McGriffin out to the flight line backed away to the staff car.

A flight-suited master sergeant who looked at least five years older than McGriffin walked around the craft, completing a preflight checklist. He nodded to McGriffin as he passed.

Manny squinted at McGriffin’s pilot wings. “Fixed wing?”

“C-17’s for thirteen years.”

Manny whistled. “Must be nice. We get our share of Globemasters through here.”

McGriffin looked wistful. “I’ve noticed.” He started to warm up to the chopper pilot.

Manny motioned for McGriffin to follow him around the craft. He walked behind the master sergeant, quickly looking over the blades and ensuring all panels were closed. Manny reached inside the cockpit and hauled out a flight log. He scanned the names and dates, then nodded to himself. “Looks like we’re in luck. She’s good for another ten hours.”

McGriffin looked along the helicopter’s side. The skin looked strange in the sunlight. It was dull black, devoid of any shine. The rotor assembly was encased in the same material. Examining the skin closer, he couldn’t even see where the sun reflected. He rubbed a finger against the fuselage; the skin was ice cold. “What have you guys painted this with?”

Ducking back around to the opposite side, Manny swung up into the craft. McGriffin hesitated, then followed. Manny said absently, “It’s a radar absorber. It cuts our cross section down to almost zero. That, the exterior design and the electronic countermeasure gear add about five hundred pounds to our weight. The drawback is that the paint also absorbs heat like crazy but doesn’t radiate it, so it heats up fast inside. That keeps us from being a sitting duck for infrared sensors, but we lose five pounds from sweating every time we fly.” He motioned for McGriffin to climb into the jump seat behind the pilot’s seat. Strapping himself in, he turned and grinned back at McGriffin.

“They’re adding all kinds of bells-and-whistles to our birds. I guess they’ve forgotten we’re supposed to be rescue. They tried to redesignate us as SH-53’s, but we nearly revolted. If they wanted stealth capability, they should have bought some more B-2’s and left us alone. But that’s politics for you.” He scanned flight line. “As soon as Lieutenant Nederman gets out here, we’ll be ready to blast off.”

McGriffin leaned forward in his seat. “Sorry about the short notice. I’m trying to hit most of the units on base while I still have some free time.”

“S’all right. Have you been up yet?”

“Not here. I have a private pilot’s license, but haven’t gotten a chance to check out a plane. In fact, that sounds like a good idea. I’d appreciate you showing me around the whole base.”

“Good. We’ll give you the VIP tour then. Just sit back and enjoy.”

A young lieutenant climbed on board, interrupting Manny. Manny shot a glance over his shoulder. “You ready, Bill?” Manny didn’t wait for McGriffin’s answer. Flicking on his mike, he gave a thumbs-up to the master sergeant in the rear of the craft. The flight engineer flipped on the helicopter’s auxiliary power unit; a whine split the air. Manny turned; he had a twinkle in his eye. “Let me know if you get airsick.”

McGriffin snorted. Me? Airsick in a helicopter? He was going to like this guy.

The ocean was two miles away, but Harding could hear the deep sound of waves crashing against the craggy coastline. Humidity permeated the air. The dirt landing strip ran past the Cessna, stretching out until it ended in a jumble of boulders. The sky was cloudless, and the blueness was so deep it reminded Harding of the flight down here when he looked out the window and saw the Sea of Cortez stretching out below. Miles above any pollution, when he looked up he had felt as if he could see the stars.

It was a wild jumble of sunshine, desert rocks, shimmering heat, and ocean. Baja was an untamed paradise.

Harding stood by the single-engine airplane that had flown him from Orange County’s John Wayne Airport. A helicopter and two small planes were secured at the opposite end of the runway. A large four-engine plane, painted solid black, sat fifty yards away. It was a military transport, but it bore no identifying markings. Harding couldn’t place the model, but it looked like a C-130.

To his left stood a mock-up of an Alpha Base storage bunker. Tin siding substituted for concrete walls, but the effect was the same: it presented a monolithic fortress to conquer.

A set of four fences ran on the other side of the bunker. The facility was not to scale, but it gave the terrorists something to practice with.

They were alone, the nearest people tens of miles away. Do’brainese guards ensured their privacy, driving back approaching fishermen and enterprising four-wheelers coming down from the north.

Standing in front of Harding, General Ashtah looked resplendent in his Do’brainese uniform: gold piping, flashy ribbons, jaunty cap. Harding snorted; the general also looked like a tin soldier. Old and wheezing, the officer acted as if he were in the midst of his last hurrah.

A group of fifty men lounged behind the general, eating assorted fruits and laughing quietly among themselves. They sprawled over rusting jeeps. A few managed to find some shade under the aircraft’s wing. For the most part they seemed content to rest instead of work. A few pointed comments drifted from the group.

One man stood apart from the others. Erect and impeccably dressed in a creased khaki uniform, the man appeared to be the real leader of the group; he carried himself differently from the Do’brainese general who now had Harding’s attention.

Harding recalled the Do’brai connection that had brought him here: in a daring attempt to kidnap the President of the U.S. and force America’s hand for supporting Third World demands, Do’brai had lost face when the kidnapping had failed. And failed spectacularly. An American rescue mission had not only brought back the President, but had also brought back the Do’brainese general responsible for planning the coup.

No wonder these guys want revenge, Harding thought. And they couldn’t have picked anyone better than me to pull this together.

Harding smiled and said, “General Ashtah, my associate, Vikki Osborrn, has been instrumental in our effort to gain entry into Alpha Base. She has gained the confidence of one of the guards, and he has brought her into his circle of friends.”

General Ashtah removed his cap and wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. He smiled crookedly and spoke excellent English. “Yes, Vikki is playing a very important role.”

“This is not a game, General.”

“No, it is not. But nevertheless, I wanted your personal assurance that this operation will not fail.”

“It won’t. There is too much at stake.”

“Ah, yes,” said General Ashtah slowly. He swiped at his brow. “And if something goes wrong—”

“I said it won’t,” interrupted Harding.

“It always does,” said Ashtah gently. He put his cap back on and motioned with his hand. “Here, let us walk and enjoy the view.”

Harding and Ashtah walked abreast of each other. The general strolled with his hands in his pockets. They walked away from the crude runway toward a field of boulders.

Once out of range of the men, General Ashtah toed a rock. “Have you ever been to the Baja peninsula, Dr. Harding?”

“No.”

The general bent over and picked up the rock. He turned it over in his hand. “It is a beautiful place. Sunny, desolate — it is almost like my home of Do’brai, except for this humidity.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his brow. “The Mexican government has given us permission to use this little spot with no strings attached.”

Harding looked impatient. “What’s your point?”

The general eyed a boulder and tossed his rock at it. The stone missed, then careened off another boulder. He wiped his hands and turned back to Harding. “My homeland was invaded by an American force not long ago. The event was not publicized, but we lost a great deal of face that day — as well as one of our generals.”

Ashtah waved his arm at the collection of men. “When I turn over Colonel Renault and his men to you, we are making a commitment to bring the U.S. to its knees for what it did to us. We could not do this without your help — and you cannot proceed without ours. It places us in a very vulnerable situation, Dr. Harding. If we are discovered, we may be invaded again, and this time, the Americans may not leave … ” His voice trailed off.

Harding brushed away tiny beads of perspiration forming on his brow. “My country is committing a crime against humanity, stockpiling these nuclear weapons. Anything I can do to prevent the United States from having them is well worth my life.”

“Your life may depend on it, Dr. Harding.”

“I realize that.”

“And so may the life of this Vikki Osborrn.”

Harding hesitated. “Vikki is not aware of Do’brai’s involvement in this operation. The only reason she is participating in the raid is to increase security at Alpha Base, to show how easy it is to steal a nuke, and perhaps to have the U.S. reduce its number of nuclear weapons. She believes this is purely a NUFA-backed operation. She is very idealistic …”

General Ashtah raised an eyebrow. “I do not want idealism to get in the way of practicality.”

Harding set his mouth. “She may be idealistic, but she is critical to the plan. On the other hand, no one is expendable. So if she gets in the way …” He shrugged.

A warm gust blew past, sending the general’s hat sailing. He grabbed at it and juggled it until he had a good grasp. “Very well, Dr. Harding. I am glad we had this meeting. I appreciate your sincerity.”

“And I appreciate yours, General.”

General Ashtah turned smartly and strode briskly to the military transport. Harding followed at his heels.

The group of men sprang to attention when Ashtah approached. He spoke sharply to them in an incomprehensible language. When he stopped, the men cheered. Ashtah turned and nodded to Harding before commandeering a jeep and driving away.

Harding walked toward the men. They formed a ragged semicircle in front of him.

One man, the man who appeared to be in charge, stepped forward. He took a deep drag on a cigarette and threw it to the ground. “I’m Macklin Renault, in charge of this unit. General Ashtah said that you’ll brief us about Alpha Base.”

Harding looked puzzled as he shook Renault’s hand. “Mr. Renault, I thought the Do’brainese militia would assist us.”

Renault smiled wearily. His blond hair contrasted with a deep tan, his eyes steady, unwavering, as they seemed to take in every detail. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself as Colonel Renault, Doctor. My men are commissioned in Do’brai’s army.”

“But you’re obviously not Do’brainese …”

Renault spoke softly. “Does it matter, Dr. Harding? The French have fought their wars for years like this. I hesitate to call us mercenaries — it’s such a strong word — but it’s fairly descriptive.”

Harding raised his brows. “I don’t think it matters where you’re from, Colonel. As long as I have your allegiance.”

“No problem with that. That’s what we’re getting paid for. My men swear their allegiance to me; they come from all nations and are bound to none. My orders are to obey your instructions. Now, I think you had better fill us in on Alpha Base.” He steered him away from the other men, toward the military transport.

“Just a minute.” Harding went back to the Cessna and grabbed a satchel. He lugged the brown bag to Renault. Clearing a place in the dirt underneath one of the military transport’s wings, Harding pulled out a handful of U.S. Park Service maps. Kneeling, they pored over them.

Renault pointed at one of the maps. “The crucial item is a staging area for the C-130, away from the public eye but close enough for a helicopter to fly in from Alpha Base.”

Harding turned red, remembering the fuss that Vikki had made. “We’re taking care of that. But what about your men? Who are the key players?”

Renault stood and nodded to his legion of mercenaries. “I’ve known these men for years. Some of them are like my own sons.” He searched the men’s faces for a moment, then pointed. “There, Frank Koch, the sandy-haired man sitting by the runway … and over there, Pablo Lesueur, the Jamaican by the mock-up bunker. Those are two of my best.”

Harding stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He squinted at the man called Koch; the man sat alone and chewed on a fingernail, silently looking out over the runway.

Renault said, “Koch was born too late for the second Iraq war. He joined the Army when he was seventeen and tried to get into Airborne. They refused him a chance for his third jump after he decked the Airborne chaplain, so he put in for helicopter training.

“The Army felt that it had to give people a second chance. So instead of a court-martial, he went to Fort Rucker, flying choppers. But at Rucker he decked his flight instructor after a shouting match on the tarmac, something about Koch sleeping with the instructor’s wife. That time they booted him out of the Army. Now he flies for me.”

Renault nodded next to the Jamaican. Tall and lanky, Pablo Lesueur kicked a small ball around with some men. Renault said, “Pablo joined me five years ago. I needed a guard to direct an arms shipment in at night. Pablo held ten flares in a row, keeping them until the flame burned down to his fingers, the last smoldering his flesh so he couldn’t open his hand. But the shipment got through, all because of him.”

Renault turned at Harding. “He’ll do anything, and won’t quit while he’s at it. The same goes for Koch.”

Harding stood and stretched his legs. He said, “Okay, sounds good. But what about the two hundred guards on Alpha Base? Can your men really take out the barracks?”

Renault narrowed his eyes. “We’ve got it down to a science, Dr. Harding. Watch.” He turned and snapped an order in Spanish. One of his men jumped up and dragged a mortar in front of Harding.

Renault pointed to a shack, hundreds of yards away.

Kneeling, the man took a sighting and adjusted the weapon. He looked up. At Renault’s nod, he dropped a round into the mortar. A blast erupted from the device. Seconds later the shack exploded in a ball of flames.

Harding’s eyes widened. “Impressive.”

Looking back at the map Renault said, “Dr. Harding, we’ve got a well thought out plan. My men will go over several variations until we’re comfortable, and they can execute it in their sleep. The key is to attack Alpha Base when they’re least expecting it. In the meantime, if you can iron out things on your end, I think one more meeting should do it.”

“Good.” Harding vigorously shook his hand. “We’ll have the landing strip and moving van ready this week.”

“My men can move out with a few hours notice.” Renault held out his hand. “But can you obtain the call signs and map? If we’re going to do this right under their noses, we have to have the proper clearance to land at Wendover.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Vikki — the woman working with me — is obtaining a detailed map of Alpha Base as well as the correct call signs and protocols.” Harding shook Renault’s hand. “I’ll fly down later in the week and accompany you to the staging area. Vikki will be in position to give us a go when everything is ready.”

“Good. That leaves one final item. Can you get hold of an IFF?” At Harding’s puzzled look, Renault said, “Don’t worry about what it means. If Vikki can get one, it will make our job a hell of a lot easier. Otherwise, we’ll have to drive right up to Alpha Base.”

Harding nodded. “We’ll work on it.”

“Great. Good luck.”

As Harding left, Renault commandeered his men into a semicircle around him. Renault pointed to various points around the four fences and mock-up of Alpha Base.

The Cessna rocked slightly when Harding climbed inside. He slammed the door and shimmied into the right seat, next to the pilot. The plane’s engine sputtered as it caught, revving up to maximum power.

The plane bounced a few times as it sped down the dirt runway. The sensation was almost gut-wrenching as the small craft finally hopped into the air. They climbed in altitude as they banked away from the peninsula.

The plane suddenly dove low, reaching for the valleys in between the northern Mexican terrain as it attempted to elude American border patrols. Pressed into service for drug interdiction, the Navy’s E-2 radar planes could spot them if they flew too high. The craft bounced in the thermals. Harding’s stomach flipped with every bump. But it was nothing compared to what was to come.

The man grinned at Vikki, but it looked more like a leer. He spread his elbows out over the counter and picked at his teeth. “Now, let me get this straight. You want this moving van for two weeks?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re going to deliver it back here?”

“What’s so unusual about that?” Vikki grew impatient.

The man straightened. The lot behind him overflowed with various-size trucks, everything from pickups to thirty-two-foot-long vans. Dirt piled up in a corner of the office. A board holding the vehicle keys was full. He pushed a set of papers across the counter.

“Look, lady. Most people are either moving in or out of Salt Lake. No one rents a moving van for two weeks and doesn’t leave town.”

Vikki scribbled her name on the sheet and looked up heatedly. “It’s none of your damned business, but if you have to know, my girlfriend and I are taking our time moving to a new apartment.” She pushed back her hair. It was hard enough dealing with this clown, especially after Harding had come back, making more demands on her time with IFF’s and other nonsense.

The man’s grin widened. “You know, if you need any help—”

“We don’t.” Vikki pushed the papers back to the man. She pulled out a wad of bills and shoved them toward him. “That should cover it.”

The man shrugged. Turning, he picked off one of the keys from the board and handed it to her. “You’ve got the first twenty-four-footer on the lot. It’s the one with the cabin over the driver’s seat. It’s due back the week after Wednesday, three o’clock sharp. And bring it back with a full tank of gas.”

Vikki swept up the key and turned to leave. The man called after her, “Don’t forget to double-clutch in low gear.” Vikki ignored him and headed for the moving van.