Clayborn pulled the Bronco off the road. White dust swirled around them. “It’s been a while since we checked in. Do you want to make contact?”
“Yeah, I’ll make the call.” Britnell fumbled for the microphone. “Apple One, this is Busyfly validating our position. Our location is”—Britnell squinted at the marker set by the road—”Foxtrot Two Zero — I repeat, Foxtrot Two Zero.”
A moment passed. “I copy, Busyfly. Disengage your IFF now.”
Britnell reached under the radio and toggled the Identification Friend or Foe system, turning the device off, then back on. Originally developed so that Air Force fighters could distinguish between friendly and enemy planes, this sixth-generation IFF sent out a coded signal that directed the radar to ignore its presence; when the IFF was turned on, the radar and warning systems on Alpha Base would electronically mask the jeep’s presence from detection.
“I copy your position, Busyfly.”
“Roger that.” Britnell clicked off the mike and grinned. They continued around Alpha Base—
The truck lit up in a fireball of light and sirens. Searchlights punched through the dusk, bathing the crater and fences with streams of light. Sirens shrieked in the distance, running up and down the scale.
“What the hell!”
The radio squawked. Clayborn slapped down the gain, nearly ripping the set from its metal mooring.
“Trespass alert, trespass alert. All patrols converge on station Foxtrot Two One. I say again, converge on station Foxtrot Two One.”
Clayborn looked around frantically. “That’s right on top of us!”
“Where?” Britnell turned white. He brought his M-16 up and clutched the rifle with trembling hands. “Oh man, oh man — where is it? Where is it?” His stomach tightened.
“It’s right behind us.”
Clayborn revved the engine and popped the truck into reverse. They spun, kicking up sand, and tore back toward the last marker. The marker loomed up, visible in their headlights. “Okay, you son of a bitch. Where are you? Come on.”
Three trucks screeched to a halt twenty yards away. They directed their headlights out toward the fences.
Britnell stuck his head out the truck. “I see something moving!” He pushed his rifle through the window.
“No, wait.” Clayborn jerked Britnell’s hand away from the trigger. “Look.” He pointed in front of them.
A white bob moved randomly along the fences, attempting to keep out of the searchlights. Two long ears and a brown body darted in and out of view. Britnell dropped his rifle in his lap.
“A jackrabbit.” Britnell sagged in his seat. “I thought they had gotten rid of all the false alarms. Half a billion dollars for a first class, one-of-a-kind security system, and it screws up. Animals aren’t suppose to trigger it.”
“Obviously not. Now aren’t you glad I didn’t let you shoot? Think what would have happen—”
“I know,” interrupted Britnell. “Setting off a weapon on Alpha Base is grounds for having my nuts cut off.”
“Unless you kill the poor bastard trying to get in. But jackrabbits don’t count. You owe me one.”
Clayborn keyed the mike and reported. “Apple One, this is Busyfly. The boogie was a rabbit; I say again, the intruder was a rabbit. Request permission to leave the hot zone and proceed with patrolling farside. We’ve had enough excitement for a while.”
The reply came back almost instantly. “Roger that, Busyfly. And thanks for the fast response. Sarge says you’re due to patrol outside the fence next shift for getting there first. That, and you’ve got yourself a pass for tomorrow night.”
“Busyfly copies, and thanks.”
Clayborn held out a palm. Britnell slapped it and grinned. “Let’s blast off — it’s party time! Tomorrow night, Shotgun Annie’s, here I come!”
Chapter 1
Major William McGriffin stopped before the command post. Set into the door, a one-way mirror reflected the major’s image back to him. His blue eyes inspected his hair. He liked to keep his hair thick on the sides and long in back, but he had just plastered the locks down in anticipation of meeting his new boss, the Wendover base commander. He was pushing the weight limit for his height, but all cargo pilots seemed to be slightly pudgy. It was the twenty-hour flights to exotic places like Diego Garcia, Pusan, and Thule that gave him his padded frame.
But there were not going to be any more exotic places for McGriffin, at least for a while. He had just about accepted being yanked off his flying job and forced to work at Wendover AFB. Wendover was about as far away from a flying assignment as the Air Force could get him. It just didn’t make sense: spend a million dollars to train a guy to fly, then send him to this desert hole in a nonflying job.
Sure, he knew the rationale: only a pilot could effectively run a base command post.
And only monkeys could effectively eat bananas, too.
Wendover AFB required a pilot in the command post as much as the Sahara needed sand. There just wasn’t any need for it. If Wendover had a flying unit, it might make sense. The closest thing to flying Wendover had was the helicopter squadron — and they flew only to support Alpha Base security.
Helicopters. The word tasted bitter in McGriffin’s mouth. Helicopter pilots went through a glorified six-month training course at Fort Rucker — an Army base — and called themselves pilots. They even wore the same wings as real pilots. McGriffin shook his head. Flying helicopters was as different from piloting a jet as driving a car.
The only consolation about this assignment was that he was away from Linda. When she had left him, it was hard enough having her move in with that aerospace contractor — a nonflyer to boot! And for him to run across her in Tacoma — every time he went into town he dreaded the possibility that he’d see her. He had even changed churches, fearful that he might catch a glimpse of her … her red hair, her laughing … there were too many memories.
At least here he’d have a chance to get over her. And from the looks of the sparse female population, he wasn’t in any danger of latching on to someone while he was on the rebound.
Setting his jaw, he rang the buzzer on the door to the command post.
A disembodied voice came over a speaker. “Good morning, sir. Could you hold your CAC card up to the mirror?”
McGriffin pulled out his wallet. He held the white CAC card — a high-tech ID with a radio-frequency chip that held his personal information — up to the one-way mirror.
“Thank you, sir. Please step away from the door.”
McGriffin took an awkward step back as a security policeman held the door open for him. “This way, Major.” They walked down a narrow hallway to another barred door.
“Sir, Chief Zolley will escort you into the command post area.”
Two airmen, resplendent in their Class A’s, white gloves, and ascots, stood on either side of the causeway. McGriffin nodded as he passed. The guards stood mute.
A single enlisted man greeted him. The man appeared to be a few years older than he — close to forty — but even so, to have someone so young attain the highest enlisted rank impressed McGriffin. The man firmly shook hands with him.
“Major McGriffin, welcome to Wendover. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Zolley, NCO in charge of the command post. Colonel DeVries is waiting in the back. He’ll call for you momentarily. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
McGriffin shook his head. “No thank you, Chief. Caffeine makes me jumpy.”
The senior enlisted man smiled. “How about a tour of the CP, then? It may be a few minutes until the colonel is ready.”