Four men transferred boxes of plastique to the Bronco. The one called Pablo Lesueur was in charge. They loaded the rear section high, then piled into the vehicle with their rifles. Colonel Renault spoke to the group before waving Harding and Vikki over.
“The communications squad is heading out. Are you going to have any trouble installing the IFF unit?”
Harding shook his head. “Not any more difficulty than putting in a cassette recorder. I’ll hook it up to the battery and run the antenna through the hatch.”
“So we can still go by our original schedule?”
“Unless something happens to the helicopter squad, we’ll go as planned.”
“Good.” Renault turned back to the Bronco and gave final instructions to the men. “Pablo — after you’re done, head off base. No one will stop you in the confusion.” They nodded, then started off. Vikki backed away from the Bronco as it left. Harding and Renault conferred for a moment before Harding broke away for the moving van.
“Vikki, I want you to operate the IFF. You’re the only one with experience.”
“What experience?”
“You used it getting here, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
Harding retrieved the IFF from the moving van and started installing it as the men finished loading the APC. For the first time since the night activities began, Vikki felt a chill. Then she realized her bra felt uncomfortable — she hadn’t noticed it until she’d let her mind wander.
Renault gathered the remainder of the men around him. Ten would be in the armored personnel carrier with Vikki, Harding, and Renault, crowding the APC; thirty-six men were with the helicopter team, still in the back of the C-130; and the four men in the Bronco rounded out the list. Fifty-three people against four times that many stationed on Alpha Base.
But they had the element of surprise — they knew what they would be doing next; the personnel on Alpha Base wouldn’t know what hit them.
Vikki shivered from a sudden gust of cool wind. Swinging up onto the APC, she took a final glance around before dropping her rifle down into the hatch.
Her ears still rang from the C-130’s close passing. She thought she could still make out the engine’s droning.
She hesitated. The plane should have been long gone by now.
She heard something. “Anthony. Anthony!”
Harding stuck his head up through the hatch. “What?”
Vikki pointed to the access road. A pair of headlights bore straight toward them. The sound she heard moments before cascaded. “We’ve got visitors.”
The APC’s electric motor whirred into motion as the C-130 turned away from the deserted hangar. The cargo ramp hit the runway with a thump, bouncing as the APC roared down the ramp. Once the APC exited, the ramp lifted and fit smoothly onto the back of the C-130 tail section.
Frank Koch pushed forward to the cockpit. Wendover’s runway stretched out in front of him. The lights lining the runway seemed to go on forever.
The lights brought back the memories. Since meeting Colonel Renault, Koch got to fly nearly all he wanted. He was checked out in so many helicopters, he’d lost count; everything from British Westland Commandos to Soviet Mi-24 Hinds.
And the beauty was that Renault paid him, doing all the dirty little jobs that a country itself could not afford to be connected with. It was a good life: in the army without the army bull.
Koch squinted through the darkness and made out a score of lumps parked by the side of the runway. One of the lumps was lit well enough to see — an HH-53 helicopter squatted on the asphalt, its blades almost touching the ground. An auxiliary power unit stood just inside the perimeter of light. The soft glow of two cigarettes pinpointed the technicians responsible for keeping the helicopter on alert.
As the C-130 taxied down the runway, Koch nudged the pilot. The man, also a member of Renault’s legion, slid his headset down around his neck. Koch shouted over the din, “Swing closer to the helicopters.”
The pilot shook his head. “Too risky. We’re being tracked by the ground control.”
“You don’t have to run the helicopters over — just get closer to them. Thirty-six men are depending on you not to blow their cover.”
“I’ve got my own cover to worry about. What the hell do you think they’re going to do if they find out I’m not from Peterson Field?”
Koch glanced out the cockpit window. “Don’t worry about it — just get us close to the helicopters.”
“What will I tell the tower?”
“I don’t know. You figure it out. Tell them you lost hydraulic pressure on one of your rudders or something. And don’t forget to slow down when you get there.”
The pilot straightened the headset on his ears. Koch waited momentarily to see if the man would do what he said. When the aircraft swerved toward the helicopters, Koch hurried to the cargo bay. They had to hurry — the C-130 from Peterson AFB would be here in the next twenty minutes.
The men sat alert on the webbed seating, rifles on their knees. Their entire focus was on capturing the helicopters and flying into Alpha Base. Koch jerked his head toward the jump master door at the rear of the craft.
“Let’s get a move on — when the 130 slows, get the hell out of here. The choppers will be directly in front of you. One more time: set the timers for 2300 and make sure the last five choppers on the right are clean. I don’t want anybody’s chopper blowing up because one of you nippleheads got too enthusiastic. Got it?”
Grim faces stared back at him.
“All right — let’s go.”
Koch scooted to the side and started handing out satchels, five to a man. Koch opened the top bag and did a random check: five pounds of plastique explosive, a timer, and a fuse. He slapped the satchel shut. Twenty-five pounds of explosives for each man — more than enough to take out the helicopters in the Wendover fleet.
Koch pushed his way to the rear. Laying down the explosives, he struggled with the jump master door. A red light burned above the door, signifying “don’t jump.”
Dry air spilled into the C-130 when the hatch swung open. JP-4 and diesel fuel raced through his nostrils. The HH-53 parking area was to his left and coming up fast. The C-130’s engines seemed to back off a bit, and the craft actually slowed. The pilot tapped the brakes and the craft slowed further.
Koch jerked his head at the hatch. “Get ready — he may not have a chance to stop. I’ll go first.”
He looked down at the runway whizzing by and tried to judge the speed. A parachute-landing fall would be a piece of cake; but if he jumped out now, he’d risk landing on the satchel. He decided that falling on twenty-five pounds of explosives wasn’t too swift an idea.
The C-130 turned slightly. Koch wet his lips and squinted at the runway. It was hard to tell how fast they were going, but they didn’t have much time left. The pilot was being too careful, not slowing any further, so Koch decided they had to go. He drew in a deep breath and leaped out of the craft.
He landed running, nearly tripped, and caught himself. Slowing to a jog, he crouched and waited for the others to exit. One after another the thirty-five men leaped from the C-130.
The plane seemed to linger too long after they egressed.
Koch waited. He wondered if the pilot even knew that they had jumped. If he stays any longer, he’ll draw attention to us, he thought.
The C-130 turned a wing away from the row of helicopters and revved its engines. Koch silently cursed the pilot, hoping he hadn’t blown their cover. He decided to wait a moment more before heading out.
Nothing stirred around the HH-53’s. It was a dead Saturday night — no activity that might detect them. He couldn’t see the security policemen guarding the flight line, but his men would take care of them.