“That’s what I like to hear.” DeVries turned to a pile of paper on his desk.
Red-faced, McGriffin turned on his heel, executing the first perfect about-face he’d done since he was a dooley.
Chapter 2
White noise washed over the area. Vikki Osborrn scrutinized the craft as it taxied off the end of the runway to the east of them. Although the plane was half a mile away, the sound from the jet’s engines made it impossible to speak. A truck with an oversized sign exclaiming follow me led the shrieking jet across an access road and past ten armored vehicles. Dozens of men clutching M-16’s stood vigil along the plane’s route.
Engines running, the camouflaged aircraft slowly pivoted on the concrete apron. Sand, kicked up from the exhaust, swirled overhead in crazy patterns.
A uniformed airman decked out in tan battle-dress uniform and wearing earphones held two bright orange flashlights. He kept his left arm parallel to the ground and urged the plane to keep turning with his right. Through the jet’s multifaceted window, the pilot kept his eyes glued on the airman until the airman crossed both arms over his head. The engines cut back and started winding down.
When the plane’s engines grew quiet, Dr. Anthony Harding spoke.
“Have you found it?”
Vikki flipped through Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft, a large book filled with pictures of aircraft from every nation. “Not yet. I’ve found something like it — a C-5—but it looks too wide.”
Harding glanced over at the book she held, then squinted back at the jet. “Keep looking. It’s got to be in there.”
Vikki pushed her hair back. Bleached from the sun, long blond hair adorned her tan face. She’d cause a man’s head to turn, but only once. The appearance of glamor was striking, but up close the seriousness in her eyes overwhelmed the rest of her face. Upon inspection, the initial mid-twenties guess for her age melted to a figure closer to thirty-five.
Premature wrinkles tattooed the area around her eyes, and her skin had started to show the effect of too much sun. In a few years her skin would take on the leathery look that cursed those who worked in the field. Her tank top fit nicely, revealing small, rounded breasts. She crossed her legs and nervously bounced her sandals against the van’s interior.
Harding turned back to the plane. Along with the rest of the tourists gawking at the convoy, Harding and Vikki were inconspicuous in the long line of cars that were stopped by the runway.
Harding studied the plane. “There are ten armored vehicles, two flatbeds, and about seventy-five men, all with automatic weapons. Not counting the fuel trucks, I’d guess the armored vehicles each have bazookas and various other nasty weapons on them.” He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Vikki stopped flipping through the pages. She squinted at one of the photographs, comparing it to the plane off to their right. “I’ve found it.”
Harding moved the binoculars back to his eyes. “Well?”
“C-17 Globemaster III, cargo aircraft of the U.S. Air Force,” she recited. “Twenty-five hundred nautical mile range carrying a max payload of 170,900 pounds, and a top airspeed of 0.77 mach.” She looked up. “So what does that tell us?”
“Not much,” answered Harding, “except if we can believe the intelligence NUFA gave us, the next time a C-17 lands at Wendover, chances are it will either be loading or unloading nuclear weapons. And if we’re going to steal one of them, this is the time to do it.”
Vikki stared. “Steal a nuke? Are you crazy? Look at the mouseketeers out there. They’ve got this place locked up tighter than supermax. I don’t want to die doing something stupid.”
Harding was silent for a moment.
Vikki narrowed her eyes at him. She studied his dark, squat features. His once solid body had given way to a slight paunch. The wire-framed glasses added to the studious look. Gray peppered his hair, and a large bald spot adorned his head. He was on the wrong side of forty, and looked more like Vikki’s father than her lover.
She scanned the concrete apron where activity began to pick up. Armored trucks encircled the C-17, reminding her of covered wagons closing in to keep attacking Indians away. A hundred and fifty years and they’re still using the same tactics, she thought.
Men scurried around the plane and took their positions on the ground, prone, with their weapons pointed outward. In the distance four helicopters hovered, not moving from their posts. Sun reflected off a deserted hangar behind the apron.
Harding spoke to himself. “They certainly seem to be covering all the bases.”
“What?”
Harding pointed to the helicopters Vikki had just noticed. “They’re guarding the C-17 from the air as well as the ground. They don’t want to chance anything going wrong.”
Military police stood at a roadblock, blocking traffic to allow operations to continue. A police car sat off to the side of the road.
The C-17 sat on a pad, north of Vikki and Harding; the runway was east of them, and Alpha Base to the west. Vikki could barely make out the town of Wendover fifteen miles north of the C-17.
She leaned her head out the window. No breeze blew in the dry desert air. Heat rippled up from the road.
The flatbeds positioned themselves behind the C-17’s gaping rear door. White, oversized barrels were carefully taken from the aircraft and gingerly strapped onto the flatbed, anchored by a series of straps and cables, keeping them upright and secure against tilting. Each barrel took less than a minute to position. After ten minutes the first flatbed pulled away to allow the second one access.
Once the drums were securely fastened to the second flatbed, two armored personnel carriers drove away from the plane, followed by the two flatbeds. A Ford Bronco, resplendent with machine guns and an official-looking flag waving from the front, sped in front of the convoy.
The convoy inched west down the main road. Several armed men guarded the route. Scanning the area, they kept close watch for anything that might approach the convoy.
Once the convoy had passed, security policemen started waving the traffic on. Vikki started the van. “What now?”
Harding pointed to the road. “Just follow the convoy.”
Vikki put the Chevy van into gear and started slowly off, heading west.
“You had better begin thinking fast,” she said, nodding ahead of her. “They’re sending one of the guards to stop us.”
A security policeman stepped from the side of the road and stopped the cars following the convoy. He walked straight toward them.
The guard sauntered up to the van. He shouldered his rifle and grinned at Vikki, all but ignoring Harding. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
Harding leaned past Vikki. “Good afternoon, sir. What seems to be the problem?”
The security policeman looked surprised. “You don’t have to call me sir. I’m not an officer or anything.” He didn’t look at Harding when he spoke, but instead smiled at Vikki.
Vikki furrowed her eyebrows. “What’s the holdup? Are we doing anything wrong?”
“You’ll have to wait here until the convoy gets back on the road.” The security policeman pointed down a dry arroyo. “The bridge can’t take the convoy’s weight, so they have to drive down into the arroyo. Once they’re back on the main road, you can proceed.”
“Thanks,” Vikki said, smiling.
The man tried to make conversation. “Heading for the picnic area?”
Harding answered before Vikki could open her mouth. “Yes, sir.” He nodded to Vikki. “My sister and I are visiting the base and wanted to get some pictures of the crater before we left.”
The security policeman hitched the rifle a little higher on his shoulder when Harding referred to Vikki as his sister. “Well, Alpha Base is certainly the spot to take pictures. It’s the free world’s largest storage facility. The picnic grounds are right outside the main gate. Are you planning to stay long?”