Assault on Alpha Base (13 page)

“I’d like to see for myself.”

The security policeman shrugged. “Whatever you want, sir.”

As they drove off, McGriffin whistled, his mind racing, wondering about the mysterious C-130. His stomach growled, turning his mind away from the problem at hand. Beef Stroganoff an AAFES burger was not, but at least it was nearby.

2242 local

Wendover AFB

Pablo Lesueur gripped the Bronco’s steering wheel. Colonel Renault was a stickler for details. And because the colonel scrutinized the little things, his men carried out their instructions with zeal.

Pablo intently watched the road and turned at the cutoff. The other three members of the team quietly went over the map in their heads as well. If he took a wrong turn, he would be quickly admonished and set straight as to where he was heading.

He slowed for an intersection. A jeep squealed through a stop sign. Pablo watched the vehicle head off, then proceeded through the intersection.

He finally reached the building Renault had carefully pointed out to them. Antennas pricked the top of the low-slung building. Lesueur recognized the antennas from his past work in communications: ultra-high frequency, extremely high frequency, very low frequency. Seven satellite dishes and microwave relay, all anchored to the roof, sat beside the antennas.

The building didn’t look penetrable. Thick glass covered what few windows it had, and bars poked through the openings. But then again, they didn’t have to take the building. They just had to ensure they severed communications so the base was shut off from the rest of the world.

Lesueur parked by an old white Corvette, so he was well away from the building but still in a position to see what was going on. He checked his watch and conferred quickly with the others in the Bronco. Another ten minutes. Lesueur sat back and picked his teeth. He chose the best spots to lay the explosives. The first satchel of explosives would go by the front entrance—directly under the sign that said

Wendover AFB Command Post.

Chapter 16

Saturday, 18 June, 2251 local

Alpha Base

The five miles to Alpha Base took ten minutes to traverse. Gunning the APC at speeds up to forty-five miles an hour, Vikki Osborrn navigated the crew to the nuclear weapons storage area. She kept her eyes glued on the IFF—every time it flashed, she barked an order to change direction.

Renault steered by an image projected from a forward-looking television camera mounted at the top of the personnel carrier. The image came back in ghostly white and gray contrast, as the infrared processing amplified the low light around them.

Bushes, ravines, cactus, and boulders all showed up in eerie detail. Every now and then a brilliant white splotch would bound across the screen as the APC disturbed a jackrabbit from its hole.

They crossed the narrow road leading to Alpha Base and swung south. Harding studied Britnell’s map and directed Renault back toward the picnic grounds outside of Alpha Base.

The base loomed in the background as a white shimmer, growing brighter with every minute. Periodically Renault switched the forward-looking camera off the ground and scanned Alpha Base. The screen automatically reconfigured to adjust for the base’s bright glow.

This is almost too easy, Vikki thought. There has to be something more to it.

She glanced down at the IFF. “Sensor!” Renault jerked the craft to the right. An instant later the light faded. Vikki waited until the flicker disappeared, then breathed, “All clear.”

Renault steered back to his original path, not looking back.

Vikki watched the IFF. She felt flushed, caught up in Renault’s drive to Alpha Base. It was almost like a drug—a yearning to get out and
do
something. She felt ready.

Alpha Base grew brighter, until it dominated everything on the screen. Slowing to a stop, Renault switched the image from infrared to normal lighting.

The screen blinked. They stopped a quarter mile from the four fences circling Alpha Base. The storage facility lay sprawled in the crater, lights splashing down on every bunker—the five miles across the complex seemed to stretch on forever. To their right lay the main gate. The picnic area was directly in front of them.

Renault turned and struggled from the cramped seat. Standing, he wiped his hands on his pants. “All right, listen up—we’re running behind.” The admonishment was unnecessary; no one spoke. “Mortar squad, half your shells should take out the road to Alpha Base and be ready to hit any vehicles they’ll throw at us. We want to prevent a counterattack. They won’t be able to get a fix on you, so don’t worry about being spotted—the APC will draw them out.

“Once you expend your mortars, fall back to the baseball diamond in the picnic area. Your helicopter is not going to stick around and wait for you. If you’re not there, that’s it. We’re not a damned rescue unit—the nukes come first. So if you want to get back alive, make sure you’re there. Any questions?”

Renault looked around the APC. Most men kept their gaze fixed to the floor. Renault glanced at his watch. “All right, move it. Six minutes.”

He turned back to the control panel and jabbed at the screen. The monitor reconfigured itself in a flash of red and blue. Renault pressed the touch-sensitive display and the rear ramp whirred open. Vikki sat back and watched the men hand out boxes of mortar shells and rifles. The whole process took less than two minutes.

When they finished, the mortar team dispersed. Renault closed the ramp and turned to Vikki and Harding. “Ready?”

Vikki set her mouth. “What now?”

“We wait. Two and a half minutes. And then we go.

2252 local

Wendover Command Post

Pablo Lesueur let his eyes dwell on the clock before it hit him:
ten fifty-two
—
eight minutes!
He struggled upright in the driver’s seat. Punching the man next to him, he grunted, not speaking lest someone near the Bronco might overhear them. The colonel had warned them about the various motion and sound sensors around Alpha Base—nothing prevented the Americans from planting sensors over the rest of the base.

The men stirred. Motioning with his hands, Pablo directed the others to shoulder their satchels of explosives.

A minute had transpired:
2253.

Pablo eyed the command post. The satellite and microwave antennas were easy to destroy. The structures were relatively unhardened against anything more than a high wind.

The short, needle-thin, extremely high frequency antennas covered the building, looking like prickly pears. Optical data lines ran from the building and plunged underground, intertwining with the other optical fibers connecting all base communications. They were buried, but a five-pound explosive tossed down the access hole would prevent any signals from leaving Wendover.

Stupid Americans, thought Pablo. Colonel Renault was right. They pay out the nose to harden their expensive equipment against all sorts of nuclear electromagnetic pulse, but totally discount a strike in their own backyard.

He checked the clock again:
2254.

Pablo nodded for the men to disperse. Shifting the weight of the explosives higher on his shoulder, he grabbed the blanket from underneath his feet and slipped from the van. Once the men were out, they silently split up and went to their various stations.

Pablo raced to the barbed wire. He tossed the blanket on top of the ten-foot-high fence and scaled it.

By the time he was on top of the roof, it was 2256.
Four minutes.
He set the timer, gave it a quick pat, and peeled out.

2252 local

Wendover AFB Flight Line

Frank Koch moved from one helicopter to another. The choppers weren’t hangared, but left out in the open. As Koch ran, the cool desert air blew through his open shirt, rippling against his flesh. Any other night he would have been chilled.

Tonight he sweated.

Koch’s men had dragged the bodies of five security policemen into the shadows. The pad was isolated, ideal for setting up the charges and hotwiring the helicopters for their assault. Except for a jeep driving past every few minutes, and the guards out by the end of the taxi way, Koch and his men were left alone. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.

But things weren’t going right at all.

Koch personally supervised the installation of the first three explosives, checking the wires and ensuring the timers were set for 2300.

After they wired the third helicopter, things started going wrong.

He heard a “plunk” as he waved the men on, splitting them up to set the rest of the explosives. The alert bird—a helicopter kept ready to instantaneously fly away in case of an emergency—sat well away from the ones they scurried about.

But the “plunk” sounded bad.

Koch ducked down and raced back to the giant HH-53. It loomed over him like a silent sleeping giant as Koch crawled under the 53’s fuselage. The explosive had fallen from the airframe, jarring the timer away from the fuse. Great, he thought. If he hadn’t found it, it wouldn’t have exploded.

Koch slapped the fuse and timer together before setting the explosive back underneath the fuselage. He decided this was the optimal place—hiding it inside the chopper would draw too much attention if it were found.

He placed the plastique underneath the body, right by the wheel well. It was virtually impossible to see.

Koch crawled out from under the chopper and decided to inspect the other two helicopters.

Both explosives had fallen from their places. One had the timer and fuse still together, the other was separated.

Koch cursed and fixed the two. He had a sudden thought—racing back to the first chopper, he saw what he was looking for. He swore to himself. The explosive had fallen again.

He ran his hand over the fuselage. The skin felt cold to his touch. Something was wrong. If this wasn’t an aluminum skin, then what was it? It felt like plastic. But it
had to
be aluminum—what the hell else could it be?

More important, all the plastique planted by the men were probably no longer sticking to the helicopters.

He glanced at his watch:
2256—four minutes and the show begins.
Wetting his lips, he looked hurriedly around. He spotted one or two of the men slipping in among the helicopters. Too little time was left to ensure that all the HH-53’s would blow. And if they didn’t …

Koch angrily pushed the thought out of his mind. It was too late to prevent what happened—he had to move on to the next part of the plan: load the men!

He ran across two rows of helicopters. Four of his men disappeared around a helicopter. Moments later they trotted up to him. “That’s it.”

Koch grunted. They had to time it right—after the communications building blew, but before the plastique they planted went off. When they started the chopper’s engines, the sound would draw security policemen like a shark feeding frenzy. With Pablo’s diversion at the command post they might be able to get the five choppers off the ground.

He glanced at his watch again:
2258.
Two minutes. He directed the men to load the choppers. Swinging up into the cockpit, he ran his hands over the equipment. In the darkness he managed to find his way around without too much difficulty.

A light glinted off the windshield. Jerking his head up, he caught sight of two cars moving slowly up to the helicopters. The first was a jeep; the other was a security police car. Men climbed from the cars.

2257 local

Wendover AFB Flight Line

McGriffin pulled up to the flight line. Although the two security policemen escorted him, he still felt wary about crossing the “drop dead” line encircling the HH-53’s. He wasn’t sure how serious they took the line at Wendover. He looked for the grim-faced security policemen guarding the line with an M-16 in hand—but no one was around. He knew that on a Saturday night the average nineteen-year-old guard would rather be doing quite a few other things besides pacing alone outdoors; but still, where were they?

McGriffin turned off his lights and waited for the security policemen to park beside him. He jumped from the jeep as a third car drove up. A figure in a flight suit slammed the door.

“Major McGriffin?”

“Over here.”
The voice sounded familiar …

The security policemen joined McGriffin as the man approached. The man called out, “Hi ya, Bill—”

“Manny, what the fat brings you out here?” McGriffin shook hands with the lanky chopper pilot.

Yarnez grinned and returned the security policemen’s salute. “I should be the one to ask. I was just pulling alert when I got this frantic call from Chief Zolley. He said you were chasing some airplane around and were afraid something was going on with the 53’s.” He lifted his eyebrows at McGriffin.

“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s going on myself. I just wanted to check out your helicopters to make sure nothing was wrong.”

Manny spread his arms. “Satisfied?”

McGriffin frowned and looked around. “What about the guards?”

Manny scanned the area, then shrugged. “They’re on patrol. What else do you think they’re doing?”

“All right, don’t rub it in.” He glanced at his watch:
2259.
“I tell you what—I still want to track them down. Afterward I’ll buy you a grease burger and fill you in.”

“It’s a deal. Hole in the Ground? I’ll meet you there.” He threw a quick salute and left for his car.

“Sure.” McGriffin headed wearily for the flight line. What a night, he thought. Thinking he should check in with Zolley, he turned back to his vehicle—

The explosives went off as he reached the jeep. Momentarily blinded, he groped for the radio. Helicopter blades screamed around him. Heavy fumes of JP-4 nearly bowled him over.

He managed to click on the mike. “Command post—can you read me?”

A helicopter exploded not a hundred feet away, knocking him against the jeep door. Flames shot into the air. A boiling cloud of smoke and fires rolled over the flight line. Another helicopter exploded, blinding him.

Over the hiss of the walkie-talkie Chief Zolley cried, “... the command post is under attack!”