The Line

CHAPTER 8

“Major Keyes isn’t Q course-qualified,” Skibicki said to Boomer as the letter entered the tunnel.

Boomer replied by tossing the ID card and map onto the sergeant major’s desk.

“What’s this?” Skibicki asked.

Boomer quickly related going to the motel and his encounters there.

When he was done, Skibicki picked up the card.

“Let me see if I can find out what’s going on.”

“How?” Boomer asked.

Skibicki took an old spiral notebook out of a drawer.

“NCO network.” He flipped through until he found what he was looking for. He grabbed the phone and began dialing.

While he was doing, that. Boomer unfolded the map and studied it.

There were pencil marks in the upper left corner, on the blue next to the land. Boomer remembered something, but before he had a chance to take the thought further, Skibicki slammed the phone.

“He ain’t DIA.”

“What?”

Skibicki flipped the card to him.

“Your buddy there, John Regan, if that’s his real name. He isn’t DIA.”

“But he had this on him,” Boomer said, looking over the ID.

Skibicki gave Boomer a look normally reserved for idiot privates.

“Yeah, and the two guys we blew away had these too and they were doing some breaking and entering earlier in the day. These cards are their cover so they can go about their business. I talked to a sergeant major buddy of mine over at DIA headquarters and he checked their open and classified records. This guy isn’t listed in either.”

“Then who the fuck is Major John Regan?”

“It’ll take a while for me to check around,” Skibicki said. “We also have to consider the possibility that this guy might not be military at all. I think we’ve stepped in some deep and dark shit here.”

Boomer tapped the map sheet.

“Remember that water jump I told you about?”

“Yes?”

Boomer pointed at the pencil marks off the northwest coast of Oahu.

“Is that Gumbo Shark DZ?”

“Yes.”

“And those guys had scuba gear,” Boomer said.

Skibicki put those two pieces of information together.

“DZ coverage.”

“That’s the way I figure it,” Boomer said.

“Which means there’s a hell of a lot more going on here than someone simply wanting Trace’s manuscript.” Boomer sat on the edge of Skibicki’s desk.

“Let’s go back. You said Keyes isn’t Special Forces-qualified?”

“Right. His orders for command of A Company, 1st Battalion, were cut in DC — right at Department of the Army personnel — not at Special Ops Headquarters at Bragg. That explains how they can slot someone who isn’t qualified into that slot.”

“How the hell can they do that?” Boomer asked.

“Well, it’s like this. Someone with a lot of rank orders someone in personnel to sit down at a typewriter and type the fucking orders, then put them in an envelope and mail them. Whoever gets them salutes and says’yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full,” because the signature on the bottom has a few stars behind it.” Skibicki’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“This is the only job in the world where you wake up in the morning and they tell you, “Well, hey, bud, we want you to go and get your ass shot off,” and the only option in your bag of retorts is to salute and say ‘yes, fucking-A, sir.”

“Skibicki leaned forward.

“You still don’t get it, do you, Boomer? When the system says it will happen, then it will happen. They could have cut orders assigning an orangutan to be commander out there at Alpha company and the fucking battalion commander would have handed the guidon to a monkey.”

“I get it,” Boomer snapped back.

“I’ve played the game.”

But Skibicki wasn’t done.

“Those guys we killed could be Company. Sooner or later they’re going to backtrack to us, if they haven’t already. Our names are on that damn police report.”

“But what’s the CIA doing operating inside the States?” Boomer asked.

“I just said they might be CIA,” Skibicki said.

“There’s so many damn private armies running around sanctioned by the government it could be anybody. Hell, you guys in Delta are just the tip of the iceberg.”

Boomer leaned toward Skibicki and spoke in a low, measured tone.

“Do you think’ there’s a connection between these guys here on the island and 1st of the 1st.”

“If those are Keyes’ guys making the jump,” Skibicki answered.

Boomer pulled out the copy of the JAVIS report from his breast pocket.

“What about the plane for this water jump? If we can find out about that, then maybe we can get an idea what’s going on. We need to know if it’s coming from Okinawa.”

Skibicki started turning pages in his spiral notebook.

“That will take a little while.”

“I’ll give Trace a call and fill her in on what’s going on,” Boomer said. He went to the desk across from Skibicki and dialed Trace’s work number. When she came on the line, he related what had happened at the hotel and their discoveries so far. As Skibicki hung up. Boomer told her to come to the tunnel.

“The plane isn’t from the island,” Skibicki said.

“And it ain’t from the mainland. At least it’s not listed in the Military Airlift Command master files.”

Boomer looked at the message and considered the contents in a different light. “Why fourteen men and two bundles for a water jump? Why not two full teams? That would be twenty-four people.”

“Can’t fit twenty-four on a Combat Talon with bundles.

Especially if the bundles are rubber boats. Normal load for a rubber boat drop from a Talon is two boats and fourteen personnel,” Skibicki replied, referring to the modified ME-130 transport plane that the Air Force used for special missions.

“That makes sense,” Boomer said.

“Then it’s probably a Talon doing the drop. They’ll be able to come in low to the coast of the island and not get picked up on radar. Hell, I talked to one of those Talon jockeys last year, and he said they flew right up on the aircraft carrier America at wavetop level and never came up on the radar screens.”

“Plus they’re pushing bundles,” Skibicki said.

“That means ramp jump from a 130. It’s a bitch to get a bundle out of anything larger than a 130.”

“What about SOW?” Boomer asked, referring to the Air Force’s Special Operation Wing that had all the MC-13 °Combat Talons under its command.

“They’re not under MAC control. Anything on their location?”

“I checked that too. My buddy at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida says that two of their Combat Talons are deployed and he isn’t saying where, but I got the impression they were over in Europe supporting NATO missions. They moved the squadron of Talons that used to be stationed in the Philippines to Japan. It’s too early for me to be checking there.”

Skibicki tapped the phone.

“The problem is every time I call someone on this thing, the chances increase that someone’s going to get counter-curious about my questions.

Besides, I don’t think these people are going to be dumb enough to have the flight plan for this operation listed anywhere,” Skibicki concluded.

“Not if they’re using fake DIA ID cards for cover”

“Come here,” Boomer said. He led the sergeant major into the empty conference room and closed the door behind them. He pointed at the large map of the Pacific posted on the wall. “I agree that the flight plan for the aircraft flying this mission will probably be classified and we won’t be able to get a look at it. But how far is it from Okinawa to the drop zone here?”

“About 4,000 miles,” Skibicki said, having flown across the Pacific numerous times in his career.

“Mission range on a Talon without refueling is 2,800 nautical miles, which is a little over 3,000 miles,” Boomer said, figuring the numbers on a notepad. “Which means—”

“Which means if the plane is coming from Okie they’re going to have to inflight refuel,” Skibicki said, catching Boomer’s logic.

“Which means we can check on KC-10 tanker missions scheduled for the night of the jump. I’ll get on it as soon as they wake up. Most of the tankers in the Pacific fly out of Guam.”

“All right, let’s play with this a little,” Boomer said.

“Let’s assume it’s fourteen guys from 1st Group under Keyes command jumping in tomorrow night with rubber boats. What’s the plan?”

“It’s got to involve water,” Skibicki said.

“They could just as easily do a rough terrain jump into the center of the island.”

“I disagree,” Boomer said.

“A water jump is the most secure way to go. They can drown the chutes, get accountability for everyone, and come ashore together. They try a rough terrain drop on the island they could lose someone or somebody could break a leg.”

“We’re on an island,” Skibicki said, circling his finger around his head.

“That means we’re surrounded by water.

Odds are, they’re going to come from the water to do whatever they have planned.”

Boomer looked at the calendar.

“They’re jumping at 1200 Zulu on the second. What’s that local time?”

“0200 local time on the second — Saturday morning,” Skibicki calculated.

“Who’s jumping?” Trace asked from the door of the conference room.

“Sergeant Vasquez told me you were back here.”

Boomer quickly brought her up to speed, then went back to the problem.

“So what are they coming here for?” Boomer asked.

“And what do you think this means?” He reached into his pocket, pulled a ring out, and looked at it.

“What do you have there?” Skibicki asked.

“I took this off the man I knocked out at the hotel.”

Boomer turned it around.

“Class of’eighty-four.”

“West Pointer,” Skibicki said, taking the ring and looking at it.

“Whose is it?” Trace asked.

Boomer took the ring back and looked on the inside.

“Peter Killington.”

Trace shook her head.

“Don’t know him.”

“Let me run his name,” Skibicki said.

“Find out where he’s assigned.”

They waited as Skibicki made several phone calls. When he was done, his face indicated that the news wasn’t good.

“There is no Peter Killington listed on active duty or in the reserves.”

“Another person who doesn’t exist,” Boomer said.

Skibicki held up a hand.

“Just because he’s not listed doesn’t mean he isn’t in the service. I remember when I was in 7th Group our battalion XO didn’t get picked up for lieutenant colonel. When he sent a letter to the board asking why, they sent the letter back saying he had not been considered because they never saw his file. He didn’t exist.

“Turns out, his previous assignment was with the ISA-Intelligence Service Agency,” Skibicki clarified for Trace.

“A high-speed unit that did a lot of covert work. People in that unit are buried deep and their records pulled.”

“So you’re saying these people could be military but working under deep cover,” Trace said.

Boomer nodded.

“You won’t find my name listed anywhere at the Department of the Army.

But that still brings us back to the question: who are these guys working for?”

A thought struck him.

“Decker!” Seeing the looks on their faces, he explained.

“Colonel Decker — he was here in the tunnel the other day. He’s the one who—” Boomer paused as he realized what he was about to say. Then all the pieces came together, and Boomer staggered back. He grabbed a chair to steady himself and sat down.

“Are you OK?” Trace put a hand on his shoulder and leaned over.

“Oh my God,” Boomer muttered.

“Oh my God.”