Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  Rey felt pretty good as he reported for duty at seven-thirty for the shift-briefing, inspection, weapons checkout and post changeover, but when he parked his armored assault vehicle in front of Hangar Number Five, things began catching up with him. The combination of caffeine and lack of rest made his muscles jittery. The night air was cold, so he turned up the heat in his V-ioo Commando armored car, which only increased his drowsiness. He had brought his study materials for his bachelor-degree class, but the thought of even trying to listen to an hour’s worth of audio textbooks on micro-economics was too much.

  By four A.M., four hours from changeover, Sergeant Jacinto was struggling to stay awake. Everything was quiet on the radios—no exercises, alerts, weapon movements, nothing. With the B-52 down the way in Hangar Three being readied for a flight, a security exercise would be too disruptive and would not be called. The engineers who had been working on the XF-34A DreamStar in Hangar Five had long since departed, and the munitions-maintenance troops weren’t scheduled to arrive until after his shift-change. Even nature was conspiring to screw him up. Thin clouds blocked most of the bright moonlight, so the ramp and most of the area were completely dark, and there were no birds or animals making their usual noises on the dry lakebed aircraft ramp. It was dark, quiet morning. If he didn’t go completely crazy he was going to die from the strain of trying to stay awake.

  Rey had just completed his hourly walkaround inspection of Hangar Five, checking all the doors and exits. He was so bored that he even began to pick up scraps of paper and pieces of junk on the ramp. He returned to his truck and keyed the radio.

  “Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot.” Red Man was HAWC’s Security Control Center.

  “Go ahead, Five.”

  “Requesting ten mike for relief.”

  There was a pause, then: “Five, that’s your fourth potty break tonight.”

  “It’s Rey’s time of the month,” someone else on the security net chimed in.

  “Cut the chatter,” the security controller ordered. “Five Foxtrot, unable at this time. Stand by. Break. Rover Nine, this is Red Man. Over.”

  “Rover Nine, go.” Rover Nine was one of only two M113 armored combat vehicle-equipped crews that cruised around the huge compound, doing errands and relieving the post guards as necessary; they had numbers higher than two to hide the fact that there were only two of these heavily armed roving patrols on the flight line.

  “Five Foxtrot requests relief for ten mike ASAP.”

  “Stand by,” came the reply in an exasperated voice. A few moments later: “Red Man, we’re at the shack getting coffee— Five Foxtrot’s been drinking the stuff like it’s going out of style.” Rey Jacinto cringed as his code name was broadcast on the net—boy, was he going to get it when this shift was over. Good thing none of the other guards could leave their posts to get on his case. “We’ll be another ten here, then we need to check in with the main gate. Ask Five Foxtrot if this is a number two or if he can use the piddle pack. Over.”

  Rey was fed up with all this—they weren’t letting him off easy tonight. He was just bored and sleepy. He keyed his microphone: “Break. Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot. Cancel request for relief. Request the comedians in Rover Nine bring some water when they’re done stuffing their faces at the flight line kitchen. Over.”

  “Roger, Five Foxtrot. Rover Nine, you copy?”

  “Affirmative. Advise Five Foxtrot to stop massaging his little one-eyed helmeted reptile and stand by. Rover Nine out.”

  There were a few more comments on the net—no one liked to give the hot-dogs on Rover Nine the last word—but soon silence once again descended over the area.

  By now Rey was struggling to keep his eyelids open. The worst part of any guard’s tour, no matter how well one prepared, was the hour or two just before sunrise. It was a barrier, a psychological one—the body demanded sleep at this hour no matter how much rest it had earlier. Rey Jacinto’s head was bobbing up and down off his chest. He had already stripped off his fatigue jacket, flak jacket and webbing so as much cold air could hit his skin as possible. It wasn’t helping.

  He was thankful to see the lights of a big blue Stepvan supply truck check in at the outer perimeter. The blue “bread truck” van, towing a missile trailer, headed right for him. He was feeling a little ornery by now, and this was his chance to get his blood pumping again. Quickly he pulled on his combat gear and webbing as the truck pulled up.

  When the truck stopped in front of Jacinto’s armored car, he got out, carrying his M-16 rifle at port arms, and ran in front and off to the driver’s side of the van. He held up the rifle, filled his lungs with cold desert air and yelled, “Driver! Stop your engine, leave your headlights on and everyone out of the van. Now!”

  The driver and one other man, both in Air Force green fatigues, jumped out of the van and stood before Jacinto in the glare of the van’s headlights. The younger man, a two-striper, was shaking. The driver, a burly technical sergeant, was surprised but kept his composure as he raised his hands. “What’s going on?”

  “Step away from the truck,” Jacinto ordered. Both men did.

  “What’s going—?”

  “Quiet! Don’t move!” Jacinto still held his rifle at port arms— his voice was enough to convince the two men. Jacinto rested the automatic rifle on his hip with one hand and pulled his walkie-talking from his web belt.

  “Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot. Two males intercepted at Five, driving a blue Stepvan with missile trailer. Executing full nighttime challenge. Over.”

  “Copy, Five Fixtrot,” the security controller replied. There was a hint of humor in the controller’s voice—he knew Jacinto was going to have a little fun with his visitors. “Do you require assistance?”

  “Negative. Out.”

  The driver of the truck said, “Sergeant, would you mind—?” “Silence. Turn around. Both of you.”

  “I’ve got authorization—”

  “I said turn. ” They did. “Where’s your I.D. cards?”

  “Back pocket.”

  “One hand, two fingers. Remove your I.D.” They removed wallets from back pockets. “Over your head. Remove your I.D. cards.” They did. “Drop them slowly, carefully, at your feet, then take three steps forward.” When they moved away Jacinto said, “Now kneel. Hands on top of your heads.”

  “Give us a break, Sarge—”

  “Kneel. ”

  As they did, Jacinto walked over to the I.D. cards, picked them up, and examined them. They were bent, dirty, grease- encrusted and barely readable—typical maintenance troop’s I.D. cards. Jacinto stepped around the two kneeling men and shined a flashlight in their faces. The faces matched the photos. “I need job slips now. Where are they?”

  “Upper left pocket.”

  “Get them out.” The two technicians pulled crumpled slips of paper from their pockets and put them on the ramp. Jacinto picked them up and checked them under the flashlight’s beam. He couldn’t check the job numbers—he’d left his clipboard with the job numbers from the squadron in his truck— but he checked the MMS squadron supervisor’s stamped sign- off block on the reverse side. The stamp and signature were the most frequently omitted part of the job ticket, and both were required before any work could begin on any of the birds on the line. But these guys were on the ball—both had the required stamp with the familiar signature of the MMS NCOIC.

  “Okay, Sergeant Howard, Airman Crowe,” Jacinto said, looping the M-16 back onto his right shoulder. “Everything checks okay.”

  “You’re damned right it does,” Howard said, hauling himself to his feet. Jacinto held out the job tickets and I.D. cards to them. Howard took his I.D. card and job ticket back with a snap of his wrist; Crowe took his with relief.

  “Why can’t you bozos do your little games during the day?” Howard said. He motioned to Crowe, who seemed to be cemented in place. “Move it, Airman. We’re behind schedule as it is.”

  “Wasn’t expecting you till nine,” Jacinto said. />
  “I wasn’t expecting to be here until nine,” Howard said angrily. “So naturally I get a call in the middle of the night telling me they want the plane in premaintenance right now. I know better than to answer the damned phone after nine P.M.”

  Jacinto nodded. “I hear that.” He put his own wife and kids on strict instructions not to answer the phone after nine P.M.

  He walked back to his V-ioo just as a large green M113 Armadillo combat vehicle pulled up beside his. The back door swung open and two armed soldiers jumped out and took defensive positions behind the ACV. Jacinto could see the roof turret swing in his direction, the huge twenty-millimeter Browning cannon and its coaxial 7.62-millimeter machine gun in the turret trained on the Stepvan behind him.

  “Five Foxtrot, code two, report,” a voice blared through the Armadillo’s loudspeaker.

  “Five Foxtrot, code victor ten victor, all secure,” Jacinto yelled back. The security crews had been given a code sequence and number for the shift. When challenged, the guard would respond with the proper code to advise the response crew that he was not under duress. If he had responded with anything else the snipers at the back of the truck and the gunner on top of the armored vehicle with his cannon and machine gun would kill anybody in sight.

  But Jacinto answered correctly. The guards behind the Armadillo raised their rifles and slung them on their shoulders. Jacinto walked over to the truck.

  “Pissing off the munitions maintenance troops again, eh, Rey?”

  “I gotta do something to stay awake, Sarge. These guys have no sense of humor.”

  “Yeah. You gotta hit the head or what?”

  “Just let me refill my canteen and I’ll be okay.”

  Jacinto went to the back of the Armadillo and hacked around with the two assault troops as he filled his canteen from the large water can and hooked it back onto his web belt. He gave the shift-supervisor NCO a snappy salute as the ACV drove away.

  His blood flowing once again, Jacinto did a quick walkaround inspection of the hangar as the munitions maintenance troops punched in the number of the code lock on the hangar door opening mechanism. As the senior NCO went inside, the younger man hopped back into the Stepvan and pulled it around so that the rear was facing in toward the plane. Jacinto moved toward the front of the hangar so he could watch the rear of the truck and the driver. The young driver, obviously nervous around the flight line, finally got into position after a series of jerks and starts, maneuvering the missile trailer in beside the plane as close to the hangar wall as he could. Jacinto decided to help him out, and guided the driver in until the truck was ten feet from the nose of the plane and the trailer was just under the left wingtip.

  “Thanks,” the young airman said in a high-pitched voice. He hopped out and trotted back to help his supervisor.

  “Better chock the truck,” Jacinto called inside the hangar. The airman froze. Sergeant Howard looked at Jacinto, then at Crowe, and finally at the Stepvan.

  “Do as the man said,” Howard yelled to Crowe. “You know all vehicles are supposed to be chocked out here.” Crowe ran to the truck, pulled out a set of yellow wooden chocks and placed them under the rear wheels.

  “And stop running around in the hangar,” Howard yelled once more. “You know better. Or should.”

  Jacinto suppressed a smile. He remembered back to his first solo guard duties while he watched the two technicians set to work. He was a million times more nervous than this guy . . .

  His interest was quickly drawn to the amazing aircraft they were servicing. He had never been any closer than this to the plane, even though he had been guarding it for a year now, but he was still amazed by the sleek, catlike aircraft. It looked even more deadly now with its two huge air-to-air missiles hanging on the belly on either side of the large intake. Jacinto had read every scrap of unclassified information on DreamStar and had repeatedly asked for permission to look inside the cockpit but was always denied.

  Sergeant Howard had wheeled a maintenance platform around to the left side of the cockpit and locked it into place, then scrambled up the steps and opened the canopy. Meanwhile Crowe had started up an auxiliary power cart in the back of the hangar and was hauling air and power cables over to the receptacles near the left main landing gear. A few moments later Howard had flipped the right switches in the cockpit— the battery and external power switches, Jacinto recalled from his reading—and cockpit and position lights popped in all around DreamStar.

  Howard stepped off the maintenance platform and walked over to the back of the truck. Noticing Jacinto watching him from the front of the hangar, he waved him over. Jacinto, and soon Airman Crowe, moved over beside Howard.

  Over the noise of the power cart Sergeant Howard said, “Want to take look inside?”

  Jacinto blinked in surprise. “Is it okay?”

  “Don’t see why not. Ejection seat’s been deactivated, half the black boxes in the cockpit have been pulled out and the weapons are all pinned and safed. No better time.”

  Jacinto nodded enthusiastically. He pulled the clip out of his M-16, placed the clip in a pouch on his belt, checked the safety on the rifle and leaned the weapon on the Stepvan bumper. “All right, I been waiting to do this for—”

  A hand reached across his face, covering his nose and mouth and twisting his head sideways. Jacinto tried to roll away from the arms holding his head, but Howard had run up to him and grasped his chin, holding his neck fast. A split-second later Jacinto felt a sharp, deep sting on his exposed neck.

  Three seconds later he was dead.

  “Shto slochelosch? What the hell is the matter with you, Crowe?” the man named “Howard” cursed at his young partner. “Crowe” was staring at the body, watching Jacinto’s death twitch as the poison slowly destroyed the central nervous system. “You almost let him get loose.”

  Crowe did not reply. Howard slapped the young man hard on the shoulder. “We must hurry, idiot. Time is running out.” Pushed toward the still-quivering corpse, Crowe began unbuckling Jacinto’s combat harness and webbing, jerking his hands away as the last of the dead guard’s tremors left his body. Meanwhile Howard swung open the back of the Stepvan, removed several pins from the sides of the equipment racks along the inside walls of the van, then hauled the racks away from the wall.

  Out from his hiding place inside the racks, wearing the ANTARES flight suit, was Captain Kenneth Francis James.

  “Nechyega syerchyanznaga, tovarisch. It is all clear, Comrade Captain. We are ready.”

  James raised the muzzle of the machine pistol and put the safety on. “Speak English, you idiot. And help me out of here.”

  Slowly, carefully, Maraklov was helped to his feet. Moving as if his joints were locked in place, he slowly walked to the edge of the Stepvan. Howard then lowered him to the hangar floor, where he made his way to the maintenance platform still set up beside DreamStar.

  By this time Airman Crowe—real name, long unused and almost forgotten, was Andrei Lovyyev—had put on all of Jacinto’s combat gear and was just replacing the ammo clip in the M-16 rifle. “Blouse your pants in your boots, Crowe,” James told him as he crawled up the ladder. “And keep out of sight. You’re at least thirty pounds smaller than Jacinto, someone is bound to notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember, your call sign is Five Foxtrot. The duress code number is twelve and the duress prefix and suffix is victor.”

  “I remember, sir.”

  He turned to Howard. “You both have been briefed on the pickup location?”

  “Yes, Captain. Good luck to you, sir.”

  James balanced himself on the cockpit sill of DreamStar and swung his legs inside the cockpit. Then with Howard’s help, he connected the maze of wire bundles from his flight suit to DreamStar’s computers, set the heavy ANTARES superconductor helmet on his head and fastened it into place. By this time he was breathing hard, he could feel drops of sweat crawling down his arms and neck. Howard’s hands trembled slightly wit
h excitement as he fastened the thick shoulder straps around the metal-encased pilot and pulled them tight. “Tighter,” James said in a voice muffled by the helmet. Howard braced himself and hauled on the straps as hard as he could.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Howard,” James said. “You pulled this off very well.”

  “Nyeh zah shto. ” Maraklov had been James too long. He could barely understand a word, but the KGB agent’s soft tone of voice gave him the idea. The man was obviously pleased by the compliment. He rechecked James’ connections and climbed off the maintenance platform.

  Meanwhile Crowe had climbed inside the armored vehicle outside the hangar, scanning the flight line—Howard could see his head jerk at every crackle of the radio. It had, he now realized, been foolish to bring such a youngster on a mission like this—it was Lovyyev’s first full-scale job since sneaking across the border from Mexico via El Paso and setting up residence under cover in Las Vegas three years earlier. To put him in the lion’s den like this was taking a big risk.

  But it was too late for second guessing. Howard disconnected the missile trailer from the Stepvan truck and moved it out of the way inside the hangar, closed the van’s rear doors and moved it out of the hangar and clear of DreamStar’s taxi path. Next he took several large orange-colored traffic cones marked “DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVE” out of the van and arranged them in a wide arc around the hangar doors. This was a normal procedure—the cones were a warning to anyone else on the flight line that work on live weapons was going on inside. But these cones were different. Each was a miniature mortar-launcher, operated by remote control. When activated, each would fire a high-explosive magnesium flash bomb a hundred yards away. The concussions and blinding white light produced by the mortar rounds would slow and presumably stop any quick-reaction forces from moving in until DreamStar was clear of the hangar.

  After carefully aiming the disguised mortars at response roads and likely targets around the hangar—being careful not to crater DreamStar’s taxi route or exit—Howard stepped inside the hangar once again and rechecked that all safing pins and streamers were removed from the aircraft and weapons. He then walked to the truck, retrieved a M-16 rifle with a M-203 forty-millimeter grenade-launcher under the barrel, a metal box full of grenades and a bag of five thirty-round clips, and went back into the hangar to wait.