The muted crackle of the plane’s public address system woke Boomer from an uneasy slumber, and he cracked an eye. He peered out the window to take in the sights below as the pilot’s voice described them: “On the left side of the aircraft, you have an excellent view of Pearl Harbor.
The white structure just off the island in the center is the USS Arizona Memorial. We will be touching down shortly.
Attendants, please prepare for landing.”
The water below glistened. The bright green hills in the near distance were lush with vegetation. When Boomer craned his neck, he could see the urban sprawl of Honolulu to the east, poised between the mountains and the sea with the large silhouette of Diamond Head back dropped beyond the city. It seemed like more than twenty-four hours since the horror of events in the Ukraine and the hectic departure from Turkey.
The plane touched down. Boomer kept his seat, watching with detached interest as the aisles rapidly filled even as the plane taxied to the terminal. He was in no rush — he got paid whether he sat here or scrambled off the plane as quickly as possible. He waited until the crowd dissipated to slide into the aisle, the briefcase containing his orders in hand.
He smiled at the stewardess who was rotely bidding the departing passengers to have a nice stay in Hawaii. The stewardess’s plastic smile became genuine for just the slightest moment and then he was gone, past her into the tunnel leading to the terminal.
Boomer rode the shuttle to the main terminal to claim his baggage.
Beyond the meaning of the acronym. Boomer knew little about the the 4th TASOSC, his new unit. From vague memories from his days in the 10th Special Forces Group, he knew 4th TASOSC stood for 4th Theater Army Special Operations Support Command. Its mission was to plan and coordinate the support and sustainment of all Army Special Operations Forces operating in the Pacific region. To Boomer’s experienced mind, that translated to a lot of paperwork and time on the telephone talking to support people. Clerk and jerk stuff, nothing very exciting.
Boomer hoped that the locale of Hawaii would make up for the boring work. He was still concerned with the events occurring at Delta Headquarters at Fort Bragg. He wasn’t concerned about making general someday, but he did enjoy his job in Delta Force and didn’t want to lose it. He didn’t like being out of the loop, but Colonel Forster hadn’t left him much choice. He knew his commander had picked Hawaii as the cooling-off place for Boomer because Forster knew the executive officer of the 4th TASOSC and was collecting an old debt. Forster felt it was far enough away from both Turkey and Fort Bragg for Boomer to ride out whatever storm Colonel Decker tried to raise, if any, over recent events. Forster had been of the opinion that the less said all around, the better. He hoped that was the way Decker would see it.
“Take a couple of weeks in the sun, Boomer,” Forster had said.
“Enjoy yourself and get out of the rat race for a while. I’ll cover for you.”
Boomer located the correct baggage carousal and waited for his duffle bag and rucksack to appear. He spotted a young, female, Hispanic soldier wearing camouflage fatigues and jauntily sporting a red beret — indicating she was in an airborne unit — enter at the far side of the terminal.
She was only about five feet, four inches tall, but she carried herself with a swagger, her slender form bopping about as she restlessly scanned the terminal.
The young sergeant looked uncertainly at the milling group of people.
Boomer appreciated her predicament. If used to be easy to spot male military types by their haircut when he first came on active duty in 1981. He remembered when soldiers in his first unit, an infantry platoon at Fort Riley, Kansas, wore wigs when they went into town off duty, anything to hide the distinctive short hair of the military.
Nowadays though, short was in and the sergeant was uncertain who to approach, her eyes flitting from man to man. She in turn was getting a few appreciative glances from some of the men.
Boomer let her wait until his OD green bags came up the chute and he grabbed them. The sergeant took that as a cue and ambled over.
“Major Watson?” she asked, taking in the longer-than regulation hair and civilian clothes.
“Yep,” Boomer said, shouldering his ruck and getting a closer look at her shining dark eyes.
To Boomer’s surprise, the sergeant grabbed the duffle bag, easily chucking the heavy bag over one shoulder.
“This way, sir. I got my car parked in the red zone. Colonel Palk took us on a long run this morning, and I didn’t get done at the gym and everything until real late so I didn’t catch your plane coming in.”
“No problem,” Boomer said.
“I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“The XO — that’s Colonel Falk — got you a room at the guest house,” the sergeant added as she led the way out of the building.
“It’s good till tomorrow, then you’re probably going to have to go out on the economy or maybe Tripler might have something.”
A firered Camaro was parked illegally and the sergeant popped the trunk and deposited the duffle bag, filling the trunk.
“Put that in the back seat,” she instructed.
Boomer complied and settled into the passenger seat. As the woman started the engine, he leaned over and stuck his hand out.
“Major Boomer Watson.”
The sergeant was briefly startled, then smiled, a smooth row of white teeth showing up against her dark skin.
“Shit, sir, I’m sorry. Sergeant Vasquez. Everybody’s jumping through their ass in the tunnel and I guess my head’s kind of out of it.”
“The tunnel?” Boomer inquired as Vasquez peeled away from the curb and roared into traffic, ignoring the bleating of horns.
“Yes, sir. That’s where we work. A system of tunnels built at the beginning of World War II. They cut right into one of the old lava flows. It’s pretty neat. Actually there’s three tunnels altogether that make up our place. They’re all connected.”
“What’s everyone jumping about?”
Vasquez looked at Boomer as if he had just come from the Australian outback.
“The President’s visit. The whole Pearl Harbor gig. Security’s going to be tighter than a frog’s asshole. Especially now that the Iraqis are making a stink again, and all that crap with the Ukrainians. It’s just a big mess. Hell, for all we know the sons-of-a-bitches have got a bomb now. There’s speculation in the paper about what would happen if one went off here in Oahu while the President was here.”
Boomer had forgotten much of that, not that the isolated launch base in Turkey had offered much in the way of current news. The President was due to arrive in Hawaii the following week to commemorate the fifty-fourth anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The word in the media was that he would use the occasion to make a speech concerning the MRA — Military Reform Act — that his party had just squeaked through Congress and which was awaiting debate in the Senate.
Boomer had barely followed the heated coverage, although even a casual observer knew that the military as a whole was violently opposed to the act.
He’d had more pressing problems on his mind the last six months, like staying alive and keeping his men alive.
Vasquez pointed to a massive building on the hillside far above the highway.
“That’s Tripler Army Hospital. Fort Shafter’s just ahead.” She jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“I guess you saw Pearl and Hickam Airfield on the way in.”
“Yeah,” Boomer acknowledged.
“What do you do at the TASOSC?”
“I’m in Intelligence. I interpret imagery and do target folders. I did the folders on the radar sites that got hit by the Apache helicopters on the first day of the air war during Desert Storm,” she added proudly.
“The first shots of the war were fired using my stuff.”