He started for the helicopters. The men trailed him, each silently waiting to secure their satchels underneath the helicopters — and then to board a chopper for the assault on Alpha Base.
“Sir, they’ve landed.”
“What?” Major McGriffin struggled up in his seat. His professional military education lay on the floor, open to a chapter entitled Canals and Interstates: America’s Strategic Byways. He rubbed at his eyes. “Who landed?”
“Merry Zero Three, sir,” reminded Staff Sergeant Sanchez. The communications tech nodded toward the status board. “The reserve unit out of Peterson Field. They landed thirty minutes early. You wanted us to wake, er, I mean notify you when the C-130 arrived from Colorado Springs. Something about one of your classmates being on board?”
“Oh, yeah.” McGriffin stretched. “Thanks, I’ll check in with them.” He picked up a cup of decaf sitting on his desk and took a sip.
The coffee was cold. He forced a swallow and jammed the cup back on the desk. Yawning, he scratched and twisted his neck, taking in the command post. All the ready boards were green. Even the “threat condition” sign burned green with threatcon alpha.
McGriffin called out to Sanchez, “Can you get base ops on the line?”
The sergeant punched at the phone. “Line five one, Major — I’m ringing now.”
McGriffin picked up the telephone. “Yeah, this is Major McGriffin over at the CP. Have you got a roster on that 130 from Pete — Merry Zero Three?” A moment passed. “Well, do you know if they’ll be filing a flight plan to return?” Another moment … “That’s odd. When do they plan to rotate?” McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “Okay. Thanks.”
He hung up and stared at the desk. Chief Zolley moved to his side.
“What’s up, sir?”
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing.” McGriffin turned and folded his arms. He picked up a pencil and tapped it sporadically on the desk. Turning back to Zolley, McGriffin played with the pencil’s eraser. “Chief, something doesn’t seem right.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Zolley perched on the side of the desk and took a sip of his coffee.
“I’m not sure. I may be completely off base on this, but it seems peculiar that a plane would fly all the way from Colorado Springs this late at night, not remain overnight, and take off again.”
“Yes, sir.”
McGriffin sprang up from his seat and paced in front of the desk. “If I hadn’t known so many wild 130 flyers, I’d think nothing of it. Those guys are always on the prowl, and since they’re a reserve unit, they’ve signed up to do this sort of thing: go on temporary duty and party. It doesn’t make sense they would just leave.” He called out to the communications unit. “Sanchez! Get base ops at Pete Field on DSN. Find out if they’ve got a C-130, call sign Merry Zero Three, filed for Wendover—”
“The call sign checks out, sir,” interrupted Zolley.
“Checks out with whom?”
“With the weekly list, sir.”
“But not necessarily with what left Pete Field.” McGriffin placed a hand on the back of his chair.
“What are you saying, sir?” said Zolley slowly.
“Did you ever see A Gathering of Eagles, Chief?” Frowning, Zolley shook his head no. “I must have seen that thing a hundred times at the Academy— they were always pumping us full of that Air Force rah-rah bull during Basic summer. Anyway, there’s a spot in that movie where the wing commander loses his job because of an Operational Readiness Inspection. He wasn’t prepared for what the readiness team threw at him.” McGriffin nodded his head. “I’ll bet ten to one that’s what STRATCOM has done. They’re throwing us a ringer — probably got an ORI set up to catch us napping.”
“Major McGriffin.” Staff Sergeant Sanchez stood and held a hand over the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Sir, Peterson Field says no C-130 from there is anywhere near Wendover.”
“Are they sure?”
“Absolutely. They had planned a sortie and even scheduled an arrival time of 2300, but they’re having a freak snowstorm and all of their birds are grounded.”
McGriffin slammed a hand against the back of his chair. The command post grew quiet at the exchange. He nodded to Sanchez. “Thanks, Sergeant; I remember it can snow in June there.” He turned to Zolley. “Well, what do you think?”
“I kind of like your Operational Readiness Inspection idea, sir. But if the 130 said it’s from Pete Field — and yet Pete doesn’t know anything about it …” He trailed off.
“Yeah,” said McGriffin. He spun the chair around and plopped down in the seat. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he suddenly asked Zolley, “Did base ops get a look at the tail number on that 130?”
Chief Zolley’s brows lifted. “They didn’t say. Good idea, sir.” A minute later he put the phone down. “They can’t see anything. He took a long roll on landing, then when he taxied, lingered near the helicopter apron. When he refueled, it looked like he was all black — he insisted he could refuel for only fifteen minutes before leaving, too. He’s just been cleared for takeoff.”
McGriffin closed his eyes. “All black. It could be a Blackbird — one of the special ops birds at Hurlburt; but those guys still play by the rules.” He opened his eyes and swiveled around. “Any chance it could have been something out of Tonopah, Area-51?”
If the command post was silent before, it was as lively as a morgue now. Tonopah was the highly classified air base a few hundred miles north of Las Vegas, rumored to house the Air Force’s newest “black” programs — that’s where the stealth fighters and bombers started out, and other things that the Air Force never admitted existed.
Zolley slowly shook his head. “No way, Major. We always get advance notice about anything from there coming our way. We lock the runway up so tight, not even the rattlesnakes can get in or out.”
McGriffin threw a glance at the clock. “They’re cleared to take off in five minutes — maybe I should raise Colonel DeVries …” He trailed off.
Just having a plane land and take off was nothing to get excited about. So why should he worry?
Because of Alpha Base.
Wendover might be hicksville compared to Tacoma, but Wendover AFB had a heck of a lot more dangerous “assets.” Like the free world’s largest repository of nuclear weapons.
“Chief, have base ops call the 130 back. I want to ask them some questions.”
Zolley spoke up once he raised the tower. “The aircraft refuses to acknowledge them, Major. There is incoming traffic, two jets on final, coming up in the next four minutes — the 130 is cleared to roll after the jets land.”
McGriffin drew in a breath. Five minutes. The command post is right on the runway — a staff car could race out to the taxi pad and get a visual on the tail number in two minutes. There’s plenty of time.
He made up his mind. “Chief — you’ve got the command post while I’m gone. Keep in contact with me at all times. I’ll take one of the encrypted cell phones.”
“You’ll have to use an open channel, Major. The secure units are on the blink.”
“What else could go wrong?” No one answered the rhetorical question. “All right, I’ll use the jeep radio.” The clock blinked, showing four minutes until takeoff. “Contact the helicopter squadron. Tell them about the C-130 loitering around their apron, and have one of their guys meet me out there. I’m off.”
As they cycled the door, he remembered leaving his hat on the desk. He fleetingly remembered a horse’s rear colonel chewing him out in front of the base gym when he had failed to put on his hat. McGriffin had thought at the time: you command what you know. Wearing a hat had been a big deal then.