“Do you want to man the IFF?”
“Sure.” Vikki exchanged places with him. Sitting that close to Renault had made her self-conscious. Moments before, he had struck at a nerve she couldn’t quite define.
The Identification Friend or Foe unit kept her busy, making the trip to Alpha Base seem shorter. Harding crammed next to Renault, listening to Alpha Base radio frequencies.
Vikki looked over Renault’s shoulder at the map Britnell had given her. She spoke up. “We’re entering the active zone, five miles from Alpha Base.”
Renault replied without looking at her. “Just keep us away from the sensors and we’ll worry about everything else.”
A light on the IFF flickered faintly. “Try heading north,” Vikki said. Renault responded instantly. The light on the IFF disappeared.
Harding turned and shot her a glance. She couldn’t read his eyes — they were still glazed from the killing he had ordered not five minutes ago. Vikki set her mouth. She was still in this — she hadn’t changed her views. Renault had reminded her of that. But now she wondered if Harding had changed, and what he was doing this for.
McGriffin ground the jeep’s transmission as he tried to shift into second. Finally finding the gear, he immediately changed to third. He blasted away from the command post and sped toward the flight line. Cutting across a parking lot, he bypassed the loop that normally would have taken him on a path running by base operations.
He flipped on the jeep radio and tried to raise the command post while driving with one hand. “CP, this is Mobile One — can you get me cleared for the flight line?”
Chief Zolley’s voice came over the airwaves. “Roger that, Mobile One. They’ll be keeping an eye out for you. The security police will provide an escort. Do you wish to call an on-base emergency at this time?”
McGriffin ran a stop sign. Punching the accelerator, he sped on through the intersection, just missing a Ford Bronco. Calling an on-base emergency would be the equivalent thing to calling an in-flight emergency if he were flying. Basically, the crap would hit the fan and he’d have immediate, unqualified support from all units on base. And everybody and his brother breathing down his neck.
McGriffin keyed the microphone. “Hold that call, Chief. But if anything happens, then don’t hesitate hitting the panic button.”
McGriffin steered past the helicopter squadron. Bursting across the invisible boundary that delineated the parking pad from the apron, McGriffin shot onto the taxiway.
He threw the microphone in the passenger seat and grasped the steering wheel. If he’d been on an operational flying base, he’d have been spotted by now, challenged by an M-16-toting security policemen who guarded the birds on the flight line. As it was, he was all alone except for an escort that should be catching up with him.
He didn’t have to worry about hitting an aircraft — they’d be so brightly lit it would be impossible to miss. Once on the active runway, he wouldn’t have to worry about colliding with one of the helicopters.
The C-130 sat at the end of the runway, a mile and a half away.
A jet screamed overhead — a T-38 supersonic trainer — followed by another. They pulled a landing, greasing onto the runway with hardly a bounce. McGriffin guessed they were instructors from one of the undergraduate pilot training bases, off on a nighttime cross-country mission.
The C-130’s engines roared. It started moving. McGriffin continued to race down the runway. He kept far to the edge, careful not to stray close to the lumbering craft. He needed to check the tail number, but he wasn’t stupid.
The C-l30 roared past, its red taillight faintly illuminating the vertical stabilizer. McGriffin squinted through the darkness. The tail was painted black. He couldn’t see any numbers or identifying marks. As the plane receded from him, McGriffin downshifted and watched it lift into the air.
Something struck him. The C-l30 was stretched, longer than the typical AMC birds. He wasn’t sure if the special ops planes were stretched or not. He hit the steering wheel as he drew to a stop.
“Great.” Fumbling for the radio, McGriffin keyed the mike. “Command Post, this is Mobile One. I couldn’t get a visual on them.”
“That’s a rog, Mobile One.” A security police car pulled up beside him, lights flashing. Two armed enlisted men decked out in their camouflaged battle-dress uniforms stepped from the car. McGriffin quickly spoke into the radio. “Chief, you got a positive ID on my actions out here, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. We gave the SP’s everything but the code words, which we could not say over open channels. Is there anything wrong?”
“I don’t think so. In any case, I’ll be heading back as soon as I’m through. Stand by.” He looked up at the security policemen.
They saluted. “Evening, sir. Can we see an ID?” They stood warily back. One of them held his M-16 at a ready angle.
“Sure.” McGriffin returned their salute and pulled out his white military common access card.
One of the men studied it then handed it back. “We received a request to escort a command post vehicle out to the flight line, Major. The NCOIC wants to know what the hell — sorry, sir — what in the world is going on.”
McGriffin pocketed his card. “Nothing now, I’m afraid. I was just following up on something hot.”
McGriffin slumped against the back of his seat and looked up at the stars. Wheeling high overhead, they burned bright in the crisp night.
The sergeant jerked his head at his partner, then turned back to McGriffin. “You’ll have to follow us off the flight line, sir.”
“What? Sure.” McGriffin straightened in his seat. Things still didn’t seem right. He knew what he should do: head back to the CP and find out what in the heck was going on. No bombs bursting in air, no ORI — everything is calm. Except for that activity near the chopper squadron, the C-130 might never have been here. It didn’t make sense. He picked up the microphone. “Are you still there, Chief?”
“Yes, sir. Everything all right?”
“Salubrious and copacetic.” He had a sudden twinge in his gut; might as well combine pleasure with business, he thought. “Chief, I’m going to swing by the chopper squadron and check things out, then hit the Hole in the Ground before coming back. Want me to bring back a grease burger?”
“You know how I feel about those things, sir.”
“Right. I promise to finish eating it before I get back.” He clicked off and looked up to the security policemen. “Mind if we head out by the chopper squadron? Base ops reported some activity near there.”
“If you want, Major, but we’ve already checked it out.”
“I’d like to see for myself.”
The security policeman shrugged. “Whatever you want, sir.”
As they drove off, McGriffin whistled, his mind racing, wondering about the mysterious C-130. His stomach growled, turning his mind away from the problem at hand. Beef Stroganoff an AAFES burger was not, but at least it was nearby.
Pablo Lesueur gripped the Bronco’s steering wheel. Colonel Renault was a stickler for details. And because the colonel scrutinized the little things, his men carried out their instructions with zeal.
Pablo intently watched the road and turned at the cutoff. The other three members of the team quietly went over the map in their heads as well. If he took a wrong turn, he would be quickly admonished and set straight as to where he was heading.
He slowed for an intersection. A jeep squealed through a stop sign. Pablo watched the vehicle head off, then proceeded through the intersection.
He finally reached the building Renault had carefully pointed out to them. Antennas pricked the top of the low-slung building. Lesueur recognized the antennas from his past work in communications: ultra-high frequency, extremely high frequency, very low frequency. Seven satellite dishes and microwave relay, all anchored to the roof, sat beside the antennas.