by David Berko
Dutifully pressing the button to receive the transmission, he answered, "This is Lackland Air Force Base, how may I direct your call?"
"I need to speak to the base commander on a topic of utmost urgency. Can you patch me through?"
"Name?"
FRN's unilateral voice reaching out for help from the Lone Star state didn't have the luxury to be miffed at the ridiculous, profanatory question.
“This is the minister of defense hailing from the Free Republic of North America.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation. Then the operator intoned in, "I will put you through. Please hold."
Grateful he was finally getting somewhere, Gene Barker waited precious few seconds before he heard a sound that indicated a new connection had been made.
"Gene Barker!" a familiar voice on the other end boomed.
Shocked into short silence, the defense minister's mind quick did its homework to figure out why that voice sounded so familiar.
The four star general that had served as the Air Force Chief of Staff under an administration in the late 2020s interpreted the hush as his old college buddy having a memory lapse. He needed to coax it along and get the wheels turning in Gene's upper story. "West Point, class of '20? Bill Rescheck?"
"Bill! My God, I can't believe it!" Gene Barker gasped in astonishment. A second later, switching gears... "I wish this was a personal call, but I'm afraid it's business."
"What can I do for you?" the base commander eagerly asked.
"I need planes, lots of 'em."
Bill Rescheck scratched his walrus mustache. If his antennae hadn't been up before, it was on high alert now. The commander swiveled in his leather arm chair to look out the third-story window over the airfield with its rows of warplanes. A tinge of compassion swept over him. Red, white and blue and what it once signified in the penned words of Francis Scott Key played on his heart strings. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed with a sense of duty to an undying cause that wouldn't go by the wayside just yet despite all of Scorpion's years of tireless efforts.
"Uh, did I lose you, Bill?" Gene worriedly pondered out loud.
The four star general's strong voice filled Gene's receiver with this message: "You probably should have gone through different channels, Barker." he was thinking of Texas's official war council and the chairman of the board, Walter Bensen. “However, I wouldn't be much of a patriot if I denied a friend and the FRN the tools they need to keep the hope alive.”
The minister of defense's heart raced ahead of his train of thought. "I, I need a secure perimeter established for an LZ at Westover Ventures which is located on the Southwest side of LA. We're gonna need a ground presence, air superiority, and electronic warfare--the whole package.”
“Done, done, and done!” the base commander hawked. “The heck with going up the chain of command with this. If anything needs doin', you can count on me to roll my sleeves up to help. Barker, I've got your back."
The other man could have dropped the phone the news was so good. "The FRN thanks you!" he blurted.
--
The sky shook and the trailer sea-sawed as it sped out of S6 airspace on a heading for the Ozarks. There were five souls aboard including one very sad Sudanese man fresh off of seeing his own kin die back in the kill zone. What a tragedy that had been.
Archie rode in stiff silence, however Henry chose to be a little more sanguine.
"Why don't you get a real job my man."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Archie said without taking his eyes off from the great expanse before him.
"Maybe you could work for me...I could make a spot for you, you know?" Henry was almost being serious.
Archie crinkled his forehead: the rest of his face looking like he had chewed a lemon. "I enjoy my freedom too much. And Betsy here," he patted his flight controls, "she's family."
Henry snorted. "You drive the hard bargain amigo," he reached over to playfully punch the man in the shoulder. "Why dontcha come work for the good guys?"
Archie hardly considered being neutral such a terrible stance to take in these uncertain times, but here the man he owed was making more than a suggestion. "Scorpion is a little selfish, don't you think?" he innocently put it out there.
"It's not about no one man, but the entirety," Henry stated. He continued to build his case. "Scorpion has been around for decades, centuries even, for the purpose to benefit humanity and bring it to its natural state of perfection."
Archie made a face and quickly looked away. To him what he heard was a bunch of malarkey: he had enough common sense to know it when he heard it. "Well, I'm gonna play the part of the hypocrite and declare myself selfish. I don't care what you people think you're doing. I'm tired of governments trying to 'make a difference,'" he snorted in disgust. "Nobody can make a difference. That's why I'm only out for me and me alone. And perhaps Betsy," he grinned.
This greatly irritated the German thug.
Hassan could've cared less what was going on. He sat there on a low bench looking down at the floor between his legs. "How long did you say this trip would take?"
Henry rolled his eyes. He wasn't in the mood for "are we there yet" type of questions.
"Okay..." the tall African-American said, shifting tactics, "what do we do when we get there since we're no longer using the underground evacuated tube transport system as a means of dropping off the package to their doorstep?"
"Where did you learn to talk like such a dweeb?" Henry ribbed his partner.
Hassan forced a laugh before attempting to better explain himself. "Good communication man. That's what it's all about."
Henry howled with laughter. "That's the stupidest thing you've said yet! But I like you man. You aite."
Hassan mellowed out a bit; he appreciated the other man's weird attempts at maintaining a good working relationship...and the German's appropriate use of slang every now and then. However, he still needed an answer to a question that had never gone away. "So you're gonna get on the horn and speak to the Ozarks Central Ops and tell them where to shove it?"
"Somethin' like that," the big man said through a wily grin.
"Works for me."
A temporary silence invaded the cab, but not for long. "What's my part in this?"
"Shutup Archie." Henry grinned, looking over at his partner who was doing the same.
The driver took his hands off the controls and held them up innocently. "Whatever suits you." He was thinking along the lines of sheesh and good riddance when he said that. "I only wanted to talk logistics. Thugs...."
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
The lights in the room were half-dimmed and the automatic coffee maker constantly dripped to keep up with its high quota. All of the heads of state circled the table until they eventually were seated at their usual spots. Alfred Demsky's eye twitched a little as he continued to stare at the brown leather Bible with its golden letters that Alexander carried around. He had to say something about it before he needed to be admitted to the loony house; it made him go practically insane.
President Toporvsky didn't seem to notice Alfred Demsky's extreme discomfort with what he held tightly in his hand. His thoughts were all over the map with everybody gathered looking at him expectantly, anticipating a composed leader to give sensible directives to address an escalating crisis with Scorpion.
He sat big and tall in the proverbial hot seat. Alexander collected some of his pants fabric around his thighs, clenching it in angst before he began. "Ladies and gentlemen," he greeted the distinguished members of his cabinet and FRN's bureaucracy that sat before him, "now is the time where we send Scorpion and the world a message: we are never backing down. We won't be intimidated by thugs and despots."
Patriotism swelled to a new high in the atmosphere of the bunker. The excitement and tension were almost palpable. Alexander's pits sweated but it didn't show through on his mixed-weave dress shirt that had a white background and blue stripes; his navy coat draped o
ver the back of his chair. Steam rose from his red ceramic executive mug as he brought it to his lips: He swished the aromatic dark Colombian roast between his cheeks like it was mouthwash. The Ukrainian native drew in a little sharp breath and let it out slowly. The president set the tone for everything that followed. "I will skip any motivational speech or lengthy preamble," he said rather abruptly.
The director of Sentinel, as if on cue, cleared his throat.
Alexander stretched out his hand to the man sitting on his left as a gesture to take it away. It was customary for Alfred Demsky to bring the president's national security council up to speed with a briefing in the beginning of the course of events; meanwhile Ahmed Negler, the president's security advisor, sat on the bench so to speak, preparing his statements and readying himself for drafting a quick response to the latest intel.
All around on the conference table every person had a screen embedded in the table where they sat like a place mat at a dinner table. When Demsky arose from his chair the lighting in the room changed to blue. All the displays in the Basement came to life. His footfalls were filled with silence as he circled the table waiting for the right moment to dig in.
"As of now, we have reliable intercepts, images from our keyhole satellites and data from high-altitude reconnaissance flights." Demsky zeroed in on the president for his reaction. But there the commander in chief sat with a placid look etched into his features, his head slightly bowed to an open book on the table. It was that Bible again.
Alfred had to will himself not to stampede out of the room like a raging bull. He would have words for the president, but now wasn't the time. "If I may direct your attention to the screen nearest you, you will notice a very large building ablaze in Beverly Hills."
The images really crystallized for the security council the republic's concerns. "This is Damion Westover's private estate up in flames. Beyond the destruction of the property, we are not privy to anything else that can tell us what happened. However, there is something." Alfred looked up at a sensor and made a gesture that refreshed the screens in the room with a new image.
Sitting in one of the chairs that bordered the conference table, John Kiefs, an aide to the director of Sentinel, instantly recognized the picture displayed on one of the surfaces on the wall. It was the charred wreckage of a Stinger: known to be the workhorse vehicle selected by Scorpion's many merchants of death.
"What you see here are the remains of an enemy craft at Westover estate, taken out by a UAV (unmanned aerial vehicle) swarming tactic."
Demsky blanked the monitors for a minute as he deliberately put one foot in front of the other in a straight line towards where the president sat. He eyed Alexander evenly, his voice growing stronger. "The most intriguing piece to the puzzle though is a very non-stealthy large freighter with a rather wide cross-section which gave our low-orbit radar stations a mouse to chase."
The vice president Edmond Drezzler who had almost sat there simply to fulfill an honorary role of some kind, now watched Alfred with the wide-eyed curiosity of a school boy.
"Our short-wave radio frequency station operating incognito out of Albuquerque, New Mexico received and consequently advanced the signal from our low-orbit radar stations on to Cali, Oregon, then Alaska....until it wound up at our very own David Bracey building here at Sentinel," he said this with a fracture of a smile.
Ahmed Negler opened his mouth to pursue the obvious, which was why the interest in a freighter in the first place. Those details had been left out, whether on purpose or not. "Where was its point A, point B?"
Demsky shuffled his steps a bit before he stopped short of the national security advisor's chair. He resented being pressed for details when it was his briefing to give them. Negler was talking out of turn.
"Its point of origin is traceable to Reno, Nevada. Its chemtrails lead straight to Damion's residence," he paused at a critical juncture to strategically raise the roof on everybody's predictions. "Right now," he grew animated, "our runaway midnight delivery driver is charting a course across the Sierra Nevada mountain range--headed east." Alfred flicked his wrist to get its desired result: Pictures of the Ozarks and satellite images of believed-to-be Scorpion bases suddenly came under the scrutiny of all eyes.
"Part of my job, what I get paid the big bucks to do as an intelligence pundit, is to furnish the administration with the agency's best educated guesses on anything and everything, whenever it's relevant."
The president hadn't been completely engrossed in his Bible the whole time. He purposefully looked up every now and then to show that he was listening...long enough to bypass suspicion that he was actually looking in the Bible for answers to the republic's concerns instead of getting it from a talking head.
"Mr. President, are you okay?" the vice president who sat to Alexander's right exasperatedly whispered into the president's ear. He hadn't been too obtuse like the others to not notice what was happening. "It's just a story book," the VP said with unmistakable ire.
The only person who couldn't make the briefing was the minister of defense. One of his aides was present, but that was it. Gene Barker was needed in the room, stat. The topic that would come up next on the agenda had to do with extraction of certain assets which functioned as "nuclear deterrence" against the rising tide of Scorpion insurgence.
--
Chapter 22
Lackland AFB: San Antonio, Texas
The 149th Fighter Wing began to stir with energy. MAJCOM (major command) Commander General Bill Rescheck who oversaw base operations and reported directly to the war council of the fiercely independent state of Texas had just gotten off a phone call with the minister of defense to the FRN. And he had gone a step further....No longer operating under chain of command but instead out of an insurgent sense of duty and loyalty to the higher calling of freedom and democracy, the four star general swore his loyalty to an operation that was still in its nascent stages of planning.
All the groups that would be needed for action--mission, medical, and operations--were scrambling to be at a level of readiness needed if President Alexander of the FRN gave the nod to go ahead with the operation.
Tall outdoor lights like towering masts on a ship shone bright over the several airstrips of the base. Ground crews leapt into action performing their duties at breakneck speed, attaining ultimate efficiency like they were trained for in red flag simulations.
Red and green lights blinked on the tips of the wings of the many fighter jets that were idling in their stalls. Most of them were two-seaters.
Hundreds of airmen got bused in from the barracks in and around San Antonio. Most of them looked a little torpid and perhaps gassed for having their sleep taken away from them. That's how they earned their wings in the first place, however. Through the fire and adversity.
Not to be forgotten though was the creed the airmen lived and died by...even after a civil war that dissolved the union and a mighty air force. The words "just do it" didn't only belong to the air force of old or a shoe brand, it still applied to the men and women whom served with distinction in the air wing at Lackland in the year 2041.
--
Earlier that night...
A town hall meeting invitation went out to all commanding officers on base. In fact, anybody who'd have a supporting role in the incursion needed to be present at the mess hall where the debriefing would commence. It was of utmost urgency that everyone who didn't have a valid excuse, and there were precious few, attend the meeting or pay the price through a lengthy furlough or some other punishment Bill Rescheck could put his mind into contriving.
…
"I pray you don't have to live to be my age," Bill would tell anybody who'd listen. A little bit later after his audience would return to a more relaxed state of mind intermingled with wool gathering for however brief a spell, the commander would startle them with, "If hell is real, this is it." So went the communication between the war-weary general and those under his command.
That night was a l
ittle different from the norm for obvious reasons. Because Bill had given his word to an old college friend, the ball was set into motion for the base's joint- military contingency they would go on with the security forces of FRN.
The building that seated roughly a thousand was packed to overflowing. Enlisted officers were practically spilling out from the anterior ends of the cafeteria tables. Airmen in their green flight jackets sat up straight with elbows on the table, waiting for Bill to walk on up to the little lectern that was still vacant.
The hollow clicks and clacks of leather-soled dress shoes reverberated off the cinder block walls of the chow hall. A hushed silence swept over the room for a minute while the senior officer took powerful strides toward the podium. The man's meaty hands gripped the sides with solemnity. His walrus mustache glinted with sweat and the color drained from his face.
Bill looked up at the wooden artwork that depicted the seven continents of the world above the doors at the back of the cafeteria. A tickle in his throat delayed him for a second longer. "Men," his strong voice called out to the gathered, "today we have an opportunity to make a difference that could impact all of our futures."
The young men with their baby faces and crew cut hair stared back with glinting eyes...listening.
"How many of you have a friend, relative…loved one that lives in the land of the free, the Free Republic of North America?"
This was a show-of-hands question. A good deal of arms went up for the commander to see. It registered and he nodded ever so slightly. "I have a sister who lives there and many other souls I care deeply about." He slowed down to a stall to choose his words carefully before proceeding. "But what we all must do tonight, and I will get to that momentarily, is to perform a service to a higher calling."