Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  “Okay!” Collins said in a loud whisper. “It’s open.”

  Tucker and Ricard rushed toward the fence as the master chief pulled the cut portion back. Tucker hit the ground, pushed his Carbine through the opening, and scrambled after it. He grabbed the Carbine and was at a crouch, visibly searching the area around the aircraft, when the box of C4 tumbled by him. An unexpected chill rode up his back as he more leapt at than reached toward the explosives. Behind him, Ricard came running up. “Thanks, sir.”

  “Ricard, what are you doing?” Tucker said, his voice shaken.

  Ricard smiled. “Sir, quit worrying. I know this stuff, and it ain’t going to explode without something to help it.”

  “Quit throwing it around.” Tucker stood, crouching, looking both ways. To his right, the revving engine of the French military vehicle still heading toward the guard shack helped the generator drown out any other sounds around them. A battalion of soldiers could march right up to them and they wouldn’t be able to hear it.

  Then it came again. This time, harder to hear; but it was the incessant ringing of a telephone. The decibel level of the telephone was high enough to ride over the sounds of the generator and the military vehicle. It must have a volume enhancer to be heard this far away. Tucker told himself it was probably a routine telephone check; something normal during guard duty. But his instincts warned him otherwise.

  One of two things was going to happen—if the French failed to return in time to answer that telephone check and tell the sergeant of the guard that everything was okay, the main garrison would send someone out to check. It would piss the sergeant of the guard off if that happened. If, on the other hand, the telephone call was to warn the guards of Tucker and his team, then the French would be back here in a few minutes. Either way, he and Ricard needed to get aboard, take his pictures, let the Seabee explosive expert rig the explosives, and try to take something with them from whatever looked like a laser weapon.

  Tucker took off at a trot, running behind the generator, noticing as he passed that the non-com and driver had left their fuel containers behind. He slowed for a second, shaking each of the containers, discovering one half-full. He grabbed the half-full one, twisted off the cap, and still trotting toward the aircraft poured the fuel from the generator to the front wheels. He told himself, Pour the fuel between the generator and the aircraft and when the explosion happens there’s a chance they’d blame the guards.

  A ladder ran from the tarmac to a closed door on the back of the fuselage. This would have been where the aircrew entered and left the aircraft. Tucker squatted at the bottom of the ladder, his left hand resting easily on the metal ladder. Ricard squatted on the other side of the ladder.

  “Keep a good watch,” Tucker said as he handed his M-4 Carbine to Ricard.

  Ricard nodded.

  Tucker stood, placed his left foot on the second rung, and dashed up the ladder. His combat boots jostled the ladder, drawing the sound of rattling metal as the ladder bounced slightly on the tarmac.

  Hidden latches beneath the door held the ladder securely to the aircraft. Flush with the door and pushed into a recess was the lever to open it. Tucker pushed the catch beneath the lever, causing the lever to pop out of its storage position. He twisted the lever clockwise, glad that it turned easily. As he thought, This is going too easy, he heard the slight sound of suction popping as the lever unlocked the door. He tugged, but the door stayed put. It wouldn’t open. Tucker looked along the edges of the hatch.

  A steel-tempered padlock near the top secured the aircraft door to the fuselage. He shoved the lever back into position. They couldn’t open the door until they cut the padlock. He put both feet along the edge of the ladder and slid down to where Ricard waited.

  “Damn,” he said. “I knew this was too easy.” He looked down at Ricard. “It’s locked.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Ricard asked. “I’d lock anything I left sitting around in the middle of nowhere; but then again, I’m from LA.”

  “I don’t suppose we have a lock cutter?”

  Ricard smiled. “Maybe we do, sir,” Ricard said, handing the Carbine back to Tucker. The petty officer opened the box, turned one of the plastic-wrapped blocks of C4 end up, unwrapped it a little, and squeezed off a smidgeon between his forefinger and thumb. His smile widened. Ricard stood and, still holding the C4 between his thumb and forefinger, grabbed the ladder with his free hand.

  Tucker put his hand on the petty officer’s arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to open the door, sir,” Ricard said. He glanced down at Tucker’s hand.

  Tucker dropped his hand. In three steps, the petty officer was at the top of the ladder.

  Tucker watched from below, his M-4 Carbine pointing up and toward the lighted guard shack. He alternated watching the guard shack and Ricard, who was leaning against the door so he could reach the lock above his head. Tucker knew only a minute had passed, but it still seemed to be taking a long time for Ricard to do whatever he was doing with the C4.

  The entrance to the guard shack was still open. He couldn’t see the vehicle. He could hear it. Tucker knew once the light disappeared, it meant the soldiers were back inside the shack. He’d be less apprehensive if the telephone hadn’t started ringing five minutes ago.

  “Watch out; I’m coming down,” Ricard called softly from the top of the ladder.

  Tucker stepped back and knelt on one knee, keeping an eye on the French guard shack. The sound of brakes squeaking to a stop pierced the night.

  “We should move away, Commander,” Ricard said, pointing back up to the door.

  Tucker glanced up and saw the small timer stuck on the door near the lock. Barely discernible wires ran from the timer to the lock.

  Ricard reached out and tugged on Tucker’s shirtsleeve. “Commander, I’ll be back there,” he said, pointing toward the edge of the tarmac. The Seabee explosives expert took off, running, his back to the aircraft.

  Tucker took off, following Ricard. When Ricard threw himself on the ground at the edge of the tarmac, Tucker dived also, figuring that Ricard had a better idea what was going to happen than he did.

  Tucker spun around, staring back at the aircraft. “What did you—”

  A small flash of light, accompanied by the sound of a small explosion, caught Tucker with his eyes open. The noise reminded him of those “cherry bomb” fireworks he used to buy when he was a kid.

  “That should open the door,” Ricard said, jumping up and running toward the aircraft. “Man, oh, man! Am I good or what!”

  Tucker blinked several times as he followed, trying to get rid of that bright white spot in the center of his vision. He was supposed to be the professional for these types of missions, and here he goes doing something stupid like keeping his eyes open when he knew an explosion was going to go off.

  In the few seconds it took to reach the aircraft, his eyes had readjusted to the security lights. The ladder was on the cement with Ricard standing over it. The top rungs were mangled and twisted. The clasps that secured the ladder to the aircraft had been sheared off.

  Ricard scratched his head as he looked at the ladder and then glanced at the door. “Well, sir, the good news is the lock is gone.”

  Tucker was looking at the open entrance to the aircraft. The blast had caused the door to ricochet away from the blast and ride its hinges until the door slammed into the fuselage, wedging itself to the aircraft. Where the lock had been, a twenty-inch hole broke the symmetry of the opening.

  Tucker bit his lower lip. How were they going to get inside the aircraft? The door was a good twelve feet off the ground.

  Ricard lifted the damaged ladder and held it up. The twisted ladder was now a couple of feet too short to rest against the fuselage. Tucker looked at the wing, reached over, and tapped Ricard on the shoulder. “Let the ladder go.” He pointed toward the wing where the flaps curled downward.

  The ladder clanged on the tarmac as Ricard let it go. Tucke
r grimaced. “I didn’t mean drop it,” he said firmly. I have to be more exact in my orders, he told himself.

  Tucker pointed at the wing again and explained to Ricard his idea as they ran toward it. Ricard cupped his hands together. Tucker strapped the M-4 Carbine across his back and, with a quick leap, using the petty officer’s hands, he grabbed the open space between the flaps and the wing and pulled himself up. He raced along the wing toward the fuselage and pulled himself onto the top of the aircraft. Testing his balance for moment, Tucker then moved toward the tail, stepping carefully over the multitude of small antennas that jutted from the top of the reconnaissance aircraft and the two long wires running from the front of the aircraft near the cockpit to the top of the aircraft tail.

  He crouched above the damaged door. Tucker looked behind him, saw the long wire, and hooked his shoe under it. Leaning precariously over the side—Ricard beneath, holding his hands out as if to catch him if he fell—Tucker was able to see inside the aircraft.

  “How about that?” he said aloud. Using his foot, he pulled himself back onto the top of the aircraft. Crouching, he took the opportunity to glance toward the guard shack. The light was gone. It meant the French were inside and out of the way. By now, they should have called their sergeant of the guard and resolved the issue of the ringing telephone.

  He turned back to the task. He grabbed the wire with his hands and eased his feet over the side of the fuselage.

  “Be careful, Commander,” Ricard whispered. “Your feet aren’t exactly inside the door.”

  This isn’t going to work, Tucker said to himself.

  Tucker pulled himself back onto the top of the aircraft. He thought for a moment and then, with his boot hooked once again on the wire, slid his body over the side, holding the Carbine with his left hand. He tossed the rifle inside the aircraft. Tucker ran his fingers along the edge of the aircraft door, searching . . . After several seconds, his fingers touched what felt like a metal rod that ran along the top length of the door. Probably for the ripcord if the crew had to bail out.

  Aircrews, unlike Special Forces who were trained to open their own parachutes during a jump, adhered to a mathematical equation that number of flights should equal number of landings. When that equation failed, it required nervous fortitude and mutual encouragement for them to bail out. Having the parachute open as they jumped relieved some frantic pressure off their shaking hands.

  Tucker gripped the metal rod, running his hands around it a couple of times. Satisfied, he gripped the metal rod tightly and twisted his foot, freeing his boot from the antenna wire. Tucker slid, heading toward the earth. He tucked his head inside the door as his body came around and, with all his strength, jerked himself inside the aircraft. The metal bar came free, sending Tucker falling onto the deck of the aircraft, jarring him. The sound of metal ripping away from other metal like fingernails down a chalkboard echoed out and over the runway.

  Red liquid ran across his hands. He rolled to the right on top of his Carbine. From the metal rod Tucker used to get inside the aircraft, thick, red fluid poured. It wasn’t for ripcords; it was an exposed hydraulic line.

  “You, okay, boss?” came a shout from below.

  Tucker stood. He grabbed the hydraulic line and bent it so the fluid poured out of the door and onto the tarmac. Ricard had moved away several feet.

  Tucker stood and ran his hand along the insides of the hatch, hoping this time his feel matched his instincts. A couple of seconds and near the top right-hand side of the door, his hands touched a thick plaster cover, held closed with Velcro strips. Tucker ripped it open. A rope ladder tumbled free.

  “Here,” he said to Ricard, tossing the rope ladder out.

  Tucker reached over and bent the ruptured hydraulic line further to the right so the fluid avoided the rope ladder.

  Ricard hoisted the small wooden crate containing the C4 explosives, tucked it under an arm, and put one foot on the rope ladder. As soon as he lifted the other leg, the ladder swung back and forth. Ricard jumped off.

  “It ain’t steady, sir.”

  Tucker started to tell him to toss the C4 up, but he had less confidence than Ricard did over the stuff not exploding from rough handling. Tucker grabbed the ladder and in two quick moves was on the tarmac beside Ricard. He grabbed the end of it. “Go ahead now.”

  Thirty seconds later, the Seabee was inside the aircraft. Tucker was quickly behind him.

  “What do we do now?” Ricard asked.

  “You get busy laying the C4. I’ll see if I can match any of this equipment with this photograph.”

  “What does this weapon look like?” Ricard asked as he squatted next to the box and pulled out two sausage-looking blocks of C4 wrapped tightly in plastic. One block had the end already open from where Ricard had earlier broken off a piece.

  “I don’t know,” Tucker said. He reached into a side pocket and pulled out a small military flashlight. He thought for a second on using the red lens, but their night vision had already been destroyed and the white light is always better.

  He flipped it on. The light lit up the back end of the aircraft. Tucker glanced at Ricard, head down, unwrapping the explosives. On the deck beside the C4, Ricard had laid the timing devices and blasting caps. Tucker nodded to himself and left the expert to the job. He had his to do.

  According to that intelligence officer on the Mesa Verde, the laser weapon would look more like physics and computers than like a normal shell-firing weapon. Tucker thought, That’s a lot of help, desk jockey. The first few positions Tucker passed along the starboard side of the aircraft he readily recognized as an Electronic Warfare suite. He had experience with electronic warfare from the various sea-going platforms Navy SEALs used. Most of theirs were automatic warning devices that only told you what the sensors picked up. Unlike the French Atlantique or the Navy EP-3E Aries II, the SEALs EW suites were unmanned most of the time and had a high incidence of false warnings.

  He tripped, catching himself on the back of a nearby seat. In the center of the passageway, a huge bubble rose out of the deck. It didn’t take the brightest crayon in the box to realize this wasn’t part of the normal installation of a reconnaissance aircraft. At least, that was Tucker’s initial impression. When he couldn’t find wires running from it to one of the consoles, a doubt as to whether this was part of the normal installation for a reconnaissance aircraft or not rose in his thoughts.

  He pulled the camera from his pocket and took a couple of photographs of the plexiglass-enclosed opaque dome. Then, he turned the camera toward the EW suite and took another couple of photographs.

  The camera held alongside his Carbine, Tucker moved forward, keeping one hand free in the event he tripped again. Behind him, he heard Ricard moving as the Seabee set the explosives. Hope to hell he knows what he’s doing. Of course, it’s a little late in the mission to find out a little more about the man. He then heard the humming coming from Ricard. It sounded like the Disney theme song from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  His flashlight gleamed over metal racks along the left side of the aircraft. The fresh look of the racks and the new bolts securing them to the deck convinced Tucker of a new installation. “This has to be it,” he said softly. He raised the camera and took several photographs. This new stuff was directly beside the communications suite and behind the cockpit. Two seats had been bolted to the deck directly in front of the new racks. Tucker pulled the photograph from his pocket and tried to compare this French electronic suite with the picture of the American laser weapon control console. He squinted at the photograph and then, running the flashlight over the installation, tried to find something similar. Nothing matched.

  Tucker sighed and stuffed the photograph back into his pocket. So much for intelligence, he thought. He glanced at Ricard. The petty officer was on the same side of the aircraft as he. Meant the explosives had been set on the other side.

  He looked at his watch. They would have to leave in the next two to three minutes. They
couldn’t stay here much longer. They were approaching the thirty-minute mark from the time they reached the fence. It may only take an hour to return to where they were dropped off, but Tucker wanted an extra fifteen minutes. Coming in covertly is a hell of lot easier than leaving in a panic. Ricard was on his hands and knees about ten feet away, the Seabee’s head hidden by a small foldaway table that ran along the EW suite.

  The sudden sound of something hitting the back of the fuselage caused Tucker to lift his Carbine. He hurried toward the rear of the aircraft, stepping carefully over Ricard along the way. Tucker reached the door just as something hit the inside of the aircraft. A rock bounced a couple of times on the floor, coming to rest at his feet. He eased around the open door. Master Chief Collins stood out there on the tarmac, a hand full of small pebbles, throwing the rocks into the aircraft.

  “Master Chief?”

  “Commander, y’all get your asses out of there. The French are heading back and it don’t look as if they’re taking their time.”

  “How long—”

  “Sir, you got two minutes,” Master Chief Collins said, holding up two fingers. “Maybe, three,” he added, holding up two fingers again.

  “Okay, we’re on our way.” Tucker dashed back inside, hurrying toward the front. Ricard was on his knees near the front of the aircraft, near the suspected laser installation.

  “What’s going on, Commander?” he asked from beneath the console.

  “Visitors on their way. We’ve got to go. You about done, or do you need more time?”

  Ricard pulled himself out from under the console to a seated position. He shrugged and shook his head. “We can go down, sir. There’s enough C4 on board this plane that when it goes, they’ll be lucky to find a tire.”

  Tucker jerked his thumb toward the door. “Then get your ass out and head back to the fence with the master chief. I’ll be a minute behind you.”

  Ricard pulled himself up, using a seat back. “You don’t have to tell me twice, sir.”