by Larry Bond
“Wait here,” the Special Forces officer instructed as he killed the engine and hopped out of the van. He was back in less than a minute, this time accompanied by a senior Air Force enlisted man. He waved them out.
“Chris and Katy Carlson, this is Master Sergeant Blue. He’s the loadmaster for this aircraft — and your personal attendant for this flight,” Stroud said.
Blue, a short, cheerful-looking man with a round face and a crooked nose, looked them over, then said, “Okay, Colonel, I guess you’re right. These two don’t look much like illegal aliens, after all.” He shook hands, first with Peter and then with Helen.
“Who you folks with?”
Helen smiled. “We work for the government, Master Sergeant.”
“Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Blue said, grinning back. He turned to Stroud and shrugged. “No harm in asking, right?”
The Air Force noncom waved them toward the C-17’s open rear cargo ramp as he headed across the tarmac. “C’mon, folks, let’s shake a leg!
Engine starts in five minutes.”
Helen looked at Stroud. “Colonel, I …” She faltered, unsure of exactly how to express her appreciation.
“You don’t need to thank me,” the Special Forces officer said.
He turned toward Peter. “You take care of yourself. and Mrs. Carlson here, too.”
Peter nodded somberly. “You can count on it, Mike.”
“I will. Now get your ass aboard that plane, Colonel,” Stroud said gruffly. He shook hands with Peter, hugged Helen, and then headed to the van without looking back.
By the time they caught up with the C-17’s loadmaster, the short Air Force noncom was already halfway up the ramp. “This is a cargo-only flight,” he explained. “There’re no spare seats in the plane, but I know a spot where you can both bed down. It’s comfortable and out of the way. Right now, only the pilot and I know you’re riding with us today, and I’d kinda like to keep it that way.”
“Understood, Master Sergeant,” Peter said. “We’ll stay low.”
“Don’t sweat it too much, Mr. Carlson.” Blue grinned again. “Hell, I’ve got room to hide a Brownie troop on board this flying milk wagon.”
The C-17’s cavernous fuselage held row upon row of cases and crates strapped to cargo pallets. The cargo pallets themselves were strapped to the deck. Moving carefully, the three of them picked their way along an aisle on one side, until the loadmaster paused. He plugged in the headset he was wearing, took one last look aft, and reported, “Ramp is clear.”
With a low whine, the rear door lifted off the tarmac and sealed — shutting off their view of the floodlit airfield and the rapidly brightening sky. Almost immediately, the jet’s four engines spooled up, the sound deepening to a full-throated roar that rattled through the cargo compartment.
Blue showed them to a corner of the deck where some mats had been piled and then left, urging them to get some sleep. “By the time you wake up, we’ll be landing at Dover,” he predicted cheerfully, shouting to make himself heard over the engine noise.
Helen settled herself on one of the mats, oddly grateful for the deafening roar of the C-17”S jet engines.
Although the din might make sleep hard to come by, it would also make it difficult to talk. That was a plus. She still couldn’t believe that the Bureau itself had a warrant out for their arrest.
Dover Air Force Base, Delaware
Colonel Peter Thorn woke up fast, immediately aware of a change in the pitch of the C-17’s jet engines and the aircraft’s altitude. They were descending. He looked across the pile of cargo mats they’d used as a makeshift camp bed. Helen was already awake. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and tried a tentative smile.
Master Sergeant Blue appeared from the front of the plane. “Glad you folks got some sack time.
We’re almost there. We should be on the ground in maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“What’s the drill once we touch down?” Thorn asked.
“Well, you can’t take the crew bus, so you just wait for a clear spot and then get off this crate,” Blue said.
“Don’t wait too long, though: The crews usually start unloading within fifteen to thirty minutes.”
“Will do, Sergeant.” Thorn nodded. He held out his hand again.
“Listen, I really appreciate this. I just hope it won’t get you in any trouble.”
Blue shrugged. “Colonel Stroud’s an okay guy — for a grunt. If he says what you’re doing is important, that’s good enough for me.” Then the Air Force noncom grinned. “Besides, I got my twenty in already. What’re they gonna do? Retire me so I can loaf around the house or go to work for United Airlines — and pull down twice the money?”
After wishing them good luck, Blue headed forward to strap in for the landing.
Thorn summoned up what he knew about Dover. He’d flown into and out of the base several times. It was a major transshipment point for military cargo going to Europe or being sent back from there. It contained the hangars, workshops, warehouse space, cargo-handling equipment, and personnel housing needed to maintain more than seventy transport aircraft. Over seven thousand people worked on the base full-time, and even in the age of a downsized U.S. military, Dover Air Force Base was huge.
He was counting on that. Once they were off the flight line, security should be much looser. Like all good plans, the essence of his was simplicity. Get away from the plane fast, get off the base faster, and then get back into civilian clothes. And if Sam Farrell’s contact was there to meet them, leaving Dover should be a piece of cake.
The C-17 touched down, bumping heavily on the runway as it slowed and then swung off onto one of the taxiways to the apron. Thorn turned as Helen touched his shoulder.
“Suppose they don’t open the ramp right away?” she asked.
“I can open it if I have to,” he assured her. “Or we slip forward to the cockpit and get out from there.”
Thorn knew the layout of all U.S. military cargo aircraft intimately.
Not only had he ridden them hundreds of times, but, as a Delta Force commander, he’d intensively studied their systems and blueprints — just in case he and his troops had needed to recapture a plane held by terrorists. Of course, he thought wryly, he’d never counted on using that knowledge to smuggle himself back into the United States as a fugitive.
The C-17 shuddered to a complete stop. Its engines spooled down — the sound fading from a dull roar to a high-pitched whine to silence.
Almost immediately, the rear ramp began opening — flooding the cargo compartment with sunlight, fresh air, and a lot of outside noise.
After so many hours spent in the plane’s dimly lit interior, the sunshine was almost blinding.
With his eyes narrowed against the glare, Thorn led Helen further back — away from the open ramp. He could hear diesel engines outside, and voices. If the Dover ground crews were moving faster than scheduled to unload this plane, he and Helen were likely to find themselves in real hot water real fast. They pressed back between two cargo crates.
After five long minutes counted out on his watch, the voices died away.
Helen nodded toward the opening. “We go?”
“We go,” Thorn agreed.
He led the way back toward the ramp, staying close to the fuselage and in the shadows. The vast stretch of concrete apron behind the transport was empty.
Helen frowned. “No sign of Sam Farrell’s contact?”
Thorn shook his head, still scanning the opening. He could see fuel trucks and other vehicles moving across the taxiway, but they were still hundreds of meters off. If he and Helen were going, this was as good a chance as they were going to get. He shouldered the duffel bag Mike Stroud had given them at Ramstein.
Helen touched his sleeve. “Shouldn’t we wait?”
“Too dicey,” he said. “Maybe Sam couldn’t get through to anybody.
Maybe whoever he did find got cold feet after seeing that “Wanted’ order with
our names plastered all over it.”
Thorn led the way down the ramp and out onto the apron, trying to act as though stepping off a cargo-only C-17 were the most normal thing in all the world. Act natural, he thought. Most people zeroed in on strangers who seemed shifty or uneasy. But if you strolled right on by as though you had every right to be there, many people, including security guards, mistook that confidence for a legitimate purpose.
He moved around the side of the massive aircraft, squinted into the morning sun, and then nodded toward a long row of hangars already shimmering in the June heat. “There’s a gate just beyond them. It’s not the normal exit for arrivals, but we should be able to go through—”
“Morning, folks. You mind telling me where you’re headed?” a voice asked from behind them.
Damn it. Thorn turned slowly.
A man in a light blue uniform shirt, darker blue pants, and a matching beret had come around the other side of the C-17. His black boots were polished to the nines, mirrored sunglasses reflected the sun, and he wore a holstered pistol at his side. His name tag read “Thomas” and he wore sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.
Thorn nodded toward the distant line of hangars. “We’re headed for the base, Sergeant.”
“Well, sir, I’m sure you know that everyone’s supposed to go through arrivals processing,” the Air Force security policeman said flatly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction. “Which is that way.”
He looked them up and down, and Thorn suddenly felt naked without any rank insignia or unit badge on his uniform.
It was second nature for anyone in the military to scan a uniform for the rank of the wearer, and Sergeant Thomas was coming up dry.
“May I see some identification, please?” The noncom’s tone was pleasant enough, but he wasn’t smiling.
Thorn handed over his forged identification card, mentally crossing his fingers. White-faced, Helen did the same.
Sergeant Thomas studied them for a moment, then looked up.
“Could I see your travel orders, too, Mr. Carlson?”
Double damn. Thorn knew there wasn’t any point in lying.
“We don’t have any travel orders, Sergeant.” Time to pull out Mike Stroud’s promised get-out-of-jail-free card, he thought. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got a letter here for the base operations officer that explains our presence.”
He offered the folded piece of paper to the other man.
“You sure weren’t headed for the operations office when I found you,” Sergeant Thomas said dryly. He shook his head.
“Nope. I think you two folks better come with me to the security office.”
Triple damn.
Thorn eyed the Air Force noncom closely. Thomas had one hand resting on his sidearm, more to accent his authority than because he expected to use it. Still, he’d quietly taken two steps back, out of easy reach, and he’d positioned himself to face both of them.
Thorn tried again. “I suggest you read this letter.”
“I’ll let my boss read your paperwork,” the Air Force policeman said. “My orders are clear, and I’m not getting my butt fried for letting you two walk off a plane and straight out a gate.”
After a quick glance at Helen, Thorn shrugged, acting far more casual than he felt. “Fine, Sergeant. You want to go by the book, we’ll go by the book.”
The duty security officer was busy. He kept them waiting for thirty excruciating minutes before Sergeant Thomas even made his report. More minutes passed before Master Sergeant Blue and an irritated major wearing a flight suit with pilot’s wings showed up.
Thorn saw Blue shoot him a sidewise glance— a glance he carefully ignored.
The C-17’s pilot and loadmaster were ushered into the security office ahead of them. When they emerged ten minutes later, they didn’t leave.
Instead they plopped themselves down on chairs at the opposite end of the waiting room. The pilot’s irritated expression had now matured into one of near hatred. Blue looked resigned, like a man awaiting execution.
Sergeant Thomas came back out of the security officer’s inner sanctum.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carlson?” He held the door open for them. “You’re up next.”
Captain Forbes, the duty security officer, was a thin, strongjawed man with thick glasses and a sour look. He didn’t waste time with any courtesies. Instead, he crooked a finger. “Okay, pal. Let’s see this mysterious letter.”
Thorn handed it over without comment.
Forbes skimmed the letter fast, then took a more careful look.
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Have you read this?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Air Force captain ignored him. “It’s supposedly signed by a Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs, the operations officer for the 352nd Special Operations Group at R.A.F Mildenhall, in the U.K. He says I’m to cooperate with your efforts to return to the U.S.”
Now, I don’t like this kind of vague, covert shit. Not at all. Not on my post and my watch. You mind telling me what the hell this is all about? Or whether or not Carlson is even your real name?”
Thorn shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. I can’t discuss any of that.”
“Naturally.” Forbes tapped the letter for emphasis. “Look, anyone could have typed this damned thing up — even if it is on 352nd SOG stationery.”
Thorn kept his face immobile with an effort. For all he knew, that was exactly what Stroud had done.
“So I’m going to hold you two while I check this thing out. And I want some fingerprints, to verify those ID cards of yours. This whole thing smells.”
Whoa, boy, Thorn thought desperately. Our goose is almost inside that 350 degree oven. He saw Helen’s shoulders slump.
Well, Mike Stroud had given him one last card to play — and it was time to find out whether it was an ace, or just another joker.
He leaned closer to the security officer. “That would be a serious mistake, Captain Forbes. The whole point of this exercise is to avoid leaving a paper trail of our entry into the United States. And we can’t be fingerprinted.”
“Can’t,” the other man challenged.
“Shouldn’t,” Thorn corrected. He stood up and closed the door, then turned back to Forbes. “This is a CORNICE matter.”
The security officer shook his head, scowling. “That code word doesn’t mean a damned thing to me.”
“It does to your operations officer,” Thorn said. “Ask him what it means. But I strongly suggest you avoid using it over an open phone line.”
Forbes pondered that for a moment, then grunted. “Okay, goddamnit. I’ll just do that.” He swept the letter and their ID cards to one side of his desk and nodded toward the door. “Wait outside.”
Once they were seated again, Helen leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. “Good grief, Peter! I never knew you were such a smooth-talking, thoroughgoing liar.”
“Years of playing poker,” he whispered back. “It’s sure nice to know I didn’t lose all that money for nothing.”
Helen chuckled, “That’s right. Build up my confidence and then tear it right back down…”
She fell silent.
More minutes passed, dragging by while Thorn worked hard to avoid staring back at the two C-17 crewmen. Getting caught was bad enough for the two of them. But this was snowballing fast into a fiasco that might drag a lot of other good people down with them. The only small mercy so far was the fact that the FBI arrest order must have been sent only to bases in Europe. If Forbes had been given a copy with their pictures on it, he and Helen would already be staring through the bars of the nearest cell.
The outside door banged open and a silver-haired Air Force colonel holding a walkie-talkie strode in. He swept the outer office with his eyes for an instant until his gaze landed on Thorn and Helen. Then he headed straight into Forbes’ office.
Sergeant Thomas came out a couple of minutes later, still shaking his head in disbelief. He motione
d them back inside.
Captain Forbes was now standing beside his desk, while the colonel sat perched casually on a corner. “My name’s Callaghan, Mr. and Mrs. Carlson. I’m the operations officer here at Dover.”
He handed their ID cards and the letter back to Thorn. “I’ve explained the situation to Captain Forbes. I’m sure he now sees the error of his ways.”
The duty security officer tried his best to look indignant without crossing the line into insubordination.
“One of my people was supposed to meet your plane — but you landed early,” Callaghan explained. “Sorry about the mixup.”
“That’s okay, Colonel,” Thorn said with enormous relief, grateful they hadn’t wound up in jail within minutes of arriving home.
Callaghan glanced sideways at Forbes and then turned back to them.
“I’ve explained to the captain and Sergeant Thomas here that there will be no official record of this event. You weren’t on that C-17. You’ve never been inside this office. This meeting never happened.” He smiled thinly. “In fact, you don’t even exist. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly, Colonel,” Thorn said. He silently blessed Sam Farrell, Mike Stroud, and CORNICE whatever deep-black covert operation that code word represented.
“Great.” Callaghan swept his walkie-talkie off the security officer’s desk and motioned them toward the door. “My car’s just outside. I’ll tag along to make sure you get off base without hitting any more snags. And then I’ll have my duty driver take you into town. From there, you’re on your own.”
Once they were at the main gate, the colonel clambered out of the staff car and then leaned back inside. He handed Thorn a sealed envelope.
“A mutual friend sent me this fax last night.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Thanks very much.”
“Don’t mention it,” Callaghan said flatly. “And I mean, really don’t mention it. I never met either of you, remember?”
Thorn nodded his understanding. If he and Helen were caught later, the Air Force colonel had one possible line of defense — that he’d simply helped government employees claiming they were involved in some secret operation code-named CORNICE. But if they were caught, it would be far, far better for Callaghan if they just “forgot” to tell the FBI how they’d returned to the U.S. “Corporal Milliken here will take you where you want to go,” the colonel said. He shut the door and slapped the car roof to signal his driver to move on.