As they moved toward the command post, Vikki leaned up against the bunker and looked around. Renault’s men had spread throughout the bunkers, leaving her and Harding alone. Harding blinked at her and shook a cigarette from a pack. He lit it and turned away.
Vikki glanced at her watch and closed her eyes.
Forty-five minutes. After that, Renault’s safety margin was up, and who knew what kind of counterattack they were going to get?
“Jerry — copy that?”
Captain Jerry Allison hesitated before replying. His F-16B wingman was not over half a mile behind him, flying a loose “two ship” formation. It was bad enough being pulled out of a sound sleep on a Saturday night to fly in the Wing’s annual Operational Readiness Inspection. But now to be jerked from the ORI and routed to Wendover — the flight seemed a nightmare.
The bomb range lay fifty miles to the north. The F-16’s were overloaded as it was: a full load of 515 rounds of 20mm ammo for the multibarreled cannon, two wing-tip mounted AIM-9J/L Sidewinders with four more on the outer under-wing station, and laser-guided cluster bombs on the inner under-wing station. The bird felt heavy to Jerry, but checking his fuel, the drop tanks gave them plenty of time to get to Wendover and loiter before he had to drop them.
The Wing operations officer had been cryptic in the redirection. His tone and the dropping of a secure phrase convinced Jerry that the operations officer meant business. If their National Security Agency secure radios hadn’t been down for the ORI, he might have been able to get the full scoop as to what was going on. As it was, “utmost discretion”—especially from an ops officer who usually held the Wing on a tight leash — meant something big was up. Especially when they were told to seek out an HH-53 directing the “events.” Jerry clicked his microphone and spoke in clipped sentences.
“We’ve been cleared to twenty-five. Let’s get there — use ‘utmost discretion.’“
“Question, Jerry. What’s he mean?”
Jerry answered slowly. “I’m not sure. This might be part of the ORI.”
“That’s a rog. Hope we’re not jumped by bandits from Red Flag. Do those clowns know we’re hot?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.” Jerry rocked his wings. “Ready to break on my count: ready, ready — now.” Jerry pulled back on the stick, his arm resting on the console. Unlike older, conventional hydraulically controlled aircraft, Jerry had to keep a constant four pounds of pressure on his fly-by-wire control system. The F-16’s drew up to their cruising altitude of 25,000 feet before leveling off toward Wendover.
Major McGriffin leaned over and peered out the cockpit. One mile below, three stolen helicopters patrolled Alpha Base. They ducked in and out of the Pit, corralling elusive security policemen who roamed the complex. As he watched, the helicopters moved toward each other. They dipped down into the crater holding Alpha Base, kicking up dust from their descent. Men streamed toward the HH-53’s, emerging from the shadows.
McGriffin started to count the terrorists, but stopped after reaching thirty. Terrorists still lobbed mortars outside Alpha Base, keeping the resistance low. Several explosives racked the narrow road leading into Alpha Base from Wendover, pitting the access road and runway with craters.
They’ve really covered all the bases, McGriffin thought. The few vehicles that attempted to approach Alpha Base were quickly destroyed, either from surgical strikes mounted from the patrolling helicopters or from a rain of mortars and rockets from the terrorists on the ground.
Manny kept a running commentary of the assault over the secure radio. Once McGriffin had convinced Hill Command Post that he was on the up and up, everybody and his brother wanted to get in on the act. They patched McGriffin to the four-star general heading up Strategic Command and McGriffen gave a short synopsis; the general immediately instituted emergency war plans to reinforce the troops at Wendover.
Several security teams from the Department of Energy, remotely based at the Nevada Test Site, were being airlifted to Wendover. Marines from Pendleton, sitting alert with the Air Force’s TransAtmospheric Vehicles at Edwards, were the closest ground troops available, but they were still over sixty minutes away.
F-15E’s from Mountain Home, Idaho, and everything that Nellis AFB, Nevada, could throw at them headed their way. Tankers from Beale AFB in California were launched to provide air-to-air refueling. But they all had an estimated time of arrival of over an hour. McGriffin knew it would be too late.
Manny handed the secure mike to McGriffin. “You’re going to have to take over. I’ve got to get ready for those F-16’s.”
“What do you mean, get ready?”
Manny switched on an outside strobe, landing lights, and all the cabin lights. “I mean that since we have a stealth exterior, I don’t want those hotshot fighter pilots running into us while they’re buzzing Alpha Base.”
“Oh …”
McGriffin turned up the volume on the secure link. Three voices were trying to talk at once. As far as McGriffin could tell, STRATCOM, DOE, and Air Force personnel were having a pissing contest, each trying to get a personalized update on what was going on. McGriffin tried to speak into the microphone.
“Wait a minute — I can’t understand anything anyone is saying. Hold on. No, sir, I cannot understand you. But, I said—”
He finally switched the radio off in disgust. “I’ll call them back when something changes.”
Manny grinned. “Actually, I wanted to do that a long time ago. But I figured that since you’re the senior officer, I’d give you the pleasure.”
“Yeah, thanks.” McGriffin searched the skies. “Any idea when these 16’s are going to show?”
Manny consulted his watch. “We should be within radio contact anytime now. They’ll be broadcasting on ultra-high frequency. Their call sign is Falcon One and Two.”
“Really original.” McGriffin clicked to the prearranged frequency. “This is Wendover command post calling Falcon One and Two, do you copy?”
McGriffin tried a few more times before a static-filled voice answered, “Wendover, this is Falcon One. Our ETA is five minutes. We’re dropping down to altitude. Can you confirm your identity?”
“You’ll have to check with Hill on that one, Falcon One.”
A long moment passed; the fighters must have been conferring with their squadron on their own frequency. “Wendover, I’m supposed to ask you — what’s a Loose Hog?”
Manny frowned at McGriffin.
McGriffin clicked his mike. “It’s the nickname for 34th squadron, a cadet squadron at the Air Force Academy.”
“Roger that. What’s the other definition?”
McGriffin snorted. “Loose Hawgs was also the nickname given to Loretta Heights, a now-closed all-girls’ school in Denver. Cadets dated them.”
“That’s a rog, Wendover. What are your orders?”
“Stand by, Falcon One. We’ll have it to you shortly.” McGriffin clicked off the microphone. “All right!” McGriffin pounded Manny on the back.
The helicopter pilot smiled bleakly, keeping his hands on the stick. “Settle down. I’ve still got to fly this thing, you know.”
McGriffin shot a glance out the cockpit. A group of terrorists gathered around one of the bunkers. “The fighters showed up just in time.”
“Yeah,” muttered Manny. “Knowing those clowns, they’ll probably brag they saved Alpha Base all by themselves.”
“At this point I couldn’t care less. Here.” McGriffin spread out a map and smoothed it on his knee. “Try to keep a watch on those guys down there while I try to vector our fighter friends in.”