by Doug Beason
“And you’re still a stranger to them, Bill. You’re some hotshot desk jockey who thinks he’ll change the whole damned Marine Corps in three months—”
“And if you didn’t think I could hack it, then why did you bring me here, sir? Why did you give me this command?”
Vandervoos glared, then reached for a match. “You can hack it. I would not assign you command of my RDF if I didn’t believe you could handle it.” He puffed on the cigar for a moment, then promptly forgot the smoldering stogie as he started pacing again.
Krandel followed the general around the room. “Then why won’t you let me lead my own men?”
“You haven’t even been out on maneuvers with them, much less jumped from a real TAV.”
“But I’ve done everything else, sir.” Krandel drew in a deep breath, fighting down the shaking that had started in his hands. “I’ve been through everything the men have tackled the last three months, General. Everything they did, I led the way. Period. I did it because I didn’t want this situation to come up. And if it did, I wanted to be in a position to show I could hack it.”
Vandervoos retorted, “But at least Weston has experience under fire—”
“That’s bullshit.”
Vandervoos stopped lighting his cigar in midair.
Krandel spread his hands. “General, the only difference in our experience is that Harvey has had a real TAV flight. And that’s no big deal; you’ve told me that before. I’m as qualified as any other marine in the mockup. Besides, if you won’t let me command my own men, you’ll have one of those TAV pilots serving as the on-site commander. Think of it: The TAV pilots all outrank Captain Weston. Can you imagine one of those air force hot dogs commanding marines?”
The question hung in the air. Krandel had finally stumped Vandervoos long enough so that the general couldn’t be on the offensive. He could feel Vandervoos giving in, and he had to keep at it.
He strode to where Vandervoos stared out the window. “You said I’d be the best CO this battalion ever had. I’ve been through the training, I’ve paid my dues; now give me the chance!”
Vandervoos was quiet for several heartbeats before answering, his voice a whisper. “Bill, this isn’t only the President’s life we’re talking about. If you fail, that poor excuse for a Vice President could ruin this country.…”
“General, I didn’t make it to lieutenant colonel because of you. If I didn’t have something going for me, I wouldn’t have made it this far. This isn’t a test of how well you’ve groomed me for command; it’s my ass that’s on the line. Damn it, General, I wouldn’t be here if I was not the best man for the job.”
Vandervoos pursed his lips; as he started to speak a knock came at the door. Vandervoos called irritably. “What?”
“The RDF is assembled, sir. First and second Platoon commanders Weston and Daniels are in the foyer, waiting to escort you and Colonel Krandel.”
Krandel pressed the issue. “General … I’ve never let you down.”
“Damn it, Bill. I know that.” Vandervoos opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. He put a hand on the windowsill. The parade ground sprawled next to the headquarters building, lined by a row of palm trees. It seemed so calm out there, but it was miles away from the maelstrom that churned inside his mind.
Krandel spoke quietly. “Shall I have Weston and Daniels report in so you can tell them who’s commanding this mission?”
A long moment passed. Vandervoos smashed his cigar in an ashtray and picked up a fresh one from the box on his desk. “You’re their CO. You tell them.” As Krandel’s face lit up, Vandervoos bit off the end of his cigar and spit.
“Bill.”
Krandel stopped halfway to the door. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m stepping out for a moment. Bring them in here to tell them while I’m gone. If you’re going to command this rescue, you’ll need to see how Weston and Daniels will react when you tell them they aren’t going. Like the saying goes: If you’re going to dance to the music, you’ve got to pay the band. And watch out. Daniels won’t be bad; his platoon was the second string in all our contingencies. But Weston’s going to throw a fit.”
U.S.S.S. Bifrost
Lieutenant Colonel Frier muted the communications part of the screen and set the apparatus up to beep at any reception from the NECC. He’d done all he could for the time being; additional orders would be coming up at any moment, he hoped, from dirtside.
Now, if they could only make a decision on what to do down there. He had all the sensing gear ready, but without the final okay from the NECC he was helpless to use it.
Wordel swam into view to his right. “How did Washington respond, Colonel?”
“The usual—they’ll get back to us.”
“What are they going to do? Do they realize we’re running out of time?”
“They know it. I couldn’t have been clearer. Weren’t you listening? My guess is they’ll want us to deploy the sonic and motion sensors around the Do’brai airport. We’re not due to be overhead for another half hour—we can’t get a visual until then—so I’m trying to outguess the nervous Nellies at the NECC. What else do you want me to do?”
Frier noticed the look on Wordel’s face and he suddenly felt bad at taking his frustration with the NECC out on his deputy. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
It didn’t matter that Frier hadn’t been able to let out steam in a while. A good commander is better than that. And if something were going to happen down there, he’d need Wordel’s help. He needed to be on top of things.
On top of things. The irony almost made him laugh. Here he was, three hundred miles above the earth, and he wanted to be on top of something?
“S’all right,” said Wordel gruffly. “I shouldn’t—”
Wordel was interrupted as the communications screen started angrily beeping, demanding the message be received. Frier slapped at the screen. A faceless voice yammered, “BIGEYE, BIGEYE, confirm this broadcast from NECC with echo-check, I repeat, confirm this broadcast with echo-check. I tell you three times: Sensor package deployment ordered soonest incident Do’brai; sensor package deployment ordered soonest incident Do’brai; sensor …”
Frier was deploying the sensor package from BIGEYE’s bay as he heard the first words.
A rail gun accelerated the sonic and motion sensor package at velocities that would have turned any human cargo to strawberry jam. The package shot along the precomputed trajectory. Hitting the earth’s atmosphere, it would be slowed by atmospheric drag. Tiny gas rockets on the package would steer it in, fine-tuning its path and comparing its location to where its internal computer and GPS said it should be.
Within minutes the package would separate and impact the ground near Do’brai, saturating the area with tiny sensors that could detect any sound above a whisper from fifty yards away. The information would be relayed to any of the several national strategic satellites circling the earth, then amplified and transferred to BIGEYE, where it would be processed and shot back to the NECC in Washington.
Frier relaxed, finally satisfied that he had been able to do something constructive. “Let’s get ready for that visual and IR scan of Do’brai when we overfly it.”
“We’ve still got twenty minutes, Colonel.”
“I’d rather be ready and waiting than have something go wrong at the last minute, Major.”
“Yes, sir.” Wordel shot out of the compartment. He knew Frier meant business when he reverted to using military rank.
Camp Pendleton, California
“Room, Aa-ten-hut!” The room stood as one.
General Vandervoos strode into the room, teeth clenching an unlit cigar, the quintessential wing commander. Lieutenant Colonel Krandel kept pace one step behind him. General Vandervoos reached the podium and stared hard at the men in front of him. Finally he broke the silence, saying, “Take seats, gentlemen. This won’t take long.”
He shifted the cigar from side to side and nodded for the fi
rst slide.
Krandel pushed a button; the lights dimmed, and a desert scene, pictured from high overhead, flashed on the screen. Bordering the slide were the words
COMPARTMENTAL—TS/RD-SCI NO FORN—DOWNGRADE IAW DOD 5200.2.
Vandervoos spoke around the cigar. “This, gentlemen, is Do’brai—it’s an IR scan taken from BIGEYE and transmitted to the National Emergency Command Center not fifteen minutes ago. If you’ll notice, in the lower right corner of the picture there’s a runway.”
The screen flashed again, showing a close-up. The runway was spotted with vehicles, dots that had to be people, and a single plane.
“That plane is Air Force One. Gentlemen, the President of the United States is being held at Do’brai against his will.” Vandervoos paused, waited for the stir to die down, and continued. “This morning, our time, Air Force One left Moscow, Russia, for Israel. En route, communication with Air Force One was terminated, and the aircraft was diverted to this field. We managed to track the flight, but were unable to regain contact with the pilot.
“Soon after the aircraft landed BIGEYE saturated the area with sonic and motion sensors using over-the-horizon semiballistics. We’ve been able to keep in touch with what’s going on to a large extent through the sensors, but we didn’t have visual confirmation until BIGEYE’s polar orbit brought it overhead fifteen minutes ago.
“From intercepted communiqués we determined the plane will remain at Do’brai only for a short time. Both DIA and CIA sources confirm that high-ranking ALH guerilla leaders are assembling at Do’brai.…and that any not there are en route and will arrive within the next four hours. This is the largest gathering of ALH guerillas since the Mexican Intervention.”
He paused. “I’ll lay it out for you: The President’s been taken hostage and has less than twelve hours to live. As soon as the ALH junta is assembled they will announce his impending execution for American crimes against humanity. It will be televised by the Arab Liberated Hegemony and will be picked up by the world media”—he shook his head bitterly—“and don’t think our media won’t accept the feed. The ALH is going to make this execution into a three-ring circus.” He nodded to Krandel.
Krandel changed the slide, throwing up an exaggerated view of Central Africa with air routes marked in red.
General Vandervoos rapped on the podium to quiet the stir. “We’ll only have one chance. Air Force One is refueling at Do’brai, and as soon as the last guerilla leader is aboard—in about four hours—Air Force One will take off for Kapuir for the execution. The reason you’re here is that the National Emergency Command Center wants us to rescue the President. And do it now.
“We don’t have any air power close enough to help. Even if we did, they couldn’t do anything without harming the President. And once he reaches Kapuir, it’s over. The place will be swarming with so many guerillas, it would be suicide to attempt a rescue there.
“Another option we have is to retaliate against the ALH, but with this administration’s leanings, I wouldn’t count on that. So this is our only chance. We have to move now.” The rumbling grew. General Vandervoos nodded to Krandel, who switched off the slide and brought the lights back up.
The room smelled of the heavy musk that came with fifty men decked out in battle gear. General Vandervoos shot a glance at Lieutenant Colonel Krandel.
Krandel stood erect and studied his men. In the back, behind the marines, slouched a row of air force types. As much as he loathed them, they were a necessary evil, as their help was required to pull off the rescue.
The general cleared his throat and eyed the back row. “The air force is preparing two of its seven Trans-Atmospheric Vehicles at Edwards for the flight to Do’brai. The TAVs will be cramped, but we can get two squads on board one of them. The other TAV is carrying a fuel bladder with enough fuel to get both TAVs back, for both the rescue team and the hostages.
“I know your training with the Rapid Deployment Force had you using four TAVs, but the National Emergency Command Center is willing to risk only two of them. We can cram everyone from Air Force One aboard the TAV carrying the fuel bladder—after it’s expended, of course—so we shouldn’t have any trouble getting everyone back.”
He lowered his voice. “Personally, I think those village idiots at the NECC are worried about the perception that the US is invading a foreign country. They still have that damned Mexican Intervention albatross hanging around their necks.…so I want the rest of you to man the other TAVs as a backup, just in case they change their minds.”
The general took the cigar from his mouth. “We figure they’ll head for Kapuir at dawn, local time. That gives us four hours at the most to get you there, rescue the President, and get you back up in the air. It will be tight.” He stuck the cigar in his mouth and glanced at his watch. “The TAVs are arriving from Edwards within the half hour; you leave here in forty-five minutes and will orbit at a predesignated jump-off point until final approval for the rescue comes from the White House. If the NECC can convince the Vice President to commit, you’ll be in Do’brai in an hour and a half. Are there any questions?”
No one moved. Vandervoos shifted the cigar. “We’ve got three quarters of an hour. We’ve tried to think of everything, but you might bring up some questions we haven’t considered. So let’s hear it—it could only help us.”
A hand shot up from the back; it was one of the air force types. “General, the air force has always assumed the TAVs would be abandoned and the RDF would be picked up by a tactical cargo craft, such as a C-17. Are you saying that since we don’t have time for any aircraft to pick us up, the TAVs are going to get back on their own?”
Vandervoos nodded. “That’s right.”
The air force officer rolled his eyes. “But the TAVs are basically scramjets. With the weight they’re carrying they will need to be air-launched from a 747. There’s no way they are going to take off on their own power. How are you planning to have them return once they get to Do’brai? Without the 747 mother ship, the TAVs can’t gain enough speed on their own to ignite the scramjets.”
Vandervoos looked to Lieutenant Colonel Krandel.
Krandel moved forward and spoke up. “JATOs: Jet Assisted Take-Offs. While the Rapid Deployment Force is pulling off the rescue, the air crews will be refueling from the fuel bladder on the second TAV and strapping JATO units onto each craft. The JATOs we’re bringing should get enough airspeed for the scramjets to start up.” He paused and grinned wryly. “Or at least that’s what your flight engineers at Edwards say.”
Vandervoos nodded and looked around the room. “Next?”
A marine stood. “General, how was Air Force One taken over? Was there anything that might have tipped us off?”
Vandervoos shrugged. “Son, you tell me and we’ll both know. It could have been anything from an on-board plant to a stowaway. Personally, I think it was an inside job, as Air Force One is protected tighter than a vestal virgin. This seems to go with our one lead: The regular stewards for these trips were in an accident, and their backups were used for the first time. But that’s a moot point. The fact is that security broke down, and the President is in imminent danger. We’re double-checking the backgrounds of the stewards and any others on board just to make sure, but it won’t help us now. Any more?”
Another hand went up, this time more slowly. Another flyboy from the back. “Sir, can we be sure the President is still at Do’brai? What if this is some kind of elaborate hoax?”
General Vandervoos’ eyes widened. He studied his nails before speaking and seemed to count to himself. “Young man, I couldn’t begin to tell you about all the verification procedures our sensors are using. We’re employing everything from laser phase-conjugated echo ranging to seismic sensors deployed by BIGEYE. With something as important as this, we’re pulling out all the stops in the intelligence community. Trust us!
“Any other questions?” He waited for a moment, then grunted. “The air force will launch four pre-attack containers
from Vandenberg immediately before the TAVs ignite, for IPB—the Intelligent Preparation of the Battlefield. They containers will arrive at Do’brai five minutes before the TAVs land. The canisters house the standard command sensor, biodegradation agent, runway clearer, and sleeping gas that can be carried on a Peacekeeper missile instead of the warhead. If there are no other questions, I’ll leave you with Colonel Krandel. I’ve assigned him operational control of the mission, and on-sight commander. He’ll fill you in on the details.
“Good luck, men, and Godspeed. Our prayers are with you.”
Everyone in the room stood as Vandervoos strode out the door.
Once the general left, Krandel rapped for attention and motioned for the men to take seats. Facing the room of fifty marines, he swept his eyes down the rows. “If anyone in the RDF is not a volunteer for this mission, you may go to the back of the room and exit now. This will not be reflected any way in your records.” After waiting a moment, and with no one moving, Krandel let his shoulders sag. “Good. I expected no less.”
He straightened a stack of papers on the podium and looked around the room. “The general alluded to the fact that only two squads, twenty-four men, could go on the mission. General Vandervoos has authorized me to make the selection. I wish that all of you could go—it would certainly make me feel better if you could. However, with the limited space on the TAVs, I had to choose those with special skills. For some of you, the ability to speak Arabic was the deciding factor.”
He glanced down the list of names he held and drew in a breath. “The following personnel will report through the door to your right; the rest of you are ordered to remain in this room until the backup squads for the third and fourth TAV are announced. No contact with anyone outside this room is authorized; we can’t afford to have news of this operation leak out.
“Platoon Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski.” A stocky, somber-faced marine rose and strode out the door.
“Corporal Morales.
“Corporal Henderson.
“Private Havisad …”