The hotel lights look beautiful in the dark, thought the secretary as he rode from Nellis to the Paris Hotel, seeing the Venetian, Bellagio, MGM Grand, and all the others. “Cal, I’m good with your brief on BEACH from the flight. Go for it. I’ll brief the president once you’re mission complete, OK?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. I’ll make myself available should any questions arise.”
“I know you will, Cal. You have a great team back there. Looking forward to meeting Ford Stevens. Reservist, too. Here at the hotel, right?”
“Yes. Ford is here. Thank you, and yes, a great team.”
“Good. And we’re all pulling for you with air force. Let me know if you want me to call the new chairman. I know him from Goldman Sachs. Anyway, you’ll do great.”
The motorcade of four black Chevy Tahoes pulled up the wide half-moon driveway under the dark skies, made bright from the famous lights of the Vegas Strip. Looking up at the replica of the Eiffel Tower and a blue-and-yellow hot-air balloon, the crowd of pedestrians looked around in awe. Red-and-blue grill lights flashed on and off in the Tahoes, as the four SUVs followed a Las Vegas Police Department marked car to the Paris Hotel front doors.
The personal protective detail got out first, looked around, and made eye contact with the advance detail that was already there awaiting their arrival. All the doors opened now from the Tahoes, as the detail held the secretary’s door open with two hands. The secretary of defense and Calvin walked inside the hotel, following him were his military assistants, chief of staff, and public affairs and protocol staff. Mark, Emily, and Robert were there, too.
The security detail led the entourage in trail to the hotel lobby area, passing the tables, slot machine noise, and loud music. The Paris Hotel was beautifully decorated, from large glass chandeliers and gold paint in the ceiling to intricate tiles and colorful carpeting on the floor. The courteous staff was always ready to host VIP guests, and this morning was no different with the arrival of the secretary of defense.
“Hey, where is Ford?” Mark asked Emily quietly.
“I was just thinking the same thing. He didn’t answer his texts or phones yet. Weird, ya?” Emily replied as they looked around the large Paris lobby.
Emily went to the front desk, used her blonde charm and accent on the young male clerk, and got Ford’s room key. Still got it, Emily thought. She and Mark took the elevator up, walked down the long hallway, and knocked. No answer.
“Ford!” Mark yelled, putting his face close to the door. “Wake up in there, kid.” He placed a bit of emphasis on “wake up,” knowing full well the secretary was waiting on his arrival.
Emily used the key to unlock the door handle and deadbolt and soon discovered the bar lock was closed from the inside. Ford had locked himself in the room, which was normal practice if you were sleeping and didn’t want anyone coming in.
“Well, he’s in there, but we’re locked out,” Mark said, announcing the obvious. “And the secretary is here waiting.”
“Please, Mark. You may be locked out, but I’m not locked out. Watch this,” Emily told him.
The inside bar lock on Ford’s hotel door looked to be secure and had the appearance of protection, but it was actually very weak. Emily took her rubber hair band from her pony tail and held it.
“Mark, this bar lock will only open internally about three inches. I can squeeze my forearm through and create an auto-unlock device with this rubber hair band,” then looking down at his black wheeled suitcase. “You have your shave kit in your luggage bag there?”
Thinking quickly if he did, he said, “Right here.”
“Get me a nail clipper or, a… pointy nail file. I know you have one of those for your girlish hands.”
Mark smirked at Emily, but he did what he was asked and gave it to her. “Here.”
Emily tied her hair band into a girth hitch loop and attached it to the bar. She stretched the other end of the rubber hair band toward the wall and away from the door. Emily took Mark’s nail clippers, opened them, and fastened the rubber hair band to the wall by shoving the clippers into the band and soft sheetrock wall like a thumb tack. It was now anchored in the sheetrock and set.
Mark watched with intense curiosity. “Where you’d learn this, Harrods of London?” Mark asked. “How do you know how to break into a hotel room?” Emily didn’t answer.
As Emily closed the door a bit, the tension and pressure of the rubber band yanked the bar away to the unlocked position. Ford’s door was free to open.
“That was easy,” Mark announced, walking in. “Ford, you in here?” The lights were on, the shades were open, and the bed was slept in.
Emily immediately saw a woman’s purse on the table, then saw the bed was messed up and slept in, as well. Her emotions were now off the charts, and the ground on which she was standing on fell out. No, Ford, no, she thought to herself.
They both opened the bathroom door.
“Aw, man! Dude! Call 911!” Mark said loudly, as Emily gasped.
The two B-52s and three B-2s were being taking care of by the flight line team, all air force airmen, and preparing the aircraft for local flight operations.
Diego Garcia was an atoll island near the equator in the central Indian Ocean. It is the largest of some sixty small islands covering the Chagos Archipelago, founded by the French in the 1790s. Today, the United States had a large naval and military base on the island, and the only inhabited island in the region, populated with military personnel and contractors.
The US Strategic Command had deployed B-2 Spirits from Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, to the island to integrate and conduct training with allies and partner air forces. This area of the world was busy for US Strategic Command due to the heightened tensions with the Chinese government over the South China Sea dispute.
Overlapping this geographic area was also US Indo-Pacific Command. Their full plate just got larger with the recent arrival of the US Navy carrier USS John C. Stennis, three destroyers, a cruiser, and the 7th Fleet flagship, just sailing into the area earlier this week.
“Dey want us ta do what?” said Colonel Zeke Ziehmann, the Diego Garcia B-2 Detachment Commander from Whiteman. It was hard to tell Zeke’s humor with his Chicago accent and tone, as sometimes he was funnier than hell, and sometimes he was all business. Today, though, ol’ Zeke was being funny.
Zeke was a former fighter pilot turned bomber pilot, accepting the transition years ago to fly what the Air Force told him would be a career enhancer — a special project, of course, now known to all as the B-2—leaving his wife, son, and daughter back in Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany. It worked for him, and he climbed the career ladder to full-bird colonel.
Zeke, having plenty of wisdom and seeing just about everything through the years, was pretty crusty among the junior pilots. His legendary tough attitude in the face of rules made the young guys laugh. Hard. Often seen in the hangar on the catwalk checking out the mechanics turning wrenches, he’d have a cigarette in his mouth in an area full of fuel. Zeke knew the flashpoint was so high that he’d never start a fire, so he routinely ignored the “No Smoking” signs. Once done, he’d put it out and light up another one. A lit cigarette hung on his mouth, off his lip, down low, and was able to stay in his mouth even while talking. Some of the older pilots say he used to fly while smoking, but no one could ever catch him doing so with a photo. They also knew he had a Distinguished Flying Cross, a DFC, which added to his mystique. Zeke was as old-school crusty as you could find and loved by all the aircrew.