by T C Miller
A search of the inside of the plane revealed he was the only occupant. He returned to the hatch area and examined the electronic gear, which was similar to setups he had seen in hostage-terrorist negotiation training sessions at the FBI training center in Quantico, Virginia. It was a relay system that allowed signals to be rebroadcast from another location.
A digital recording and replay system and a laptop computer were also attached to it. Bright red letters displayed a countdown timer that matched its counterpart in the Command Post. Similar systems were usually designed to allow remote operation of communications, as well as the control of lights and other devices. He shined his flashlight around the back of the unit and saw cables snaking toward the front and rear.
It was time to break radio-silence and let others know what was happening. He switched to the encrypted frequency. “Control, this is A-Team Leader, come in.”
“Roger, A-Team Leader, Control, over.”
“Be advised. . .Subjects appear to have vacated this location. As indicated earlier, two devices have been wired together. . .And there’s some comm gear up here that also seems to be wired into the two devices, over.”
There was a pause and a strong voice filled Jake’s earpiece, “A Team Leader, this is Colonel Jackson, are you sure they’re gone, over?”
“Affirmative, sir. . .I’m alone. Can’t see much outside from here, but the outside area also seems to be negative on activity. There’s an open manhole under the aircraft with some kind of steel frame and winch system built over it. . .Doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be there. Can’t see far enough into the manhole to determine status. . .You want me to search it?”
“Negative. We’ll have a team with a camera do that. . .Never know what might be waiting.”
“Yes, sir. . . .Haven’t touched the comm gear. . .May be booby-trapped. But, appears to be a relay and remote control unit, over.”
“For the nukes?”
“Could be. . .Also looks like it’s meant to put on a show for us. . .Connected to lights and speakers in the aircraft. . .Has a couple of antennas coming out of it. Only thing active at the moment is the countdown timer, over.”
“Copy that, Sergeant. . .Stay put for now. A sensor search under the plane is negative except for you and Flores. I’ll send in an EOD team to survey the devices and a security team to assist you in gathering evidence and securing the site.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake smiled for the first time in a long time. “Be nice to have company. . .I’ll put the coffee on.”
He sat back on his heels and pulled out a package of M&Ms from a pouch on his belt. The ritual of tearing a corner off the package and letting those sweet little ovals drop into his mouth helped him to relax and focus. It was his personal reward for a job done well.
The first few had just slipped across his teeth when a low rumble filled the inside of the plane and dust and smoke roared up through the hatch. A section of the deck about five-feet from him bulged and Jake was knocked over. He ended up sprawled on his back—dazed and a little deaf. M&Ms were scattered across his chest. Thankfully, the frame of the venerable old aircraft had protected him from most of the blast.
He raised up on one elbow and was about to stand when Colonel Jackson’s voice filled his earpiece. “What the hell’s going on in there, son?”
Jake shook his head and coughed to get rid of what felt like a dump-truck full of dust. It was hard to breathe and he considered donning the gas mask on the back of his belt.
He dropped the bag of candy and pressed the mike button on the side of his neck. “No. . .idea. . .what’s going on. . .sir,” and he coughed again. “Don’t think. . .it was a booby trap. . .Shaken up. . .still in one piece. . .just sitting here. . .Came from underneath the plane. Flores okay?”
“A little dazed, but yes. . .Says the main landing gear shielded him from most of the blast. No fire around the BUFF. . .Maintain current position. . .Recovery team’s almost there. . .They’re marking evidence and checking for unexploded ordinance as they go, out.”
Jake shook his head to clear of the effects of the blast and did a series of breathing exercises. Not everyday somebody tries to blow me up.
He grew tired of sitting after a few minutes and knew it would take the bomb squad a while to clear the rest of the area under the aircraft and get to him. He crept to the edge of the warped hatch and cautiously peered down at the gaping hole where the manhole had been. Dust and smoke blocked most of the view, but it looked like twisted metal and broken concrete were all that remained of the drainage tunnel entrance and the lifting apparatus.
Buildup of gas, maybe?
The briefings A-Team received before the assault indicated two concrete-lined drainage tunnels ran to a creek about two hundred yards away. They were six feet in diameter, with a six-inch deep channel in the bottom. Electrified Titanium bars with 440 volts of flesh-frying power blocked access at the creek end of the tunnel.
Security teams had been stationed at those exit points since the initial attack and reported no disturbances in the metal grates that covered the titanium bars. The only thing manmade they found within twenty feet of the openings were some crushed beer cans and an old plastic bait bucket. They were blocked from any further search of the tunnels because the grates could only be opened from the inside.
Jake switched over to the operational frequency and listened to reports flowing in from other units.
“Ops, this is Tac Unit 3. . .Completed search of Alert Pad. . .
No sign of subjects, over.”
“Roger that, TU-3. Report to Lieutenant Colonel Winfield for further assignment. TU-2, say status, over.”
“Control, TU-2 at the moving van clearing weapons and ammo left behind by unknowns. Four hostages unaccounted for. . .thirteen are secure, with only minor injuries, over.”
“Hold them in place. . .Paramedics will be there shortly. They have anything to say?”
“Negative. . .Most are angry at having been overpowered. Seem to think their meals were drugged and weapons jammed during the attack, over.”
“Investigators are on the way to debrief them. Have passenger buses arrived, over?”
“Affirmative, Control. . .Hostages are sitting inside them.”
“Good, TU-2, you’re clear for the moment. TU-1, anything from the moving van driver?”
“TU-1. . .Driver says he was hijacked from a truck stop on I-80 by masked men. Shaken up and unable to provide ID on any of the perps. . .Kept him blindfolded and tied up in the cab, over.”
“Copy that, TU-1.”
“Control, TU-2, over.”
“TU-2, whatcha got?”
“One hostage is a vegetarian and brings his own lunch. . .Appears to be the only SRT member who wasn’t drugged. . .Reports strange behavior from other members. Says they were lethargic and seemed confused, over.”
“Control to TU-1, copy that?”
“Affirmative, Control, we’ll talk to him first. . .Rolling up on their twenty as we speak, over.”
“TU-2, Control. . .Have the vegetarian at the front of the line.”
“Roger that, Control is on it.”
***
CHAPTER 13
MOBILE COMMAND POST-ALERT PAD
“Damn, Bart. . .news keeps getting worse,” J.J. spoke softly into the radio. He had asked for hourly updates on the situation in the Alert Pad—although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear one now. “Four SRT members dead?. . .Did I hear that right?”
“’Fraid so. . .According to Chief Fritz.” Chief Master Sergeant Bill Fritz was First Sergeant of the Bomb Wing. “Didn’t respond to a roll call and they found their bodies under the moving van covered with a tarp.”
“I’ll call Colonel Bates when we’re done and offer my condolences. Is Mortuary Services on site?”
“Not now. . .picked up the bodies and they’ll will notify the families. . .We’re coordinating everything through the Bomb Wing office.”
“Good. John Miller, new Chief
of Food Services, stopped by. . .Says they searched for trash from the mid-break meal to have it tested and came up empty. Intruders burned most of it. . . although they left a couple of fifty-five gallon drums behind the moving van filled with ashes. CSU is sending them in for analysis. . .Won’t have results for a while.”
“Certainly lends support to the drugged food theory,” Bart noted. “Couldn’t find the truck that was used to deliver the meals. . .or, for that matter, the driver. Asked Rancho Cordova P.D. to check his home. . .Found the government truck parked in his driveway. Driver and his wife seem to be in the wind. . .They put an APB out on them and their POV. ”
“Guess that’s about all that can be done at this point,” Jackson let his breath out with a whoosh. “Man, this has been one hell of a day.”
“I’m just glad we can shut off that dadgum timer. . .I was startin’ to see red numbers whenever I closed my eyes.”
J.J. chuckled. “I hear you. . .Raises the pucker factor when you’re staring at something like that. You get a handle on how these people managed to pop up in the middle of my Alert Pad?”
“Sergeant Thomas and I have a theory.”
“Thought you might. . .Let’s hear it.”
“We studied maps and geological features of this area and found there was a placer mining operation here a hundred years ago. . . .”
Colonel Jackson interrupted, “Placer mining?”
“Old method not used anymore. They pumped water under extremely high pressure through what looked like huge fire hose nozzles. . .Washed away trees, rocks and everything else from hills to expose the gold ore underneath. Most of the dirt washed down the river, leaving the two and three-story high piles of rocks. . .”
“What do piles of rock have to do with my Alert Pad?”
“They’re all around it.”
“So?”
“Placer mining missed a lot of gold and didn’t touch what was deep underground. Experienced deep-rock miners were brought in to dig mine shafts under the area. We think the subjects used one of those abandoned shafts to dig up into the Alert Pad drainage system.”
“Seems a little far-fetched. . .How would they tie all that together? They’d have to have somebody familiar with the area and the know-how to bypass the intrusion alarms in the tunnel. . .Plus a construction background.”
“Our thoughts too,” Bart replied.
“Maybe they did pull off some kind of Houdini act, but you have to admit. . .seems a little far out there.”
“Might be a stretch, but don’t see how else they could’ve popped up in the middle of the pad and then disappeared without a trace. Sensors picked up squat the whole time. . .On the other hand, we didn’t use ground penetrating radar. . .No reason to suspect they’d come from below ground. It all sounds like some kind of Hollywood film plot.”
“Does, doesn’t it? J.J. replied. “Good work.”
“Well, as my mama used to say, ‘Even a blind sow finds an acorn now and then.’”
“Except you seem to do it more often than not.”
“Thanks, J.J. . . .’ppreciate the compliment.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. . . .Although, from working with you, I know it won’t. Keep it up and the 0-6 Board will give you wings and you’ll be gone somewhere to take over a squadron.”
“Stranger things have happened. . .Except, truth be told, I don’t want to leave Mather.”
“Really? Figured a hard-charger like you couldn’t wait to make full-bird.”
“Didn’t think I’d ever like settling in one place, but the quiet life sorta grows on you.”
“Right. . .Then all of this comes along. . .Shakes you up a little.”
“Speaking of that, I’d better get back to searching for evidence.”
“Guess I’ll make that call to Bates. . .then join you at the Alert Pad.”
CONSORTIUM HEADQUARTERS
CENTRAL EUROPE
The conference room could have been in the corporate headquarters of any Fortune 500 company. Dark paneling lined the walls and a crystal chandelier hung over a thirty-foot ebony-wood table lined with high-backed upholstered arm chairs. The smell of lemon-scented furniture oil competed with freshly-cut exotic flowers to lend an air of quiet tranquility.
A dozen senior managers in custom-tailored suits offered their attention to one of five partners of the international intelligence organization. He and his four associates were usually referred to as the Commission and directed the affairs of the larger group.
Bernard Bergstrom, Acting Director of North American operations finished a lengthy report of progress since assuming his current position and sat down.
The Commissioner took a leisurely drink from a crystal goblet. “The establishment of the consolidated headquarters in an abandoned underground ICBM site near Deer Trail, Colorado is proceeding slower than the original schedule dictated. . . .Why is this so?”
Bergstrom wiped his sweating brow with a handkerchief monogrammed with a double B as his heart pounded. “We had considerable difficulty adapting the underground silo for the communications antennas. . .”
“That was my idea and quite clever. . .if I do say so myself.”
“Yes, being able to retract them when not in use will certainly help to keep a lower profile,” Bergstrom noted. “On the other hand, it has demanded much time and money.”
“I can see where it might, since the silo is over forty years old. The initial budget was one hundred fifty million for the entire project. Will you require more?”
“Probably not. . .If more time is allowed in the schedule.”
“That is not possible. . .Events will soon transpire that require us to be able to rapidly respond to client requests. Consolidation is the key to greatly enhanced capabilities for us. Are there other reasons for the delay?”
“Yes. . .concerns about getting adequate power into the facility.”
“Will it prevent us from proceeding in a timely manner?”
“Possibly. . .I am hopeful this body will be able to provide guidance.”
One of the managers raised a finger. “Is there only one person obstructing us and, if so, could they be eliminated?”
“No, Mister Ehrlinger, the major impediment relates to the amount of electrical power. . .They are afraid it will put undue strain on their distribution system and they might not be able to recover the cost of creating new infrastructure. . .It is a small electrical cooperative.”
“What is the cost?”
“Three million dollars.”
The Commissioner interrupted, “A pittance. . .give it to them.”
“It is not the sum, sir, but the source. . .Under their bylaws, any expenditure over one million dollars requires approval by their membership. . .Which could take a year or more. The only exception is national security.”
“Therein lies the answer. . .I will arrange to have the money transferred to their accounts for a secret government project. Tell the local officials funds will be routed through a shell corporation and will be classified. . .Their constituents will never know the source and the administrators will be protected from scrutiny.
“Let me further clarify something for you, Bernard. . .It is imperative that we finish this facility in a timely manner. . .If you are not capable of managing the project, may I expect your resignation?”
The acting director was now sweating profusely. “I hope that will not be necessary. Elimination of the problems we’ve discussed should put the project back on the original schedule, with the exception of design changes. . .”
The Commissioner startled the group by slapping the project file on the table. “Most of the changes were my idea and are quite innovative! However, I can see how they might cause some delay. Have you calculated the cost of overtime to compensate for the additional work?”
“Approximately seven million dollars.”
He commissioner cleared his throat. “Unless one of you objects, I am going to approve ten million dollars to put thi
s project back on track. . .Is that acceptable?
Heads nodded in agreement and the Commissioner smiled. The Consortium could quickly and efficiently accomplish tasks that neither government nor traditional business would be able to undertake.
ALERT PAD-UNDER THE WING OF THE
BLACK JACK BOMBER
“I want what I’m about to tell you to stay close and tight, understood?” Colonel Jackson commanded. “Wing personnel say five nuclear devices are missing from the plane, as well as a highly-classified piece of communications equipment. . .The worst has happened.
“I just got off the phone with the Pentagon. . .The mission to return all devices will remain at our level. . .at least for now. We’ll continue to man the command post twenty-four seven on twelve-hour shifts. Off-duty personnel will maintain fifteen minute recall status. Check into billeting if you live beyond that. . .Now, how we can wrap this up?”
The group froze like an ice sculpture. Nobody wanted to become a lightning rod. Colonel Jackson waited a few moments and when nothing was offered, took a more strident tone. “Come on, people. . .I want some ideas.”
The Chief of Public Affairs spoke, “I. . .think we’re all still trying to absorb, uh. . .what happened, sir. So much doesn’t seem to make any sense.”
“Sense or no sense, we need a resolution,” Jackson replied tersely. “I’m getting a lot of flak and you know what flows downhill.”
They followed the chain of command, which meant they reported directly or indirectly to the base commander.
J.J. continued, “Every agency with an interest in national security will be down on us in a matter of hours. . .We need to make sure our ducks are in a row. Careers are on the line here and failure is not an option.”
There would be consequences for mistakes. Airman Performance Reports would contain statements like. . .after careful consideration, Sergeant so-and-so is able to formulate a measured response to a given situation. . .meant the person was slow to respond to anything other than normal events and tended to freeze in an emergency.