The door buzzed and the colonel entered, the sergeant closing the metal cage behind him.
“Kinda like my New York club,” the large airman said.
“That’s right,” Colonel Powers said, his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re the bouncer.”
“Have a good one, Sir,” the sergeant said to the colonel’s back.
Colonel Powers walked to the end of the corridor, punched in a four-number code on the cipher lock and then entered, heading down a flight of stairs to a basement shelter. The command post was set up to withstand any conventional attack and everything but a direct nuclear strike. The air was filtered and self contained, and there was enough food and water in there to last more than a month.
At the bottom of the stairs was a series of two doors. The first was controlled by a cipher lock, which the colonel went through. The second was shielded and sealed from inside.
The colonel punched the buzzer and waited. A couple of seconds later his identity was verified by Captain Sara Chavez, who opened the vault door. She was an attractive woman, her dark hair tied to the back of her head. Although she wore camouflage fatigues, it was quite apparent that she kept herself fit with running, which had become more difficult, the colonel thought, considering the limited distances on Shemya Island. Not to mention the ubiquitous wind and rain. The treadmill had to do the job in the winter.
“Morning, Sir,” she said, stepping aside.
“Morning, Sara. How’s the coffee.”
“A bit strong,” she said, closing the vault door behind him.
Before even checking the status board, the colonel poured himself a cup of thick, black coffee. Then he glanced about the small compartment. Besides Captain Chavez, there was one other command controller present; Staff Sergeant Greg Wilson, who sat at a console with headphones.
The colonel took his chair in the back overlooking the status boards and control panels. Most of the panels were inoperative now, phased out by more sophisticated communications, centralized in Colorado. However, the colonel had insisted that they have the most recent communications upgraded as soon as possible, and some of that had already come online.
Captain Chavez stood to the colonel’s side, sipping her coffee.
The colonel took a sip and his face crunched. “Wow, Sara. Is this a west Texas brew?”
She smiled. “Damn straight. Put hair on your chest.”
“More like curl the hair on your chest,” he said. “Where’s our plane?”
She turned to Sergeant Wilson. “Greg?”
“Twenty miles out,” the sergeant said. “They reported some heavy head winds. You want me to patch you through?”
“That’s all right, Greg. Let ‘em fly.”
Colonel Powers drank some more coffee and then turned to the captain again. “We have security police on the tarmac standing by?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said. Bravo Flight.”
“Outstanding.”
“Yes, Sir. Out standing in the cold.” She smiled.
Finally, the colonel laughed. “How long have you waited for that?”
“Just came to me, Sir.”
“What else we got on that plane, Sara?”
She picked up a clipboard and flipped to the second page. “A Master Sergeant Jones and Senior Airman Cato. Both are programmers.”
“That’s Jonesy,” he said. “We worked together in Germany. Best point guard we ever had on our basketball team. I don’t know Cato. What else?”
“Looks like some fresh salmon again.”
“Great. Just what we need…more fish.”
The colonel sucked down the last of his coffee and got up for more. When he turned around, the captain was leaning over the console talking with Sergeant Wilson, her buttocks pointing right in his direction. Damn. He shook it off and took a seat again.
There were five monitors that sequenced through various security cameras placed around the base. From the commander’s chair, the colonel could switch to whichever view he wanted and keep it there while the others continued to sequence. He toggled to the corridor above and saw the two security police reading magazines. Then he went to an outside view. Nice job on the sidewalk, he thought. Next he went to the control tower and saw the C-130 had just landed and was now rolling slowly to a halt in front of the operations building. So he switched to the camera above operations and waited.
“The plane has landed,” the captain said, turning around, and realizing he was watching the monitor. “But you know that.” She stood next to the commander’s chair and watched with him.
The ground crew pushed a ladder to the plane and then the door opened. Standing back a ways was Bravo Flight with at least fifteen security police airmen. On the perimeter was a Humvee with an M60 machine gun mounted on top and manned. The others had M16s and were spread out around the plane.
The next few seconds were chaos. One of the men getting off the plane fell to the ground. But the security police turned away, reacting to something else.
“What’s going on?” the colonel yelled.
Sergeant Wilson held his hand to his headphone. “Sir, there’s gunfire.”
“What?”
They watched in horror as a second man fell.
Then the security police returned fire in a burst and took up secure positions behind their Humvees.
19
Jake and Su had slept most of the day, knowing they would be up much of the night traveling through the mountains. He was certain Su’s uncle had no idea why they were there, which was a good thing, since Jake was beginning to wonder himself.
Jake was offered a mix of winter clothes that the uncle kept around for when his relatives happened by in the colder months. Judging from their tattered state, they were probably as old as Su. The green wool pants seemed to be from Mao’s military and were a snug fit on him. His biggest concern, though, were the mukluks, which Su explained were made mostly of yak hide and fur, but were very tight on his larger feet. He wasn’t complaining, though. All of the items were made with dull colors and would keep him warm. Better yet, they might have made him stick out less, especially when he wore the thick fur hat that covered much of his face.
Su had told her uncle that Jake was a winter survivalist, and China, and particularly Manchuria, was on his list of experiences he must accomplish before the age of fifty. The uncle had laughed at that, shaking his head as he smiled. Crazy Americans.
Now, with the sun slowly creeping toward the western mountains, Jake and Su stood on a path at the end of a narrow road. Her uncle had just dropped them off with his little truck, still scratching his head like the two of them were complete idiots as he drove off in a plume of smoke toward town.
“So,” Jake said, “I guess your uncle must think you’re nuts.”
She slung her large backpack over her shoulders, and when she got it caught on her heavy coat, Jake helped her put it in place on her back.
“Thanks. Really, he only thinks you’re crazy. I told him you paid me one thousand American to guide you here.” She smiled broadly with that revelation. “You ready?”
“You’re a funny woman. Yeah, let’s go.” He put on his own pack and trudged off.
The snow was only about a foot deep. Nothing compared to what he was used to in the Austrian Alps, but the cold, dry wind nearly took his breath away. They first cleared a small field and then started heading up in elevation. The trail was perhaps ten feet wide and soon started to wind through a thick, fir forest.
Jake stopped and turned to Su. “Is this a road?”
She reached him and halted a moment. “Kind of. In the summer the villagers lead their livestock up to high meadows to eat grass. My uncle uses the road to cut wood for his stove and fireplace. Please, Jake, we must keep moving.”