At precisely twelve thirty that afternoon, Executive Director Reston Wolfe and Special Executive Assistant Lisa Abercombie ran to the helicopter that was waiting to transport them immediately from Whitehorse Cabin to the Bozeman Airport, where-at that very moment-a private jet was being fueled for a nonstop flight to Washington National Airport.
Command Sergeant Major Clarence MacDonald and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gary Brickard stood at the edge of the heliport, watching through the rain.
To MacDonald's left, a ground controller held a pair of red signaling lights in his outstretched hands as he talked through his helmet microphone to the pilot of the jet Ranger.
"Flight Yankee Four, this is Whiskey-Charlie One. All priority passengers are now on board."
"Roger, Whiskey-Charlie One," the pilot responded as the cabin door of the Bell Ranger was pulled shut and the speed of the sweeping rotor blades began to increase. "We've got a couple of extra seats. Anybody else out there want a ride into town?"
The controller looked at MacDonald and Brickard, who were monitoring the radio traffic with hand-held radios. Both men shook their heads.
"Whiskey-Charlie One to Yankee Four, that's a negative," the ground controller responded. "Lousy day to fly."
"Roger that," the combat-qualified pilot acknowledged. "Flight Yankee Four requesting clearance for takeoff according to flight plan. Directional heading zero-niner- zero. Climbing immediately to fifteen thousand feet. Final heading three-three-zero."
The ground controller switched frequencies on his short-range helmet radio to consult with his counterpart, who was manning Whitehorse Cabin's concealed radar system, and then switched back over to the pilot of the Bell Ranger. The controller was acting as the go-between in order to minimize control-tower radio transmissions-much more powerful and therefore more easily detected and monitored by other planes or stations.
"Whiskey-Charlie One to Yankee Four, be advised that there is negative traffic in the immediate area. Just you and the ducks. You are clear for takeoff, zero-niner-zero, fifteen thousand, final heading three- three-zero. Repeat, you are clear for takeoff."
Then, after receiving a thumb's-up from the pilot, the controller used his signaling lights to send the powerful aircraft rotating up and outward into the dark, cloud-filled sky.
"Any idea of what that's all about?" Brickard asked as the two veteran soldiers secured their radios and began walking back to the main cabin, completely unmindful of the lightly falling rain.
MacDonald shook his head. "They've been using a scrambled T1 line to communicate with the outside, but I got the distinct impression that our executive director received some bad news this morning."
"Yeah, I thought he looked a little pale," Brickard observed. "Think maybe the rabbit died?"
"Tell you the truth, I don't think a rabbit would last five seconds with those two," MacDonald grunted. "You see the artillery they came back with last night?"
"Yeah, they dropped it all off with Thomas. Told him they wanted everything cleaned and ready for tomorrow." Brickard chuckled. "Way I heard it, John was just about ready to tell them to blow it out their ass when he saw the make on the double barrel. Guess he'd never held a rifle before that cost more than his house."
"A three-seven-five Rigby and a four-sixteen Holland and Holland." MacDonald shook his head. "That's a lot of firepower for a couple of desk jockeys."
"Yeah, especially when they come back at twenty-three hundred hours with blood and hair all over their brand-new cammies."
"No shit?"
"Dumped everything in the laundry," Brickard nodded. "Same instructions. Wanted everything ready for tomorrow."
"Gonna turn old John-boy into a pretty good butler at this rate," MacDonald commented. "He run a wash this morning?"
"Yep, sure did. Everything washed, folded, and stacked on their beds, just like they were a couple of brigadiers. Only thing is, John kinda made a mistake and washed a couple of brand-new sets instead. Hell of a job though. Can hardly tell they just come off the shelf." Brickard smiled.
"What did he do with the dirty ones?"
"I told him to wrap 'em up in brown paper bags and put 'em in the freezer, hair and all."
"Think it's going to tell us anything?"
"I don't know," Brickard shrugged. "But I've got a buddy who works in the Army Crime Lab in Georgia. Thought I might give him a call, see what he can figure out with all those fancy microscopes and shit."
"Might turn out to be useful," MacDonald nodded. "Sure as hell can't hurt."
"You really think they're doing something illegal?"
"Gunny, I've got some serious doubts about this entire operation, but what do I know?" MacDonald snorted. "Hell, I'm still trying to figure out who the bad guys are in this deal."
"I sure as hell wouldn't want to take these ICER characters on in a fair fight," Brickard said. "You see the latest computer scores?"
"No, how'd it go?"
"For the most part, pretty much the way we expected. Osan, Saltmann, and Aben were way up there with two- point-seven, two-point- eight, and three-point-one. Everyone else is in a pretty tight group from one-point-eight to two-point-six."
"Two-seven for Osan? That's a hell of an improvement," MacDonald commented.
"Yeah, she's quiet, but she learns quick," Brickard agreed. "Which reminds me, I think Kobayashi's in love. Osan tagged him this morning with a reverse back fist coming out of a spin kick. Nearly took his head off. Never saw him smile like that."
"She took Kobayashi?" MacDonald blinked.
"Oh, hell, no," Brickard laughed. "He extended her out with an arm bar, caught her in the solar plexus with an elbow, locked her into a morote shoulder throw, and had her choked out before she hit the floor."
"Sounds like true love to me," MacDonald smiled with relief.
"Yeah, you should have seen it," Brickard grinned. "He brought her back around, took off his belt and gave it to her, 'cause I guess nobody's tagged him like that in about fifteen fucking years, which sent her running off the mat with tears in her eyes. So our number-one Sensei evens it all out by stomping the living shit out of Aben, maybe fifteen out of fifteen, until the goddamned arrogant Kraut finally gives up and staggers back to the simulators, where he can play Cowboys and Indians with his buddy Maas."
"Speaking of Maas," MacDonald said, "I'm glad to hear he's mortal after all."
"Yeah, who said that?"
"You did. You said everybody else fell into the range of one-eight to two-six."
"Everybody except Maas." Brickard shook his head. "He pulled a clean three-five."
"Three-five?"
"It's all on tape, and you're going to want to see it," Brickard nodded.
"He and Aben went in as a tag team and tore the goddamn course apart."
"Both of them logged a three-five?"
"Nah, not really. Our buddy Gunter can probably get it up to a three-two, or maybe even a three-three when he's dead- on, but mostly he's pretty inconsistent. Loses his temper and goes ape-shit every time he takes a little paint. That's when they really pick him off."
"And Maas?"
"Cold as a goddamn ice cube," Brickard said. "Con him with a fast shuffle and he goes back in with that look in his eye. Took him three tries with R-twelve, but now he's got that one knocked, too. Three more simulators and he's got the place maxed."
"Three and a half times normal human reaction." MacDonald shook his head. "Where in hell did they find a guy like that?"
"Beats the shit outta me," Brickard shrugged. "I'm about ready to have him X-rayed for wires and chips as it is. Hard to figure a guy like that as being human."
"We could always ratchet the simulators up a couple more notches," MacDonald said contemplatively, "but what's the point? Anything over a three-six just isn't realistic. You're never going to run up against anybody in a field situation with that kind of reaction time."