The Alpha Deception

by Jon Land

  With that in mind, Paz had stationed his heaviest artillery at opposite ends of the town to create a grid capable of shutting down virtually any attack from ground or air. Not that it mattered. The generator gun was encased in a shield of tungsten steel, impenetrable and easily defended in its position between two sloping hillsides. Paz gazed toward it stroking his mustache almost continuously in his anxiety. Strands came out in bunches, and he mindlessly tossed them aside. The end was near, just hours away now.

  Paz could barely wait.

  Blaine McCracken lay low on a rise overlooking the town of Pamosa Springs. What he saw through the binoculars made him gasp. Beneath him in the center of town, men dressed as American soldiers were continuously herding groups of residents forward at gunpoint toward the town’s largest building: a steeple-fronted white church. He watched as dozens upon dozens of townspeople were wedged like cattle through a set of double doors, prodded along with automatic rifle barrels. At the same time, he noticed more soldiers packing plastic explosives against the side of the church, enough to bring down the whole town, never mind that single building. The message to the hostages inside was clear; any attempt at escape would lead to their own destruction.

  He turned his attention northwest of the town center, to another phalanx of soldiers standing guard upon a ravaged foothill. In the gulley beyond it, he knew, had to be the generator gun that would fire the particle beam. Once the reflector achieved orbit twelve hours from now, the beam could be bounced anywhere Raskowski chose from his base across the Atlantic.

  His mind drifted back to his last moments aboard the Dragon Fish after Vasquez’s custom-made submarine had systematically destroyed the rest of Raskowski’s Bimini forces.

  “The general’s not finished with you yet, fat man,” Blaine charged, still uncertain of Vasquez’s intentions. “Me, Natalya and the Indian are the only ones who can finish him off.”

  “You’ve forgotten someone, haven’t you, McCracken? Me. I caught you. I won. Now I’m ready to move up to more challenging competition: this Russian who played me for a fool, who dared to enter my waters… .”

  The discussion continued as they surfaced and steamed fast for Vasquez’s private port in the Biminis. Foremost on Blaine’s mind was that the failure of Raskowski’s assault teams here would alert the general that there still existed a dangerous threat to him. The element of surprise on all fronts was gone. Their best approach now would be a three-pronged attack in which at least one of the prongs would be assured of success.

  Blaine would proceed from here straight for Pamosa Springs. Wareagle would head to Washington with a plea to get troops to the area while there was still time and to abort the satellite launch at all cost. Natalya, meanwhile, would travel back to Europe with Vasquez. The fat man would provide a commando team to be used in an assault on Katlov’s current position and what must certainly be Raskowski’s headquarters—in Zurich, as it turned out.

  “Are you sure your men are reliable?” she asked him.

  “Reliable, my dear? They are all my sons, ten from six different wives, and they all take after their father.”

  They had gone their separate ways only eighteen hours before Raskowski’s murderous strike on the United States would begin. In his position atop the small rise, McCracken knew Natalya must still be on her way to Europe. His would surely be the first blow struck.

  Shifting his body slightly, McCracken checked his watch: eight hours to go. He swept his binoculars through the small center of Pamosa Springs, and his eyes locked through the lenses on the short and cocky figure of Guillermo Paz.

  Paz’s reputation alone had nearly led Blaine to cancel his recent Nicaraguan mission to hijack the Hind-D. And now the little man was here, fingers toying with his mustache as always, linked obviously to Raskowski and forced to prove his mettle yet again. Challenging the same man twice in so short a time was not something Blaine looked forward to. One of the things that had kept him alive this long was not tempting the law of averages.

  In this case, however, Paz seemed the least of his problems. He had counted ninety soldiers and enough firepower to hold off ten times that many. He had only an Uzi Vasquez had given him and the nearly full tank of gas in the rented compact he’d driven in from Durango.

  What he needed was a miracle. And it was just a few minutes later that it occurred to him where one was waiting for him.

  Sheriff Junk and the mayor hadn’t gone very far into the San Juans at all. The concentration of Paz’s forces searching for them would have prevented it, even if a bullet wound in Dog-ear’s leg hadn’t. At first he pleaded with Heep to go on without him but the sheriff was hearing none of that. He cut down a great pile of thick branches and used them to camouflage a sheltered space between three large rocks. This hideout kept them dry and safe. They had to move their shelter only once in the hours since their escape, but on several occasions they had actually held their breath while Paz’s troops searched close by.

  Before the pursuit began, they had buried Clara in a makeshift grave of rocks and branches. Her efforts had saved them and they said their own silent prayers for both her and Isaac T. Hall before pressing on. Further up the trail, Dog-ear’s leg stiffening, they had found a spot to conceal the crates of rockets and grenades which were too bulky to carry. As time went on, McCluskey’s wound grew more and more painful and swollen, and Sheriff Junk had to carry him most of the way to the place where he built their shelter.

  They didn’t talk much because there wasn’t much to say. They had escaped but done their town no good in the process. They may even have made matters worse. With two men free now to tell the world what was happening in Pamosa Springs, Paz was capable of anything.

  What they needed, Sheriff Junk supposed, was a doctor to set Dog-ear’s leg just right. Then they could take the rest of the grenades and rockets back down the pass and wage their own private war on Paz’s troops.

  But what they really needed was a miracle.

  Three hours after leaving Pamosa Springs, Blaine pulled up to the gate of the Air Force Research and Testing station in Colorado Springs. He had no clearance to enter, but he managed to convince the guards at the front gate to put in a call to Lieutenant Colonel Ben Metcalf who, thankfully, was listed as present on the base. After learning his visitor was McCracken, Metcalf instructed that he be immediately passed through.

  The base was generally simple in design, composed as near as Blaine could tell of little more than several barracks, a dozen hangars, numerous runways and assorted stations for drilling.

  Metcalf met him outside the tri-level office building and pumped his hand happily when he climbed out of his grimy compact.

  “Have you switched to the economy model?”

  “My Porsche is in the shop. You know how it is.”

  “Sure do. Temperamental engines are what I deal with all day.” They stood facing each other. “So what the hell brings you back here so soon?” Metcalf asked him.

  “I need a favor.”

  “God knows we owe you. Just name it.”

  “Don’t say that until you hear what it is.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Let’s go into your office.”

  When Metcalf had closed the door behind him, Blaine picked up again. “Tell me about the Hind-D.”

  “Not much to tell. We haven’t done a hell of a lot with it yet besides pasting American instructions over the Russian ones. Apparently there’s been a jurisdictional snafu. Everyone in the armed forces is claiming it belongs to them.”

  “Then you haven’t disassembled it yet.”

  “Hell no. The only thing we’ve done since you dropped it off was give it a fresh fill of fuel for testing that hasn’t been conducted yet.”

  “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

  “Why, Blaine?”

  McCracken hesitated. “Now comes the favor I told you about. I need you to lend me the Hind … just for the afternoon.”

  Metcalf’s face turned
serious for the first time. “Blaine, what’s going on?”

  “I won’t bother with explanations because they wouldn’t make any sense to you. Can I have the bird or not?”

  Metcalf shrugged. “Everything else aside, I’d love to help you. Problem is, I haven’t got the authority to check the Hind out to anyone; nobody does until this jurisdictional dispute gets settled. I’d like to help you but I can’t. Christ, Blaine, I know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a damn good reason to be, but I just don’t have the authority to fill your request.”

  Blaine pulled out his gun. “That’s what I figured.”

  “You don’t need that,” Metcalf told him calmly.

  “It’s for your own good that I brought it along. This way, all the cooperation you’re going to give me can take place under coercion. Might save your career.”

  “And fuck yours royally.”

  “Mine doesn’t exist anymore. Less so now than ever, believe me.”

  Metcalf started with him to the door, then stopped. “Whatever you’re going up against, you’re obviously going to need help. Let me—”

  “No offense, Ben,” McCracken interrupted, “but you’re just a bureaucrat now and I haven’t got time to go through channels. The country hasn’t got time.”

  “That bad?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “At least tell me where you’re headed. I might get lucky and—”

  “No, can’t do that either, but thanks just the same. That kind of exchange would make you an accomplice for no good reason I can see. The wheels spin too slowly to take the risk. This one’s mine.”

  “Then put your gun away and follow me.”

  “I’ll keep it out, Ben, just for show.”

  Every day this time of year, Cleb Turner, Sergeant Major in the United States Army, took a stroll around lunchtime to the first hot dog vendor he could find. Turner would take a pair of dogs and a can of diet Coke into the shade and linger over them lavishly before returning to his stale office in the Pentagon and the start of equally stale afternoon meetings.

  Cleb Turner was never meant to be a bureaucrat. Damn business was too confining, especially for a man who’d served in both Korea and Vietnam. Just as bad, Cleb knew that as the first black sergeant major in army history, his appointment had been earned on the political battlefields as much as the real ones. But what the hell? He’d earned the appointment on his own merit; he just didn’t like the job, kept at it mostly because he figured that having more real soldiers behind the desks might help avoid future debacles.

  It was the bullshit he had to go through en route to this goal that made lunch outside the Pentagon his favorite part of the day. Since the morning had been relatively quiet, he allowed himself relish along with the usual mustard on his pair of hotdogs. He was trying to balance them in one hand and handle his soda in the other, when he turned smack-dab into a huge figure whose chest was even with his head.

  “What the hell… .” Then Turner saw the figure’s face. “Johnny Wareagle?” he said in amazement.

  “With regards from the spirits, Sergeant.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “Only for a time.”

  Chapter 32

  MCCRACKEN KEPT THE HIND-D low, beneath the reach of air defense radar which was constantly watching for out-of-place and potentially dangerous aircraft with no registered flight plan. It was well over two hundred miles from Colorado Springs to Pamosa Springs and Blaine figured he could cover that easily in just over an hour.

  Blaine insisted on leaving the colonel bound and gagged in the Hind’s hangar to further promote his cover. Metcalf reluctantly agreed after pointing McCracken in the direction of the airstrip he had already reserved. By the time anyone realized something was wrong, Blaine would already be over Pamosa Springs.

  He had spent two months of his life learning everything there was to learn about the Hind-D before activating the Nicaraguan operation. Then escape had been his only goal. Today’s mission was considerably more complicated.

  He spent the balance of the flight refamiliarizing himself with the setup of the Hind’s cockpit. It was designed as a three-person aircraft but had been outfitted to allow one man to both fly it and operate its weapon systems in the event of an emergency. The English labels Metcalf had stuck over the Russian ones made life much easier in this respect, for at least on this flight Blaine wouldn’t have to guess which button was which. Extremely sophisticated weapons counters gave him precise data on his laser-guided air cannons and his rocket and missile launchers. He had ninety of the .27-millimeter missiles remaining, and well over half the ammo left in his air cannons, which followed the line of his eyes once the guidance system rigged into his helmet was activated. He would save the full complement of six antitank missiles for the generator gun.

  His greatest concern at this point was how to make all this technology work for him. His target, of course, was the guarded gulley where the generator gun was set up. But with heavy artillery at either end of the town, a direct attack was impossible. High in the air, at a standard altitude, the guns would chew him to pieces. But if he …

  Blaine swallowed hard. His only hope lay in doing the unexpected, however dangerous it might be. A low-altitude run would significantly reduce the effectiveness of the gun batteries while exposing him to potential destruction from ground level. It was a chance he could live with, though. Come in and take them by surprise. Knock out the main gun batteries and the generator gun was his.

  McCracken shifted uneasily in his seat. The Hind could be controlled either by wheel or joystick, both containing firing buttons for the air cannons. He would have to launch missiles and rockets with his free hand when required, leaving him only one hand for all the rest of the controls. As Pamosa Springs drew closer, Blaine practiced the procedure again and again without engaging the weapons systems. According to his instruments he was barely five minutes from the town. The Hind’s controls felt smooth and easy, tight as a sports car.

  The San Juans came up fast and Blaine had to climb substantially to rise over them, keeping the Hind’s bottom precariously close to their tips. The gunship obeyed his commands with immediate grace, bucking just a bit as if aware of what lay over the next ridge.

  Guillermo Paz was quite proud of himself. All things considered, he had stabilized matters in Pamosa Springs so brilliantly that his few failures were certain to be overlooked in the face of his undeniable success. The last of the townspeople had been herded into the church, which was wired and ready to blow. That would keep his captives still while his guards at the gulley would easily fend off any assault the escaped mayor and sheriff might put together.

  Paz stood proudly erect in the center of Main Street with one hand on his hip and the other stroking his mustache affectionately. His men saluted as they passed and Paz genially saluted back. All in all things were going to turn out pretty damn well. Soon the death beam would be fired and Paz would be among the only witnesses to actually see it.

  The shallow whining sound confused him at first. It sounded like a chain saw echoing in the stiff wind. Then it grew louder. With a shudder Paz realized what it was and at the same time knew it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be! His eyes scanned the sky.

  The Hind-D roared out from the cover of the mountains. Paz’s eyes locked on it as it dropped to tree level. He knew it must be the one he had lost in Nicaragua, knew it had been flown here to be used against him. And its pilot had planned his strategy well. He was coming in beneath the range of his main guns.

  Paz could see the air cannon chambers turning an instant before the clack-clack-clack reached his ears. The Hind’s first spray bore into the area of his first gun battery, clanging sharply against steel where it connected and kicking dust up where it didn’t.

  The Hind came in still lower. You’re crazy, Paz wanted to scream at the pilot, but this flier knew exactly what he was doing Paz realized as he watched the steel bird drop straight for him. He dove to the ground
behind the cover of a jeep as the first sound of cannon fire came. It shattered the jeep and sent pieces of metal showering down on Paz. A small group of his men who had roared into the street at the first sign of fire had their frames torn apart by the warship’s huge bullets.

  Paz crawled out from behind the burning jeep and made for the armory, prepared to defend the generator gun himself if that’s what it came to. He wouldn’t fail now.

  He couldn’t.

  McCracken had picked out Paz as soon as he cleared the ravaged front gun battery. He cut back the warship’s speed to steady his aim and might have hit Paz with his next burst. He wasn’t sure. Of the other men who had rushed into the street with their rifles ready, there was no question. McCracken saw their punctured corpses as he came round for his second pass, amazed at the accuracy of his air cannon fire.

  Halfway to the second gun battery, he turned his attention to the thick barrels struggling for a bead on him from the foothills on the town’s western perimeter. He estimated they could not possibly sight down on him before he was over and past them. Instead, they should have anticipated their fire ahead for the gulley as he soared over it. They were opening the door for him, and damned if he wasn’t going to move right on through it.

  McCracken fired a rocket and one of the truck-mounted guns exploded in a wall of flames. He followed up immediately with a barrage from the air cannons. This gained him the advantage he needed as he swept over the battery and climbed over the hill on the other side of which was the gulley.

  The guards on the hill pelted him with rifle fire as he soared close, but the armor-piercing shells made barely a dent in the Hind’s reinforced steel carcass. He drove the big bird past the gulley to facilitate a turn. He wanted to come straight over his target with plenty of time to assure himself of accurate missile launches. He figured he could fire three times before having to pull up again and three should finish the generator gun for good.

  Blaine brought the Hind around and was chilled as he gazed downward. From this angle, the generator-gun complex had the look of a massive turret with an exposed barrel poking upward. It was of vast size, a dome encased in dusty gray steel. It amazed him that such an impregnable defense could have been erected so swiftly.