Vikki coolly scooted to the driver’s seat, swinging her legs over the stick shift. The key turned the engine over the first time she tried it. When she left, she didn’t look back.
Vikki cut across the desert, heading east, away from Alpha Base and toward the runway. Moonlight dimly lit the concrete apron that was used to unload the nukes. Low-wattage orange “ready lights” splashed their glow on the ground. As expected, the apron was empty of any cargo planes.
Beyond the apron, Christmas-treelike lights demarcated the runway. A series of strobes flashed in a sequence, pointing toward the main landing strip.
Vikki slowed and drove around the concrete loading pad. She tried a direct line to the runway, but a faint warbling sound came from the IFF unit. A tiny red light flashed angrily on top of the unit.
Vikki slammed on the brakes. The IFF — it’s detecting a sensor. The IFF cloaked her from radar, but the sensors would still pick up noise from the Bronco. She put the jeep into reverse and slowly backed up.
As she moved backward the warbling grew fainter and the red light flickered off. She had left the detailed map of Alpha Base with Harding, but she could still make it to the hangar at the end of the runway by going slowly and using the IFF to find the sensors before they detected her.
She headed north a hundred yards. Glancing at her smartphone, the digital readout flashed nine-fifty. Ten minutes before Renault lands. She turned the steering wheel back east and accelerated. On a hunch, she steered toward the runway — she now headed on a diagonal to her original path. Driving with one eye on the moonlit desert and the other on the IFF, she continued, slowly waiting for the sensor light to come on …
Wham! She looked wildly around.
Her front tires hit the access road. The shock jolted her. She thought about flicking her lights on, but decided against it. The road was fairly well delineated in the moonlight, but she had to squint over the steering wheel to make sure she was still on track.
She rounded the runway, speeding past the strobe lights without passing anyone. Slowing she searched for the deserted aircraft hangar. She almost panicked when she couldn’t find it, but when a patch of stars was suddenly blocked by its shape, she felt relieved.
Vikki slowed to a stop. She made out the moving van nestled against the hangar.
She turned off the engine and climbed out of the Bronco. No one was in sight. She wasn’t surprised— Harding had to be sure that she was alone. She stood by the Bronco and waited.
A rustle came from her right. She started to turn—
Someone grabbed her from behind. A hand covered her mouth and pulled her down. She tried not to cry out. Dirt and rock ground into her side.
“She’s alone,” hissed a voice. The hands released her. She brushed herself off as Harding appeared in front of her.
By an elbow he drew her away from the men and looked her over. “Well?”
Vikki brushed herself off. “It’s all set.”
“Show me the IFF.” Harding picked up a toolbox and lugged it with him.
They climbed inside the vehicle. Harding stuck his feet out the door so he could position himself under the IFF. If he saw any blood, he ignored it, concentrating instead on the radar cloaking device. Vikki pointed out the basic features as he asked questions.
Harding motioned for the toolbox and withdrew a socket wrench. Minutes later he pulled the IFF from its chassis. He turned it over and placed it on the seat.
“So that’s it?”
“What did you expect?”
Harding squinted at his watch. “Any time now. You cut it close, Vikki. If you were any later, we would have gone on without you.”
Vikki chose to ignore him. The repartee was getting tiresome. They had more important things to do.
Grabbing the IFF, Harding motioned for her to follow.
They moved quickly to the hangar. Pulled up flush with the three-story building, the moving van blended in with the surroundings. The back was open. Most of the men were sprawled around the truck, their weapons loose by their sides.
For all the relaxed atmosphere, Vikki soon noticed that the men were arranged symmetrically around the truck, facing so that the entire runway and access road were covered. Most of them smoked, holding cigarettes in the cups of their hands as she had seen Harding do earlier in the night. Her first impression of them as a ragtag group of terrorists began to fade as their professional demeanor began to shine through.
As Harding approached, the men sprang easily to their feet. They gathered around as he spoke.
“I want everyone to keep hidden until Renault gets here. No one moves until I give the all-clear.”
A faint droning interrupted him. Searching the night sky, Harding spotted the strobe and landing lights of the C-130. It came in from the west, its four propellers cutting through the air.
“All right, places everyone.” Harding bolted to the moving van and gingerly placed the dismantled IFF on the front seat. He grabbed a rifle and reached into the van. “Vikki, are you armed?”
“Yeah — Britnell’s pistol.” It was missing one bullet, she thought.
Harding pulled out another rifle, smaller than the one he carried, and tossed it to her. “Use this instead. It’s an automatic. Flip up the safety, but don’t use more than single shots. You’ll run out of bullets too fast if you don’t.”
Vikki caught the weapon and turned it over. The droning grew louder, escalating to a gut-wrenching roar. The men flattened against the hangar, hiding from any light directed their way.
Vikki moved over by Harding and watched. The C-130 was clearly visible now. Its wheels bounced on the long runway, landing at the midpoint. Smoke shot out from where the wheels hit the asphalt.
The engines reversed, slowing the transport and sending a thunder of prop wash across the field. They’d find out soon if the call signs Britnell provided them worked.
The plane kept moving. As it drew closer, Vikki could make out the dim cockpit lights. The crew inside the aircraft gave no indication that they could see the moving van or hangar.
“Come on, come on.” Harding clenched his rifle tighter.
The C-130 drew abreast of them. Slowing, it rotated in a hairpin turn, back toward the taxiway. As it turned, the rear compartment opened, splitting wide, looking like an alligator’s mouth. The loading ramp bounced as it hit the ground. The C-130 stopped briefly, and a dark vehicle emerged from the gaping hole.
The APC! Vikki ran over the APC’s characteristics in her head: bullet-proof and agile, it could reach speeds of over forty-five miles per hour, and yet carry ten men and their weapons to just about any target. Powered by an array of batteries, the APC made virtually no sound. As it sped toward them, the camouflaged titanium skin gave the APC a dull finish.
The C-130 pulled away, moving back down the runway as it closed its ramp.
Harding jumped up and ran toward the APC. With the plane departing to the opposite end of the runway, the APC’s small size surprised Vikki — filling the C-130’s cargo bay, it gave the optical illusion that the vehicle was monstrous.
Harding directed the APC to the van.
A hatch opened at the top of the vehicle. Renault pushed his head through the opening. “Glad to see everyone made it to the party.”
Harding slipped over and jumped nimbly onto the vehicle. “Stop screwing around and open the back compartment.”
Renault met his glare and nodded. A low whine came from the APC after Renault ducked down in the innards. The APC’s back end lifted open.
Harding glanced at his watch, then called out, “Get a move on. We’ve got a little less than half an hour.”