Assault on Alpha Base

by Doug Beason

  Renault scooted back up to her. “Here’s the plan, Ms. Osborrn. I want you to move to the side, and when I signal, roll off the bunker and start shooting. Don’t roll to the front—you’ll be our diversion while two other teams jump them. So keep to the side, away from us—got it?”

  Vikki nodded and grasped her rifle.

  “All right.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “We’re waiting for your shots—get moving.”

  As she crawled along the top of the bunker to the side, Renault flashed hand signals. When she reached the edge, Renault pointed at her and mouthed “Now.”

  Vikki took two quick breaths, brought the rifle over her head, and started rolling. She let off a succession of rounds.

  Shots peppered the bunker, ricocheting off the thick steel door and zinging into the dirt. Vikki kept her finger on the trigger. She held her breath, the world spinning crazily around, dirt grinding into her face.

  Someone screamed. A grenade went off over her head—then the shooting stopped.

  She pushed up from the ground. Rounding the bunker’s corner, she saw Renault and six of his men standing over a group of security policemen. She trotted toward the group. Renault looked up as she approached. He held his rifle to the officer’s head but spoke to her. “Good work.”

  He turned back to the officer. “One more time. How do we get into the bunkers?”

  The man slowly shook his head back and forth. “Fellows, Curtis L., First Lieutenant, United States Air Force. Serial number 765-2—”

  Renault toed Fellows. “Cut the act, Lieutenant. We both know we’re not at war, and you’re not a POW—the Geneva conventions don’t apply here. That’s why you’re going to tell us how to get into these bunkers. So what is it—do you cooperate or not?”

  Fellows wet his lips. Lifting his head, he heaved out, “Fellows, Curtis L., First Lieutenant—”

  A burst of shots sent everyone sprawling. Renault knocked Vikki down. He rolled over on top of Fellows, keeping the husky lieutenant pinned to the ground. A crash, then an explosion ejected material over the group. Smoke boiled over the adjoining bunker.

  Renault sprang to his feet. “Cover the area—” He stopped and brought his rifle up as a figure stumbled into the area.

  “Dr. Harding! What are you doing here?” Renault let his rifle hang. Vikki picked herself up and turned to cover the lieutenant.

  Harding staggered to the front of the bunker. He placed a hand on the massive steel door and wearily dropped his rifle. “I think we tracked the last of them down. We lost only five of our men, but we must have gotten twenty of the fascists—”

  “I told you to watch outside the fence. They could be mounting a counterattack any time now. And you lost five men doing it!”

  Harding scowled. “Yeah, that’s right. What about it?”

  Renault set his mouth. “Those five men were ten percent of my force. And that ten percent may be all that’s standing between us and the rest of the Alpha Base. The next time I order you to do something, you do it—understand?”

  “No I don’t. Just who the hell do you think is in charge here, Colonel? Your orders are to assist us.” Harding stood toe to toe with Renault. Neither man gave in.

  Renault slowly balled his hand into a fist, then released the tension. He took a step backward. “Very well, Dr. Harding. But may I suggest that any further incursions first be cleared by me.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “My men may become confused if they hear conflicting orders.”

  “Just make sure there are not any conflicting orders, Colonel,” Harding spat out.

  Renault twirled. He nodded to Vikki. She stood with a rifle covering Lieutenant Fellows. He knelt beside the young lieutenant and said gently, “One more time: how do you open the bunker?”

  “Fellows, Curtis L., First Lieutenant, United States Air Force, 765-23-9901.”

  “All right, I’ve had enough.” He jerked his rifle up and pointed to one of his men. “Get the youngest airman and bring him here. That one.” He motioned with his head to one of the five security policemen lying facedown in the sand.

  Renault’s men jerked the young security policeman to his feet. The man’s face was flushed. He breathed rapidly; a wet stain soaked his camouflaged battle-dress uniform. They shoved him toward Renault.

  Renault knelt before Lieutenant Fellows. He spoke softly. “You’ve got a choice. Either get us into the bunkers or we start shooting your men. Right here, one man every minute. And if we kill everyone, we round up some more. It’s your decision—you’ve got one minute.”

  Renault tapped his watch. Fellows remained mute, staring into the ground. Vikki shuffled her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Thirty seconds.” Renault glanced at Fellows. The lieutenant didn’t budge.

  The seconds passed. “Fifty … fifty-five … one minute. Well?” Renault looked up from his watch.

  When Fellows refused to answer, Renault searched out Harding. “Dr. Harding—would you care to do the honors?”

  Harding stepped up to the young airman. Vikki took an uncertain step back. Harding whipped a pistol up to the security policeman’s head. A bullet exploded, spraying fine red mist over Fellows. Renault turned back to Lieutenant Fellows and said, “Well?” The lieutenant stared at the ground, shaking. After no reply, Renault snapped, “Bring the next youngest.”

  Harding blinked, emotionless. He stood examining the pistol, running his hands over the barrel.

  He’s a changed man, Vikki thought. Did he still care as much about the nukes as he did about killing people? The deaths that night—first Britnell, because it was necessary; then those high school kids, because they might tell; and now these security policemen, because they had information they wouldn’t divulge.

  Renault’s men threw the body to the side. As they brought the next security policeman forward, the airman started sobbing.

  Fellows squeezed shut his eyes, his body racked with shaking.

  Again Renault knelt. “Sixty seconds …

  “Thirty...”

  “Fifty … fifty-five—”

  “Stop—stop!” Fellows’s body grew slack. He shook his head, crying. “Please. No more. No more—they’re … my men.”

  Renault straightened, his rifle pointing to the ground. “Bring the lieutenant.” Vikki and Harding followed Renault to the bunker to where a metal case was embedded next to the steel door. Fellows was shoved toward them. Renault shouldered his rifle and stepped up to the metal case.

  “All right, Lieutenant. Does this contain the mechanism to open the bunker?” Fellows nodded stiffly. “Good. That’s what I thought. Open it.”

  Fellows wet his lips. “I … can’t.”

  “Lieutenant,” said Renault wearily. “This time I’ll give you no time to decide. Either open the bunker or your men will die.”

  “Wait—I … I’ll open it. I’m not trying to pull anything. It’s just that I can’t do it without the keys.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Harding stepped up to the box and smashed his rifle butt into it. Another blow opened the metal door. Harding peered into the box and whirled. “There’s no keying device in here! What are you trying to pull?”

  Vikki stepped up. “Anthony—”

  Harding stopped abruptly.

  Renault raised his brows at Vikki. He directed his question to the lieutenant. “Well?”

  Fellows answered steadily, “It’s a hologram. The keying mechanism uses two holograph interference devices to complete the connections necessary for opening the door—”

  “Oh, shit.” Harding banged his hand against the box.

  “Shut up and let him finish,” barked Renault.

  Fellows wet his lips. “Both holographs are in the Alpha Base command post. I can’t open the bunker without them.”

  Renault turned and squinted in the distance. The Alpha Base command post lay in ruins at the top of the crater, a half mile away. The rest of the buildings in the complex still belched smoke. Renaul
t took a second making up his mind.

  “All right, tie up the remaining airmen—unlace their boots and use their shoelaces. When you’re done, strike out for the command post—we’ll be around the closest bunkers after we get the holographs from the command post. Any questions?” Looking around, Renault deferred to Harding. “Your choice, Doctor. Do you want to help tie them up, or come with us. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  Harding slapped another cartridge into his rifle. “Let’s go. I’ll cover you.”

  Renault pushed Fellows along after assigning one of his men to take the point. Vikki stepped alongside Renault as they started off. Keeping close to the bunkers, they tried to make it to the command post as fast as they could without actually running.

  The hijacked helicopters still hovered above Alpha Base, darting in between bunkers as they ferreted out security policemen. The crafts provided tangible proof of their dominance over Alpha Base.

  They traversed the half mile in six minutes. Vikki was out of breath by the time they peered at the command post from behind a bunker. The building was less than fifty yards away. No guards were visible.

  Mortar shells whizzed over their heads and exploded every thirty seconds—Renault’s men were still keeping the remaining security policemen away. Renault knelt, keeping a hand around Lieutenant Fellows’ arm.

  “Ms. Osborrn, as soon as we’re back, sound ‘Recall’ and direct the choppers to land. Order them to land deep inside Alpha Base so any snipers outside the base won’t have a shot. We’ll be back shortly.” He turned to Fellows. “All right, Lieutenant. You had better not be pulling my leg on this.”

  “What’s to prevent you from killing me the second you get the key?”

  “Nothing—except my promise to you as one officer to another.”

  Fellows snorted. “I wish I could believe you.”

  “You don’t have any other choice, now, do you?” Renault shoved him forward with his weapon. “Move it, Lieutenant.”

  Fellows stumbled forward, then started trotting.

  As they moved toward the command post, Vikki leaned up against the bunker and looked around. Renault’s men had spread throughout the bunkers, leaving her and Harding alone. Harding blinked at her and shook a cigarette from a pack. He lit it and turned away.

  Vikki glanced at her watch and closed her eyes.

  Forty-five minutes. After that, Renault’s safety margin was up, and who knew what kind of counterattack they were going to get?

  Saturday, 18 June, 2341 local

  Hill AFB Gunnery Range, Utah

  “Jerry—copy that?”

  Captain Jerry Allison hesitated before replying. His F-16B wingman was not over half a mile behind him, flying a loose “two ship” formation. It was bad enough being pulled out of a sound sleep on a Saturday night to fly in the Wing’s annual Operational Readiness Inspection. But now to be jerked from the ORI and routed to Wendover—the flight seemed a nightmare.

  The bomb range lay fifty miles to the north. The F-16’s were overloaded as it was: a full load of 515 rounds of 20mm ammo for the multibarreled cannon, two wing-tip mounted AIM-9J/L Sidewinders with four more on the outer under-wing station, and laser-guided cluster bombs on the inner under-wing station. The bird felt heavy to Jerry, but checking his fuel, the drop tanks gave them plenty of time to get to Wendover and loiter before he had to drop them.

  The Wing operations officer had been cryptic in the redirection. His tone and the dropping of a secure phrase convinced Jerry that the operations officer meant business. If their National Security Agency secure radios hadn’t been down for the ORI, he might have been able to get the full scoop as to what was going on. As it was, “utmost discretion”—especially from an ops officer who usually held the Wing on a tight leash—meant something big was up. Especially when they were told to seek out an HH-53 directing the “events.” Jerry clicked his microphone and spoke in clipped sentences.

  “We’ve been cleared to twenty-five. Let’s get there—use ‘utmost discretion.’“

  “Question, Jerry. What’s he mean?”

  Jerry answered slowly. “I’m not sure. This might be part of the ORI.”

  “That’s a rog. Hope we’re not jumped by bandits from Red Flag. Do those clowns know we’re hot?”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that.” Jerry rocked his wings. “Ready to break on my count: ready, ready—now.” Jerry pulled back on the stick, his arm resting on the console. Unlike older, conventional hydraulically controlled aircraft, Jerry had to keep a constant four pounds of pressure on his fly-by-wire control system. The F-16’s drew up to their cruising altitude of 25,000 feet before leveling off toward Wendover.

  2343 local

  Alpha Base

  Major McGriffin leaned over and peered out the cockpit. One mile below, three stolen helicopters patrolled Alpha Base. They ducked in and out of the Pit, corralling elusive security policemen who roamed the complex. As he watched, the helicopters moved toward each other. They dipped down into the crater holding Alpha Base, kicking up dust from their descent. Men streamed toward the HH-53’s, emerging from the shadows.

  McGriffin started to count the terrorists, but stopped after reaching thirty. Terrorists still lobbed mortars outside Alpha Base, keeping the resistance low. Several explosives racked the narrow road leading into Alpha Base from Wendover, pitting the access road and runway with craters.

  They’ve really covered all the bases, McGriffin thought. The few vehicles that attempted to approach Alpha Base were quickly destroyed, either from surgical strikes mounted from the patrolling helicopters or from a rain of mortars and rockets from the terrorists on the ground.

  Manny kept a running commentary of the assault over the secure radio. Once McGriffin had convinced Hill Command Post that he was on the up and up, everybody and his brother wanted to get in on the act. They patched McGriffin to the four-star general heading up Strategic Command and McGriffen gave a short synopsis; the general immediately instituted emergency war plans to reinforce the troops at Wendover.

  Several security teams from the Department of Energy, remotely based at the Nevada Test Site, were being airlifted to Wendover. Marines from Pendleton, sitting alert with the Air Force’s TransAtmospheric Vehicles at Edwards, were the closest ground troops available, but they were still over sixty minutes away.

  F-15E’s from Mountain Home, Idaho, and everything that Nellis AFB, Nevada, could throw at them headed their way. Tankers from Beale AFB in California were launched to provide air-to-air refueling. But they all had an estimated time of arrival of over an hour. McGriffin knew it would be too late.

  Manny handed the secure mike to McGriffin. “You’re going to have to take over. I’ve got to get ready for those F-16’s.”

  “What do you mean, get ready?”

  Manny switched on an outside strobe, landing lights, and all the cabin lights. “I mean that since we have a stealth exterior, I don’t want those hotshot fighter pilots running into us while they’re buzzing Alpha Base.”

  “Oh …”

  McGriffin turned up the volume on the secure link. Three voices were trying to talk at once. As far as McGriffin could tell, STRATCOM, DOE, and Air Force personnel were having a pissing contest, each trying to get a personalized update on what was going on. McGriffin tried to speak into the microphone.

  “Wait a minute—I can’t understand anything anyone is saying. Hold on. No, sir, I cannot understand you. But, I said—”

  He finally switched the radio off in disgust. “I’ll call them back when something changes.”

  Manny grinned. “Actually, I wanted to do that a long time ago. But I figured that since you’re the senior officer, I’d give you the pleasure.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” McGriffin searched the skies. “Any idea when these 16’s are going to show?”

  Manny consulted his watch. “We should be within radio contact anytime now. They’ll be broadcasting on ultra-high frequency. Their call sign is Falcon One and Tw
o.”

  “Really original.” McGriffin clicked to the prearranged frequency. “This is Wendover command post calling Falcon One and Two, do you copy?”

  McGriffin tried a few more times before a static-filled voice answered, “Wendover, this is Falcon One. Our ETA is five minutes. We’re dropping down to altitude. Can you confirm your identity?”

  “You’ll have to check with Hill on that one, Falcon One.”

  A long moment passed; the fighters must have been conferring with their squadron on their own frequency. “Wendover, I’m supposed to ask you—what’s a Loose Hog?”

  Manny frowned at McGriffin.

  McGriffin clicked his mike. “It’s the nickname for 34th squadron, a cadet squadron at the Air Force Academy.”

  “Roger that. What’s the other definition?”

  McGriffin snorted. “Loose Hawgs was also the nickname given to Loretta Heights, a now-closed all-girls’ school in Denver. Cadets dated them.”

  “That’s a rog, Wendover. What are your orders?”

  “Stand by, Falcon One. We’ll have it to you shortly.” McGriffin clicked off the microphone. “All right!” McGriffin pounded Manny on the back.

  The helicopter pilot smiled bleakly, keeping his hands on the stick. “Settle down. I’ve still got to fly this thing, you know.”

  McGriffin shot a glance out the cockpit. A group of terrorists gathered around one of the bunkers. “The fighters showed up just in time.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Manny. “Knowing those clowns, they’ll probably brag they saved Alpha Base all by themselves.”

  “At this point I couldn’t care less. Here.” McGriffin spread out a map and smoothed it on his knee. “Try to keep a watch on those guys down there while I try to vector our fighter friends in.”

  “Right.”

  Colonel Renault emerged from the building with Lieutenant Fellows. Renault prodded the young black lieutenant with his rifle. Mortars still zoomed over their head as Renault’s team ensured that no one was going to try to counterattack. The fires had subsided, but the air was still filled with acrid smoke.