Assault on Alpha Base

Chapter 14

Vikki glanced at her watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. She put up her hair, keeping it from getting in the way. She then slipped off the tank top and quickly stretched her arms through the brassiere. Clasping the snap, she pulled on a dark, long-sleeve top. The bra was snug — it had been a while since she’d even considered wearing one — but there was too much at stake tonight to be caught swinging free. She just hoped it wouldn’t cramp her movements.

A quick glimpse at her watch caused her to move to the front of the van. Harding sat quietly smoking, the cigarette smoke immersing him in a dim purple haze. A single light shone from high above them, starkly illuminating the RV parking lot. Harding didn’t turn as he spoke.

“Is everything ready?”

“If Britnell doesn’t screw up, I’ll be at the end of the runway by a quarter after ten.”

“That doesn’t leave you much time.”

“It’s enough.”

This is it … everything we’ve been waiting for. She felt she should be excited, dizzy with what they were about to do. Then why do I feel like crap?

Harding took a drag from his cigarette. “Good luck.” He opened the passenger door and slipped out, cupping the cigarette so it couldn’t be seen.

Vikki wiggled to the front. She checked the mirrors, door locks, and finally the gas gauge before rubbing her hands across the wheel. She drew in a breath.

She pulled slowly past the moving van, and thought she could make out a shadow in the front seat. Squinting, she couldn’t see him. Wherever Harding had hidden, he made himself scarce.

The fence around the RV storage lot was locked. Base personnel must have bolted the gate. A chain cutter quickly put that obstacle aside. Once outside the gate, she secured the fence so it looked locked.

The road to the main part of Wendover AFB was deserted. Light spilled from the officers’ club, full of the Saturday night crowd. The chance of running into someone was slim — and so far she still headed toward the airmen’s barracks. Her excuse of visiting Britnell would hold up if she were stopped.

She left the barracks and enlisted club behind her after the next stop sign. She glanced at her watch. Five after nine. An hour and a half. She sped up slightly as she rounded the end of the runway. Alpha Base was still five miles away.

The van raced down a hill, then up the other side. As she rounded the top, the Pit opened up in front of her. Individual lights demarcating storage bunkers shone with a ghostly yellow tinge. High-pressure 400-watt sodium lights splashed their glare around the four fences surrounding Alpha Base. The main entrance looked like a stage setting for a Hollywood movie: strobes and red and yellow flickering lights flashed crazily off the metal mesh enveloping the front gate. Gargantuan vehicles moved inside the complex, slow, dark, and of uncertain shape.

Vikki stared, mesmerized by the sight. Alpha Base took on an entirely different character at night. Instead of the laid-back desert storage facility, it resembled a waiting behemoth, growling, eyes flashing, waiting to devour anything that dared pass its way.

She looked down. Her foot held the accelerator to the floor — she was traveling close to eighty. She let up on the pedal, slowing to the speed limit. The motion calmed her, forcing her thoughts away from Alpha Base. It was one thing to meet Britnell on time. It was another thing to be stopped speeding. She might not be so lucky knowing one of the security policemen this time.

She slowed further as she approached Alpha Base’s main entrance. A guard started to step out of the guard shack when she turned left for the picnic area. He watched her as she drove past.

If Britnell’s information was correct, security had tracked her once she was within five miles of Alpha Base. That corresponded to when she rounded the end of the runway. As long as she did nothing threatening, she’d be left alone. She wondered how conspicuous the van would be at the picnic area.

Ten vehicles were parked along the field with their lights turned out. Vikki drove the van to the opposite side of the field, turned off the ignition, and relaxed. Radios played softly. Once in a while the red taillights of a car would blink.

Giggling came from the general area. Kids parking, she thought. That makes it even better. Who’d think of questioning a van parked at one of Wendover’s necking spots? She fit right in with the military brats living on base with their parents.

The minutes passed. Nine twenty-five. Renault was landing in an hour. It was at least ten minutes to the deserted hangar at the end of the runway where she was to rendezvous with Harding and the C-130. Everything was going to go whether she showed up or not.

After another five minutes she started the engine. Where was Britnell? She felt sick to her stomach. All that work and the little jerk didn’t show. She had to warn Harding — if Britnell didn’t show, they wouldn’t have the IFF and were as good as dead. She jerked the van into gear and started off.

Approaching the entrance, she slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting a car—

A military four-wheel-drive — a Ford Bronco— pulled into the parking lot. Britnell!

The Bronco pulled up beside her. Britnell emerged. He looked carefully around. They were far enough away from the kids so as not to bring attention to themselves.

As he approached the van, she got another attack of the “ifs.” Everything was fine: if Britnell was alone; if she could make it back undetected — the “ifs” piled up even faster as he reached for the door.

“Hi, babe. I ditched Clayborn for a couple of hours.”

Vikki didn’t answer. She leaned into him with a long kiss. “I want to do something exciting tonight.” Vikki held his head in her hands. She kissed him hard. “Your Bronco. In the desert. Now.”

“You’re on.” Britnell jumped from the van and strode to the Bronco.

As they climbed in, Vikki leaned over and ran a hand over his chest. “Hurry.”

Britnell jerked the Bronco into gear. A wide grin covered his face. “It’s only been a day since I’ve seen you, babe.”

“It seems like a year.”

Britnell turned toward the main entrance. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Somewhere back off the main road. I want to get off while looking at Alpha Base. Where my man works.”

“You got it.”

Vikki smiled in the dark and leaned back in her seat. She stole a glance at her watch. Nine thirty-six — plenty of time.

Britnell turned onto the main road. They bounced as he floored the accelerator. The road whipped by. He looked over and caught her smiling. He patted her thigh. “Man, am I glad to see you. We’ve been going crazy doing one exercise after another. You’d think they’d back off a little. We’re guarding nukes, you know — not a bunch of airplanes. They’re not going to get up and fly away.”

Vikki pointed at a dirt cutoff, barely visible in his headlights. “How about there?”

Britnell responded by slamming on the brakes. He switched off the lights and turned. He drove faster as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Sage and cactus scratched against the Bronco, making a din that nearly drowned out the engine. Vikki yelled over the bouncing.

“What about those sensors you showed me on that map. Aren’t you afraid of hitting them?”

Britnell patted the IFF. “When we get close to one, this baby will sing out. Don’t worry. The worst that could happen is that we’ll run over one and they’ll send out a repair crew to fix it.”

Vikki was slammed against her seat, then lifted suddenly into the air as they ricocheted over a mound. Britnell spun the Bronco around until they faced Alpha Base. The lights were three miles away, but they still looked impressive.

Britnell turned off the engine. His eyes ran up and down Vikki’s body. “How’s this?”

“Perfect. It’s just what I had in mind.”

Britnell’s eyes lit up. “Oh?”

She smiled coyly. “Let’s play a game.”

He wet his lips. “Sure. Sure.”

“Give me your gun, and get undressed.”

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “What?”

“Come on.” She playfully pushed him against the side of the Bronco. “Your gun. You afraid, big guy?”

With his shirt halfway off, he handed her the pistol. “Be careful—”

Vikki giggled and ran the cold metal around his chest. She made tiny swirls, growing to ever larger circles. Leaning over, she gently kissed his neck. “How does that feel?”

“Weird. You know, with the gun …”

She laughed again. “Exciting, isn’t it?” Britnell finished taking off his shirt and started unbuckling his pants.

Vikki said gently, “That’s it.” Slowly she pushed his head forward, running the cold metal up his side. She set her mouth. The times he’d pawed her, thinking only of himself … he’d self-destruct on booze if he continued. She wouldn’t have to do anything at all to make him kill himself.

She felt a sudden twinge. If something happened and the raid was called off, would she be implicated in his death? Memories of Livermore flooded through her, Anthony heaving those bombs …

She ran the gun up and down his neck.

Britnell started to laugh. His head was underneath the steering wheel, his back parallel to the seat, and his chest was against his knees.

With her free hand Vikki pulled Britnell’s jacket over his head.

“Hey, what’s this?”

“Here’s where it gets good, babe.” Vikki brought the gun up, and quickly wrapping the barrel with his shirt, pulled on the trigger. A blast filled the Bronco.

Britnell jerked, then was quiet. His arms went slack, and what was left of his head fell to the steering wheel.

Vikki reached over his body and opened the door. He tumbled out onto the desert.

The Bronco was remarkably clean of carnage — the .22 drilled a neat hole into his skull, exiting the front of his head and leaving a gaping wound. His jacket absorbed most of the blood. Little evidence existed inside the jeep of Britnell’s death.

Vikki coolly scooted to the driver’s seat, swinging her legs over the stick shift. The key turned the engine over the first time she tried it. When she left, she didn’t look back.

Vikki cut across the desert, heading east, away from Alpha Base and toward the runway. Moonlight dimly lit the concrete apron that was used to unload the nukes. Low-wattage orange “ready lights” splashed their glow on the ground. As expected, the apron was empty of any cargo planes.

Beyond the apron, Christmas-treelike lights demarcated the runway. A series of strobes flashed in a sequence, pointing toward the main landing strip.

Vikki slowed and drove around the concrete loading pad. She tried a direct line to the runway, but a faint warbling sound came from the IFF unit. A tiny red light flashed angrily on top of the unit.

Vikki slammed on the brakes. The IFF — it’s detecting a sensor. The IFF cloaked her from radar, but the sensors would still pick up noise from the Bronco. She put the jeep into reverse and slowly backed up.

As she moved backward the warbling grew fainter and the red light flickered off. She had left the detailed map of Alpha Base with Harding, but she could still make it to the hangar at the end of the runway by going slowly and using the IFF to find the sensors before they detected her.

She headed north a hundred yards. Glancing at her smartphone, the digital readout flashed nine-fifty. Ten minutes before Renault lands. She turned the steering wheel back east and accelerated. On a hunch, she steered toward the runway — she now headed on a diagonal to her original path. Driving with one eye on the moonlit desert and the other on the IFF, she continued, slowly waiting for the sensor light to come on …

Wham! She looked wildly around.

Her front tires hit the access road. The shock jolted her. She thought about flicking her lights on, but decided against it. The road was fairly well delineated in the moonlight, but she had to squint over the steering wheel to make sure she was still on track.

She rounded the runway, speeding past the strobe lights without passing anyone. Slowing she searched for the deserted aircraft hangar. She almost panicked when she couldn’t find it, but when a patch of stars was suddenly blocked by its shape, she felt relieved.

Vikki slowed to a stop. She made out the moving van nestled against the hangar.

She turned off the engine and climbed out of the Bronco. No one was in sight. She wasn’t surprised— Harding had to be sure that she was alone. She stood by the Bronco and waited.

A rustle came from her right. She started to turn—

Someone grabbed her from behind. A hand covered her mouth and pulled her down. She tried not to cry out. Dirt and rock ground into her side.

“She’s alone,” hissed a voice. The hands released her. She brushed herself off as Harding appeared in front of her.

By an elbow he drew her away from the men and looked her over. “Well?”

Vikki brushed herself off. “It’s all set.”

“Show me the IFF.” Harding picked up a toolbox and lugged it with him.

They climbed inside the vehicle. Harding stuck his feet out the door so he could position himself under the IFF. If he saw any blood, he ignored it, concentrating instead on the radar cloaking device. Vikki pointed out the basic features as he asked questions.

Harding motioned for the toolbox and withdrew a socket wrench. Minutes later he pulled the IFF from its chassis. He turned it over and placed it on the seat.

“So that’s it?”

“What did you expect?”

Harding squinted at his watch. “Any time now. You cut it close, Vikki. If you were any later, we would have gone on without you.”

Vikki chose to ignore him. The repartee was getting tiresome. They had more important things to do.

Grabbing the IFF, Harding motioned for her to follow.

They moved quickly to the hangar. Pulled up flush with the three-story building, the moving van blended in with the surroundings. The back was open. Most of the men were sprawled around the truck, their weapons loose by their sides.

For all the relaxed atmosphere, Vikki soon noticed that the men were arranged symmetrically around the truck, facing so that the entire runway and access road were covered. Most of them smoked, holding cigarettes in the cups of their hands as she had seen Harding do earlier in the night. Her first impression of them as a ragtag group of terrorists began to fade as their professional demeanor began to shine through.

As Harding approached, the men sprang easily to their feet. They gathered around as he spoke.

“I want everyone to keep hidden until Renault gets here. No one moves until I give the all-clear.”

A faint droning interrupted him. Searching the night sky, Harding spotted the strobe and landing lights of the C-130. It came in from the west, its four propellers cutting through the air.

“All right, places everyone.” Harding bolted to the moving van and gingerly placed the dismantled IFF on the front seat. He grabbed a rifle and reached into the van. “Vikki, are you armed?”

“Yeah — Britnell’s pistol.” It was missing one bullet, she thought.

Harding pulled out another rifle, smaller than the one he carried, and tossed it to her. “Use this instead. It’s an automatic. Flip up the safety, but don’t use more than single shots. You’ll run out of bullets too fast if you don’t.”

Vikki caught the weapon and turned it over. The droning grew louder, escalating to a gut-wrenching roar. The men flattened against the hangar, hiding from any light directed their way.

Vikki moved over by Harding and watched. The C-130 was clearly visible now. Its wheels bounced on the long runway, landing at the midpoint. Smoke shot out from where the wheels hit the asphalt.

The engines reversed, slowing the transport and sending a thunder of prop wash across the field. They’d find out soon if the call signs Britnell provided them worked.

The plane kept moving. As it drew closer, Vikki could make out the dim cockpit lights. The crew inside the aircraft gave no indication that they could see the moving van or hangar.

“Come on, come on.” Harding clenched his rifle tighter.

The C-130 drew abreast of them. Slowing, it rotated in a hairpin turn, back toward the taxiway. As it turned, the rear compartment opened, splitting wide, looking like an alligator’s mouth. The loading ramp bounced as it hit the ground. The C-130 stopped briefly, and a dark vehicle emerged from the gaping hole.

The APC! Vikki ran over the APC’s characteristics in her head: bullet-proof and agile, it could reach speeds of over forty-five miles per hour, and yet carry ten men and their weapons to just about any target. Powered by an array of batteries, the APC made virtually no sound. As it sped toward them, the camouflaged titanium skin gave the APC a dull finish.

The C-130 pulled away, moving back down the runway as it closed its ramp.

Harding jumped up and ran toward the APC. With the plane departing to the opposite end of the runway, the APC’s small size surprised Vikki — filling the C-130’s cargo bay, it gave the optical illusion that the vehicle was monstrous.

Harding directed the APC to the van.

A hatch opened at the top of the vehicle. Renault pushed his head through the opening. “Glad to see everyone made it to the party.”

Harding slipped over and jumped nimbly onto the vehicle. “Stop screwing around and open the back compartment.”

Renault met his glare and nodded. A low whine came from the APC after Renault ducked down in the innards. The APC’s back end lifted open.

Harding glanced at his watch, then called out, “Get a move on. We’ve got a little less than half an hour.”

Four men transferred boxes of plastique to the Bronco. The one called Pablo Lesueur was in charge. They loaded the rear section high, then piled into the vehicle with their rifles. Colonel Renault spoke to the group before waving Harding and Vikki over.

“The communications squad is heading out. Are you going to have any trouble installing the IFF unit?”

Harding shook his head. “Not any more difficulty than putting in a cassette recorder. I’ll hook it up to the battery and run the antenna through the hatch.”

“So we can still go by our original schedule?”

“Unless something happens to the helicopter squad, we’ll go as planned.”

“Good.” Renault turned back to the Bronco and gave final instructions to the men. “Pablo — after you’re done, head off base. No one will stop you in the confusion.” They nodded, then started off. Vikki backed away from the Bronco as it left. Harding and Renault conferred for a moment before Harding broke away for the moving van.

“Vikki, I want you to operate the IFF. You’re the only one with experience.”

“What experience?”

“You used it getting here, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

Harding retrieved the IFF from the moving van and started installing it as the men finished loading the APC. For the first time since the night activities began, Vikki felt a chill. Then she realized her bra felt uncomfortable — she hadn’t noticed it until she’d let her mind wander.

Renault gathered the remainder of the men around him. Ten would be in the armored personnel carrier with Vikki, Harding, and Renault, crowding the APC; thirty-six men were with the helicopter team, still in the back of the C-130; and the four men in the Bronco rounded out the list. Fifty-three people against four times that many stationed on Alpha Base.

But they had the element of surprise — they knew what they would be doing next; the personnel on Alpha Base wouldn’t know what hit them.

Vikki shivered from a sudden gust of cool wind. Swinging up onto the APC, she took a final glance around before dropping her rifle down into the hatch.

Her ears still rang from the C-130’s close passing. She thought she could still make out the engine’s droning.

She hesitated. The plane should have been long gone by now.

She heard something. “Anthony. Anthony!”

Harding stuck his head up through the hatch. “What?”

Vikki pointed to the access road. A pair of headlights bore straight toward them. The sound she heard moments before cascaded. “We’ve got visitors.”

The APC’s electric motor whirred into motion as the C-130 turned away from the deserted hangar. The cargo ramp hit the runway with a thump, bouncing as the APC roared down the ramp. Once the APC exited, the ramp lifted and fit smoothly onto the back of the C-130 tail section.

Frank Koch pushed forward to the cockpit. Wendover’s runway stretched out in front of him. The lights lining the runway seemed to go on forever.

The lights brought back the memories. Since meeting Colonel Renault, Koch got to fly nearly all he wanted. He was checked out in so many helicopters, he’d lost count; everything from British Westland Commandos to Soviet Mi-24 Hinds.

And the beauty was that Renault paid him, doing all the dirty little jobs that a country itself could not afford to be connected with. It was a good life: in the army without the army bull.

Koch squinted through the darkness and made out a score of lumps parked by the side of the runway. One of the lumps was lit well enough to see — an HH-53 helicopter squatted on the asphalt, its blades almost touching the ground. An auxiliary power unit stood just inside the perimeter of light. The soft glow of two cigarettes pinpointed the technicians responsible for keeping the helicopter on alert.

As the C-130 taxied down the runway, Koch nudged the pilot. The man, also a member of Renault’s legion, slid his headset down around his neck. Koch shouted over the din, “Swing closer to the helicopters.”

The pilot shook his head. “Too risky. We’re being tracked by the ground control.”

“You don’t have to run the helicopters over — just get closer to them. Thirty-six men are depending on you not to blow their cover.”

“I’ve got my own cover to worry about. What the hell do you think they’re going to do if they find out I’m not from Peterson Field?”

Koch glanced out the cockpit window. “Don’t worry about it — just get us close to the helicopters.”

“What will I tell the tower?”

“I don’t know. You figure it out. Tell them you lost hydraulic pressure on one of your rudders or something. And don’t forget to slow down when you get there.”

The pilot straightened the headset on his ears. Koch waited momentarily to see if the man would do what he said. When the aircraft swerved toward the helicopters, Koch hurried to the cargo bay. They had to hurry — the C-130 from Peterson AFB would be here in the next twenty minutes.

The men sat alert on the webbed seating, rifles on their knees. Their entire focus was on capturing the helicopters and flying into Alpha Base. Koch jerked his head toward the jump master door at the rear of the craft.

“Let’s get a move on — when the 130 slows, get the hell out of here. The choppers will be directly in front of you. One more time: set the timers for 2300 and make sure the last five choppers on the right are clean. I don’t want anybody’s chopper blowing up because one of you nippleheads got too enthusiastic. Got it?”

Grim faces stared back at him.

“All right — let’s go.”

Koch scooted to the side and started handing out satchels, five to a man. Koch opened the top bag and did a random check: five pounds of plastique explosive, a timer, and a fuse. He slapped the satchel shut. Twenty-five pounds of explosives for each man — more than enough to take out the helicopters in the Wendover fleet.

Koch pushed his way to the rear. Laying down the explosives, he struggled with the jump master door. A red light burned above the door, signifying “don’t jump.”

Dry air spilled into the C-130 when the hatch swung open. JP-4 and diesel fuel raced through his nostrils. The HH-53 parking area was to his left and coming up fast. The C-130’s engines seemed to back off a bit, and the craft actually slowed. The pilot tapped the brakes and the craft slowed further.

Koch jerked his head at the hatch. “Get ready — he may not have a chance to stop. I’ll go first.”

He looked down at the runway whizzing by and tried to judge the speed. A parachute-landing fall would be a piece of cake; but if he jumped out now, he’d risk landing on the satchel. He decided that falling on twenty-five pounds of explosives wasn’t too swift an idea.

The C-130 turned slightly. Koch wet his lips and squinted at the runway. It was hard to tell how fast they were going, but they didn’t have much time left. The pilot was being too careful, not slowing any further, so Koch decided they had to go. He drew in a deep breath and leaped out of the craft.

He landed running, nearly tripped, and caught himself. Slowing to a jog, he crouched and waited for the others to exit. One after another the thirty-five men leaped from the C-130.

The plane seemed to linger too long after they egressed.

Koch waited. He wondered if the pilot even knew that they had jumped. If he stays any longer, he’ll draw attention to us, he thought.

The C-130 turned a wing away from the row of helicopters and revved its engines. Koch silently cursed the pilot, hoping he hadn’t blown their cover. He decided to wait a moment more before heading out.

Nothing stirred around the HH-53’s. It was a dead Saturday night — no activity that might detect them. He couldn’t see the security policemen guarding the flight line, but his men would take care of them.

He started for the helicopters. The men trailed him, each silently waiting to secure their satchels underneath the helicopters — and then to board a chopper for the assault on Alpha Base.

“Sir, they’ve landed.”

“What?” Major McGriffin struggled up in his seat. His professional military education lay on the floor, open to a chapter entitled Canals and Interstates: America’s Strategic Byways. He rubbed at his eyes. “Who landed?”

“Merry Zero Three, sir,” reminded Staff Sergeant Sanchez. The communications tech nodded toward the status board. “The reserve unit out of Peterson Field. They landed thirty minutes early. You wanted us to wake, er, I mean notify you when the C-130 arrived from Colorado Springs. Something about one of your classmates being on board?”

“Oh, yeah.” McGriffin stretched. “Thanks, I’ll check in with them.” He picked up a cup of decaf sitting on his desk and took a sip.

The coffee was cold. He forced a swallow and jammed the cup back on the desk. Yawning, he scratched and twisted his neck, taking in the command post. All the ready boards were green. Even the “threat condition” sign burned green with threatcon alpha.

McGriffin called out to Sanchez, “Can you get base ops on the line?”

The sergeant punched at the phone. “Line five one, Major — I’m ringing now.”

McGriffin picked up the telephone. “Yeah, this is Major McGriffin over at the CP. Have you got a roster on that 130 from Pete — Merry Zero Three?” A moment passed. “Well, do you know if they’ll be filing a flight plan to return?” Another moment … “That’s odd. When do they plan to rotate?” McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “Okay. Thanks.”

He hung up and stared at the desk. Chief Zolley moved to his side.

“What’s up, sir?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing.” McGriffin turned and folded his arms. He picked up a pencil and tapped it sporadically on the desk. Turning back to Zolley, McGriffin played with the pencil’s eraser. “Chief, something doesn’t seem right.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Zolley perched on the side of the desk and took a sip of his coffee.

“I’m not sure. I may be completely off base on this, but it seems peculiar that a plane would fly all the way from Colorado Springs this late at night, not remain overnight, and take off again.”

“Yes, sir.”

McGriffin sprang up from his seat and paced in front of the desk. “If I hadn’t known so many wild 130 flyers, I’d think nothing of it. Those guys are always on the prowl, and since they’re a reserve unit, they’ve signed up to do this sort of thing: go on temporary duty and party. It doesn’t make sense they would just leave.” He called out to the communications unit. “Sanchez! Get base ops at Pete Field on DSN. Find out if they’ve got a C-130, call sign Merry Zero Three, filed for Wendover—”

“The call sign checks out, sir,” interrupted Zolley.

“Checks out with whom?”

“With the weekly list, sir.”

“But not necessarily with what left Pete Field.” McGriffin placed a hand on the back of his chair.

“What are you saying, sir?” said Zolley slowly.

“Did you ever see A Gathering of Eagles, Chief?” Frowning, Zolley shook his head no. “I must have seen that thing a hundred times at the Academy— they were always pumping us full of that Air Force rah-rah bull during Basic summer. Anyway, there’s a spot in that movie where the wing commander loses his job because of an Operational Readiness Inspection. He wasn’t prepared for what the readiness team threw at him.” McGriffin nodded his head. “I’ll bet ten to one that’s what STRATCOM has done. They’re throwing us a ringer — probably got an ORI set up to catch us napping.”

“Major McGriffin.” Staff Sergeant Sanchez stood and held a hand over the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Sir, Peterson Field says no C-130 from there is anywhere near Wendover.”

“Are they sure?”

“Absolutely. They had planned a sortie and even scheduled an arrival time of 2300, but they’re having a freak snowstorm and all of their birds are grounded.”

McGriffin slammed a hand against the back of his chair. The command post grew quiet at the exchange. He nodded to Sanchez. “Thanks, Sergeant; I remember it can snow in June there.” He turned to Zolley. “Well, what do you think?”

“I kind of like your Operational Readiness Inspection idea, sir. But if the 130 said it’s from Pete Field — and yet Pete doesn’t know anything about it …” He trailed off.

“Yeah,” said McGriffin. He spun the chair around and plopped down in the seat. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he suddenly asked Zolley, “Did base ops get a look at the tail number on that 130?”

Chief Zolley’s brows lifted. “They didn’t say. Good idea, sir.” A minute later he put the phone down. “They can’t see anything. He took a long roll on landing, then when he taxied, lingered near the helicopter apron. When he refueled, it looked like he was all black — he insisted he could refuel for only fifteen minutes before leaving, too. He’s just been cleared for takeoff.”

McGriffin closed his eyes. “All black. It could be a Blackbird — one of the special ops birds at Hurlburt; but those guys still play by the rules.” He opened his eyes and swiveled around. “Any chance it could have been something out of Tonopah, Area-51?”

If the command post was silent before, it was as lively as a morgue now. Tonopah was the highly classified air base a few hundred miles north of Las Vegas, rumored to house the Air Force’s newest “black” programs — that’s where the stealth fighters and bombers started out, and other things that the Air Force never admitted existed.

Zolley slowly shook his head. “No way, Major. We always get advance notice about anything from there coming our way. We lock the runway up so tight, not even the rattlesnakes can get in or out.”

McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “They’re cleared to take off in five minutes — maybe I should raise Colonel DeVries …” He trailed off.

Just having a plane land and take off was nothing to get excited about. So why should he worry?

Because of Alpha Base.

Wendover might be hicksville compared to Tacoma, but Wendover AFB had a heck of a lot more dangerous “assets.” Like the free world’s largest repository of nuclear weapons.

“Chief, have base ops call the 130 back. I want to ask them some questions.”

Zolley spoke up once he raised the tower. “The aircraft refuses to acknowledge them, Major. There is incoming traffic, two jets on final, coming up in the next four minutes — the 130 is cleared to roll after the jets land.”

McGriffin drew in a breath. Five minutes. The command post is right on the runway — a staff car could race out to the taxi pad and get a visual on the tail number in two minutes. There’s plenty of time.

He made up his mind. “Chief — you’ve got the command post while I’m gone. Keep in contact with me at all times. I’ll take one of the encrypted cell phones.”

“You’ll have to use an open channel, Major. The secure units are on the blink.”

“What else could go wrong?” No one answered the rhetorical question. “All right, I’ll use the jeep radio.” The clock blinked, showing four minutes until takeoff. “Contact the helicopter squadron. Tell them about the C-130 loitering around their apron, and have one of their guys meet me out there. I’m off.”

As they cycled the door, he remembered leaving his hat on the desk. He fleetingly remembered a horse’s rear colonel chewing him out in front of the base gym when he had failed to put on his hat. McGriffin had thought at the time: you command what you know. Wearing a hat had been a big deal then.

Now he didn’t even think about going back to get it.