“Moresby?”
“Yes, this is Rainbow Two,” the professor said.
“Forget the Rainbow Two crap—the mission’s over. We’re under attack.”
“By whom?”
“The United States.”
“Is that so? What a relief. I wondered what that rumbling was about. Are you all right, Dennis?”
“Listen, you and the hybrid need to meet Stone at the medevac chopper on the eastern tarmac. There’s no time to waste.” The chairman slammed down the phone, gazed once more around the room, and then hurried outside.
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Exiting onto the tarmac by the control tower, Stone and the working-group officers ran toward two helicopters parked nearly three hundred yards away, just beyond the line of transports. In the distance, the chopper’s turbine engines whined to life and their rotors spun up to speed. To the group’s left, gaping cleavages in the runway smoldered in the cold air, debris strewn randomly in every direction.
Stone searched the sky for any sign of the stealth fighters, but did not locate the intruders. He saw a descending, yellowish ball of light. The experimental’s flight drew to a close, and it sank toward the test pad like a setting sun.
Stone’s gut sank along with it. Despite the chilly air, his face and armpits oozed perspiration. His heart thumped heavier with each step, and occasional dizziness checked his consciousness. The other senior officers sprinted ahead of him. They neared the choppers that would take them…Where?
Stone saw the others piling into the chopper. They waved at him to hurry.
“Let’s get out of here!” Colonel Bennet shouted.
Stone arrived at the chopper and then knelt on the tarmac underneath the gyrating rotor blades. He shook his head and shouted up at Bennet, “We have to wait for the Circle to depart. And for Rainbow Two and Three.”
At best, Bennet only heard every other word. Understanding enough, he responded by spitting out heated curses. Next to him, another officer lurched forward, stuck his head out the doorway, and heaved. Vomit splashed onto the blacktop. For several seconds afterward, Bennet remained silent, and then he said, “How am I ever going to explain this?” He rambled on, repeating the phrase multiple times.
As the other medevac chopper lifted off, headed for the command bunker, Stone covered his face against the blustery squall. When it was gone he peeled his hands away and saw a Humvee racing toward him on the taxiway. The vehicle closed the distance, and then it swerved and skidded to a stop just outside the radius of the whooping blades.
General Lanham jumped out of the Humvee and trotted up the chopper, slipping on a steamy puddle of bile and partially digested chicken. He tried ignoring the mess, not saying anything, but looking uncertain about the goo covering a good portion of his trousers.
Hoping the stealth fighters headed home, Stone again scrutinized the surrounding airspace.
Nothing.
Three-quarters of a mile away, the other chopper kicked up dust, its whirlwind pushing over new junipers as it set down near the command bunker. Through night-vision binoculars, Stone fixed his attention on the distant scene highlighted in partial illumination from the building’s light fixtures and the chopper’s flashing navigational beacon and landing light. Reflections scattered off polished wheelchairs. A haphazard choreography of crowded movements stirred around the helicopter’s doors. From within the grinding swarm, an ejected wheelchair tumbled over everyone’s heads and collapsed on the ground behind them. Then, another one followed, rolling awkwardly for a moment before falling onto its side. Finally, with all aboard, the chopper lifted off. It angled to the southeast, and thundered swiftly over Stone and the others.
“Circle’s gone—let’s get the fuck out of here,” someone shouted.
“Not until the hybrid gets here. We need her protection,” Stone said.
Stone spotted Lanham’s Humvee and considered driving it out to Rainbow Two’s location himself, but dismissed the idea, concerned his colleagues would leave him behind. In order to gain a better view of the airfield’s northeast gate, however, he stepped away from the chopper and scanned in the direction of the security bunker.
After several seconds, a pair of headlights emerged from behind the perimeter fence. Stone squinted through the binoculars, trying to identify the vehicle and its occupants. He found his concentration difficult to maintain as shouts from inside the helicopter increasingly distracted him.
The speeding vehicle drew nearer. Stone turned to the officers aboard the chopper and said, shouting, “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
The other officers did not respond. Instead, they craned their necks and gazed overhead.
Looking back at the approaching vehicle, Stone perceived an eerie, incandescent glow descending on the taxiway. The bright light shone down on the vehicle, revealing the familiar faces of Moresby and Janice. Stone noticed the overhead light illuminated other portions of the airfield, including the tarmac next to the helicopter. It grew brighter. As he raised his head, he spotted the source of the radiant glow.
Illumination flares and Eighty-Second Airborne Division troopers dropped from the sky. The Humvee’s brakes screeched as the vehicle stopped near the helicopter. Moresby and Janice piled out and ran over to Stone, who led them to the chopper’s doorway.
“Get in,” Stone said, shoving the professor into the passenger compartment. Janice, looking relaxed, climbed aboard, smiling and nodding at the officers seated around her. She sat close to the pilot’s compartment.
Squeezing in, Stone grabbed a headset hanging near the doorframe. “You’re clear—let’s get out of here.”
“In a moment, sir,” the pilot said, sitting motionless until he put his hands up to the sides of his head, which drooped forward.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘in a moment’?” Stone said, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Sorry, sir. I think we may be having some mechanical problems,” the pilot said in a slow, almost robotic tone.
Stone glanced at Janice, whose eyes were closed. To him she seemed so content. His stomach sank, and he quickly turned his head back toward the tarmac. With methodical precision, several paratroopers landed, released their harnesses, and then advanced on the helicopter, surrounding it in a matter of seconds.
“Why aren’t we leaving?” Bennet said, his multicolored eyes moistening.
Stone shook his head as he detected a change in the helicopter’s engine sound. Its rotors slowed down. “Damn it! What’s going on?”
The calm pilot answered Stone, saying, “We have no oil pressure, sir. Yes, there is no oil pressure.”
A distinct thud rattled through the helicopter as Stone slammed his fist against the metal floor. Rage further engulfed him when two crouching figures approached him and pointed M-16s at his chest. One of them chomped on a short cigar that hung out of the side of his mouth.
Peering at the collection of senior officers before him, the trooper with the cigar said, “Evening, gentlemen, and ma’am. My name is Colonel Matthew Jones, US Army. You are hereby relieved of your duties. Now, with all due respect, get the fuck off this chopper.”
Stone looked at Janice and said, “Help us, please, Janice. It isn’t too late to do something about this. To do the right thing. We need your help.”
Approaching the exit with an ever-widening grin, Janice said, “Sorry, Stone, but I’m with them.” She scooted out the door.
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Hugging the terrain, the chopper carrying the Circle continued to flee. Having no clear idea what to do, the chairman instructed the crew to fly south until told otherwise.
The bumpy ride upset the important occupants, both physically and emotionally. Despite the closed doors, bitter drafts penetrated the interior, and the passengers bounced and shuffled in their seats.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot pushed the left side of his helmet closer to his head. Through some interference and occasional distant clicking, he heard the message intended for him. Into the helmet’s microphone
, he said, “Roger, Angel One, initiating compliance now.”
The helicopter swung sharply to the right. The chairman unbuckled himself from his seat, leaned forward into the cockpit area, and said, “What are you doing?”
But the pilot just shook his head and pointed toward his helmet. Understanding the gesture, the chairman reached for a headset and put it on. “What are you doing?”
“Sir, I’m returning to base.”
“You can’t do that! I’m ordering you to turn south again!”
“Can’t do that, sir. I don’t want to get us shot down.” The pilot pointed toward the right side of the chopper.
Scrambling back to the passenger door, the chairman pressed his face against the window. At first, he did not see anything, but as he cupped his hands against the pane of glass, a dark object appeared. Blacker than the night, the wedge penetrated the darkness. An F-117 raced by, the roar from its engines screaming through the interior of the chopper, and then it sliced away a piece of sky and disappeared into the void. Feeling weak, the chairman turned away from the window and collapsed onto his knees.
Barnem stared at the chairman and said, “What? What is it?”
The chairman ignored him, his body shuddering with every bounce of the helicopter.
“What? What is it?” Barnem said again.
The chairman gazed upward, exposing tears and bloodshot eyes. “Saint Mary is finished.”
“What? What did you say?”
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Billowing down in droves, the paratroopers from the Eighty-Second Airborne formed into squads, and then into platoons. Some units moved along the eastern tarmac and secured the tower complex. To the south, troopers encircled the massive hangar, devising final tactics for entering the sealed structure. As others prepared to enter the command building and adjacent bio-research facility, some of North Range’s braver nonessentials emerged from their subterranean housing, surprised by the throng of armed soldiers. All of them complied with orders, barked from the soldiers, to return to their barracks. The only resistance offered emerged from black jump suited personnel in the security wing of the command building. The troopers overwhelmed the opposition, killing or capturing the few who resisted.
Inside the detention area, eight agile soldiers navigated their way through the cellblock. Resolute, they moved toward the people their superiors had ordered them to locate, free, and protect. As they closed in on the first cell, a man in black appeared in the corridor from behind the door to the detention control room. He swiveled in the direction of the approaching soldiers, looking confused, uncertain. Without hesitation, the soldiers raised their rifles, yelling for him to identify himself. The man in black bolted down a corridor and rounded a nearby corner.
A handgun appeared from around the corner, drawing instant fire from the soldiers. Bullets traversed the corridor, gouging their way into the protruding limb and gun, others embedding themselves in the cement walls. The man in black screamed and capitulated to the soldiers.
“Move in!” the soldiers’ squad leader said.
Two troopers headed for the injured man and carried him out of the area.
The squad leader looked at the row of cell doors along the corridor. He ordered three of his men to take up defensive positions. With watchful and adept movements, the squad leader led his team into the first cell.
“Identify yourself.”
The bruised and bloody man inside the cell shook as the soldiers bore down on him.
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Harrison trembled after endless hours of interrogation and outright torture had nearly broken him. The camouflaged faces staring at him blended into the cell’s dim light. But slowly, his senses detected small details on the imposing figures. A familiar-looking shoulder patch emblazoned the battle dress uniforms.
Eighty-Second Airborne.
Another emblem, a patch on the opposite shoulder from the other one, hovered into view. It contained orderly rows of red and white stripes and white stars resting on a blue field.
Harrison’s eyes widened, and he listened again to the soldier’s directive.
“Identify yourself.”
Managing a relieved smile, Harrison said, “I am William Bernard Harrison.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs from Harrison’s bleeding wrists. The other two soldiers slung their weapons over their backs and lifted his body out of the chair. Harrison groaned and winced.
The soldiers halted their movements.
“Oh no,” Harrison said. “Don’t mind me, let’s keep moving. I’m very anxious to get out of here.”
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Two miles away, on a ridge overlooking the North Range complex, Holcomb and Ritter lay on their bellies and peered at the scene through night-vision binoculars. Paratroopers continued landing, forming up, and moving toward buildings. Flares propelled into the night sky, their combustion casting glimmering halos onto the airfield.
“What exactly is happening down there?” Holcomb said.
Ritter held the binoculars away from his face and said, “Half the journey, my friend, only half the journey.”
“Half the journey? What the hell does that mean?”
The Colonel pushed himself onto his knees, and then rose to his feet. As he brushed off the front of his uniform, he said, “Your government has faltered along the way, but now, what you see before you is hopefully a return to the path that will guide it toward its proper horizons.”
“My government?” Holcomb said, his eyes locking onto Ritter’s. He remembered what Harrison had asked Taylor back in Los Angeles. “So, you’re the Russian spy.”
At first, Ritter said nothing. Then, the right side of his mouth twisted up a little, and he said, “Actually, I’m Byelorussian.” He pulled a Colorado Rockies baseball cap from his back pocket and slipped it on, saying, “But I call Denver home.” He turned and walked toward the Humvee parked in a dry creek bed below the ridge.
“Wait up.”
“No,” Ritter said, stepping into the vehicle. From inside, he helped Ridley to exit.
“No?”
“It is time for you and Officer Ridley to return to the base. You will be safe there now.” He patted Ridley on the shoulder and helped him to zip up a heavy, green winter coat.
“But where are you going?”
Ritter responded by starting the Humvee’s engine and releasing the hand brake.
“But, we’ll need your help,” Holcomb said.
“I hope I can help further, comrade.” Ritter smiled and gazed overhead. “All of us should contribute. It is our responsibility, and for me, that responsibility transcends borders or lines on a globe. Taylor understands this; that’s why I cooperated with him, and why he didn’t betray my identity when he discovered whom I really worked for. Or used to work for, anyway. I know you and Harrison will also understand.”
“You’ve protected us. We’ll never forget that.”
Ritter put the vehicle into gear and said, “Others may find it difficult to reconcile my status with what has transpired. Much still has to change. When, and if, the time is right, I will return. But remember this, Art and Nick: I am a friend. Dasvedania.”
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A medic wrapped a final bandage around Harrison’s wrists, and then walked over to a paratrooper who had broken his ankle after an awkward landing in one of the runway’s blast craters. As Harrison sat in the first-aid station, which soldiers had hastily set up along a row of benches in front of the command building, he watched a helicopter make a boisterous landing on the nearby tarmac. Soldiers rushed over and ushered or carried its occupants toward the security wing.
Wrapping a wool blanket around his shoulders, he caught the scent of a burning cigar.
Hmm, a fine Cuban.
From behind, a friendly slap landed on his back.
“How you doing, sir? I understand you’re William Harrison.”
Harrison turned and looked up at the large, solid soldier standing next
to him with a cigar dangling out the side of his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Very good, sir. I’ve got someone here who’s been asking about you. She told me we might find you here.”
The soldier stepped aside, allowing Harrison a view of the person. She held her head low, looking hesitant about approaching him. “Janice,” Harrison said, struggling to his feet. “Please, come here.” His smile and words drew her closer, into his arms. The big soldier marched off in the direction of the security wing, his beefy arm around the shoulder of an elderly man in a white lab coat with gray flyaway hair. Smoke trailed behind them.
Harrison relaxed his hold and looked into Janice’s beautiful blue eyes. “It’s okay.”
Her eyes softened, and she hugged him again. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Janice tilted her head up and stretched to meet him, but stopped short of touching his lips. “I’d kiss you, but I’m afraid I’d hurt your face.”
Smiling, Harrison bent down and pressed his lips against hers.
Rescued from their cells too, Taylor and Maggie soon joined them. A nearby paratrooper sergeant alleviated the group of their momentary confusion and concerns about Holcomb. He advised them a mobile air-traffic-control unit had picked him up in the desert and was returning him to the base along with a wounded man named Ridley.
The trooper then said, “We’ve commandeered a medevac chopper, and our orders are to airlift all of you out of here. The chopper is warmed up and ready to go. Follow me, please.”
As they climbed aboard the aircraft, a navy-blue vehicle rolled to a stop nearby.
Holcomb jumped out and leaned in to help Ridley exit. Bracing Ridley, Holcomb took a few short steps with him toward the helicopter, and then stopped as Harrison joined them.
“They are going to fly us out of here. Do you want to go to the infirmary instead, Nick?” Harrison said.
Ridley shook his head. “No, get me out of here.”
“You got it, Nick,” Harrison said.
One on each side of Ridley, Harrison and Holcomb took him one small step at a time toward the helicopter. Above them, disguised in the black, star-filled sky, the two F-117’s passed by just low enough for the sound of their jet engines to make their presence well known.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 42