Battle Born (58 page)

“Shut up
!” Rebecca shouted. “Just shut the fuck up, Long!” He finally stopped and glared at them both. Seaver picked himself up off the desk, not bothering to cover up a cut lip and bruised cheek. “Both of you, knock it off. This is getting us nowhere. What’s done is done.”

“Not for me it isn’t,” Long shot back. “Not until Seaver admits what he did in front of the squadron and to the adjutant general. Then I want to see him drummed out of the Guard.”

“Go to hell, Long,” Seaver said, his voice defiant but his eyes and expression showing the pain and hurt he was feeling. “Yes, I jumped out without giving a command. Yes, I was too aggressive down low while TF’ing. Yes, I relied on the automatic system to punch everyone out. But my crew didn’t die because of me! Those smoky SAMs hit us, we couldn’t recover . . .”

“You piece of
shit
!” Long shouted. “You’re still blaming something else for what you did.” Long took a threatening step toward Seaver.

Rebecca got up to block Long’s path again. “I said, knock it off!” Then she realized that someone else was standing in the doorway to her office. It was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs and another lieutenant colonel whom Rebecca recognized as General McLanahan’s deputy and one of the members of his inspection team. The way Briggs’s field jacket bulged, it was obvious he was still wearing the little submachine gun she remembered seeing at Dreamland.

“We interrupting something here, Colonel?” Briggs asked with his seemingly ever-present smile. He nodded at John Long and added, “Looks like you got blood on you again, Colonel Long, except this time it’s your
own
blood.”

“As a matter of fact, you
are
interrupting something,” Rebecca replied testily. “Can you guys wait for us downstairs?”

“No, we can’t,” the other man said. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Luger, General McLanahan’s deputy. We’d like you all to come with us right away. We’ve already got Captain Dewey with us downstairs.”

“It’s going to have to wait a few minutes,” Rebecca said. “We have something—”

“You don’t understand, Rebecca,” Dave Luger said. “You’re coming with us right now. General McLanahan’s orders.”

“McLanahan doesn’t have any authority over us,” Long said irritably, his anger from being elbowed in the face by his ex-boss welling up to the surface.

“You’re wrong, Colonel Long,” Luger said. “Those wristbands mean he has
total
authority over you.”

“What’s he going to do if we tell him to go piss up a rope?” Long asked. “Kidnap us?”

As if he were talking only to the cool alpine air, Dave Luger said, “Lieutenant Colonel Luger for Gunnery Sergeant Wohl . . .” There was a brief pause; then: “Chris, come give us a hand upstairs, please.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Rebecca asked.

Luger did not reply. Moments later the biggest, meanest-looking man any of them had ever seen came into Furness’s office. He was the archetypical commando—square jaw, piercing eyes, huge hands, tight, muscular frame, some broken bones in his face and nose that made him look even meaner. He looked at the three guardsmen with undisguised hostility, as if he had been personally insulted or inconvenienced by them.

“This is Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl, guys,” Luger said. “He’s our noncommissioned officer in charge of ass-kicking at HAWC.” As he said that, Chris Wohl reached inside his field jacket, grasped the pistol grip of
his MP5K submachine gun, and gave it a tug. The little weapon snapped free of its harness, and in the blink of an eye the stock had extended and the big ex-marine had it at port arms. In another instant he had withdrawn and attached a sound suppressor.

“What are you going to do, asshole?” Long sneered. “Shoot us?”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said, smiling. And at that, to the complete astonishment of the three guardsmen, he leveled the MP5K and fired a round right into John Long’s chest from less than twenty feet away.

“Jesus! Are you nuts?”
Rebecca screamed. Long fell backward, his eyes staring straight ahead, clutching his chest. He went down so fast that Rinc and Rebecca had to scramble to catch him. There was no blood. They quickly found that he was not dead because there was no hole in his chest—just a patch of light brown dust on his shirt. But Long was out of it. One moment he was awake and wondering why his legs and arms wouldn’t work—the next instant, his eyes rolled up into his head and he was fast asleep. “What in hell did you shoot him with?”

“A very mild nerve agent crystalline needle,” Hal Briggs explained. “The needle is about the size of a human hair and can penetrate several layers of clothing, very much like a bullet but with none of the tissue trauma. It contains a nerve agent that paralyzes all voluntary motor functions. He can breathe, blink, his heart will work okay—he just can’t move. He’ll be out for about an hour or so.” He motioned to Long’s crotch and added with a grin, “He can’t keep from peeing and shitting on himself either.”

“Are you absolutely insane?” Rebecca cried. She checked for a pulse and breathing and found both were normal—but Long was indeed out. Not just asleep, but completely limp, his limbs as mushy as a half-filled water
balloon. She got the first whiff of relieved bowels and bladder too, which made her even angrier. “You can’t just drag us out of here like criminals . . .”

“We can and we will,” Hal Briggs said calmly. “Rather, you two will drag Colonel Long downstairs and into our waiting car, which will take us over to our waiting jet, which will take us to Elliott Air Force Base. If you give Gunnery Sergeant Wohl any more grief, he will shoot both of you, and he and his men will drag you however way they find most convenient to the van.”

“By accepting those bracelets, guys, you agreed to be part of Dreamland and HAWC as long as they exist and as long as you exist,” Dave Luger said. “I’m sure General McLanahan made that clear to you before you landed at our base. We don’t allow visitors, and there’s no such thing as a TDY into or a PCS out of Dreamland.”

“Just like ‘Hotel California’ in reverse, guys,” Hal added with a big smile. “You can leave anytime you like, but you can never check out.”

“This is ridiculous!” Rebecca exploded. “You’re taking us back to Dreamland?
Now?
No orders, no prior arrangements, no warning? What about our lives, our families, our careers?”

“All three of you have been federalized,” Dave said. “Major Seaver just left a message telling his partners that he’s on extended leave of absence—actually, we took the liberty of leaving the message on his behalf. Colonel Furness, you and Colonel Long both are still full-time Nevada Air Guard, even though your unit has been deactivated. The Nevada adjutant general has agreed to allow you to go on extended active duty. We’ll see to it that someone looks out for your house or apartment and pays the bills and feeds your dog.”

“Which sucks big-time,” Briggs added. “Didn’t you
guys know enough not to have pets if you’re single in the military? Who’d you think was going to take care of them if you had to deploy? Shame on you. Colonel Long needs some serious pet care counseling.”

“Later, Hal,” Luger said. “Any other squawks, folks? If not, or even if you do, save it for when we get on the plane. Grab an end and let’s get Long downstairs.” With the big, mean-looking gunnery sergeant standing guard—the guardsmen could see that the spare magazines he carried were all loaded with real bullets, not paralyzing crystals—they carried Long down the flight of stairs to the hangar floor below.

A waiting unmarked blue windowless van was waiting, with Annie Dewey inside. Her eyes got round with worry as she watched Long being carried into the van. “What happened to Long Dong?” she asked.

“He opened his yap one too many times,” Rinc said.

A few moments later the group arrived at the other side of Reno-Tahoe International Airport, where an unmarked Gulfstream IV executive jet was waiting inside a hangar with two plainclothes guards standing watch. Out of sight of any curious onlookers, they loaded up, got towed out to the ramp, and took off minutes later. In less than thirty minutes, they were on the ground back at Dreamland, and they pulled into a different set of hangars than the ones they’d seen when they first arrived at this haunting, desolate place.

“I want to talk with General McLanahan right away,” Rebecca demanded. “Just because he stuck those microchips in our arms doesn’t mean he has the right to yank us out of our homes and drag us here.”

“Go ahead,” Dave Luger said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“Go ahead and talk to him.”

“How?”

“You’re wired for sound now, remember?” David
said. “We can hear everything you say. The microchip is a transceiver too—not just GPS or physiological data, but two-way communications.”

“He can hear everything I ever say?”

“Try it and see. Announce who you are and who you want to talk with.”

Rebecca looked at Rinc and Annie, shrugged, and then said aloud, “Colonel Furness to General McLanahan. Come in, please.” There was no response. At a nod from Dave Luger, she tried again: “General Mc-Lanahan?”

“Patrick here, Rebecca. Welcome back.”

“A computer analyzes your request, pages the other party, and makes the connection—sometimes it takes a moment,” Dave explained.

“How can I hear him without headphones or a speaker?”

“It’s a little complicated, but the microchip reads and translates nerve impulses associated with speech and hearing,” Patrick explained. “When we say your whole body is wired for sound, we mean it. On a very rudimentary but very real level, we can even read your thoughts.”

Rebecca gulped in astonishment—the idea was too wild to even comprehend right now. “Can my crew members join in the conversation?” she asked.

“Sure,” Patrick said. “Conference in Major Seaver and Captain Dewey with General McLanahan, please.” Patrick paused for a moment, then asked, “Can all you guys hear me okay?”

The startled expressions on their faces answered that question. “Hol-ee shit!” Rinc exclaimed. “This is unbelievable!”

“I take that as a yes,” Patrick said. “Listen up, everyone. We don’t have time to waste. We have some academics
to start with today and tonight. You deploy day after tomorrow.”

“Deploy? Where?”

“Your Bones are being modified with a few improvements,” Patrick replied. “We’re working round the clock to get them ready.”

“Where are you, sir?” Dewey asked.

“I can’t tell you, not just yet,” Patrick said. “Once you’re under way, you’ll be fully briefed.”

“Listen, General,” Rebecca interjected. “I wanted to talk to you about the tactics you used to bring us here. I don’t like your men barging in on me, and I sure as shit don’t like your commandos shooting my guys up with nerve agents. We want an explanation. You can threaten us all you want, but you can’t force us to fly your planes or perform any missions for you.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick said. “Conference in Colonel Luger and Colonel Briggs, please . . . Dave, Hal, can you escort the crew to Foxtrot row? Take them through the Corridor.”

“Yes, sir,” Luger acknowledged. “Follow me, everyone.” He escorted the three guardsmen to a waiting van—Long was still out cold, but now being monitored by an emergency medical technician as he started to come around—and a few minutes later they arrived at Foxtrot row, the place where the Nevada Air Guard’s B-1 bombers were being hangared. As when they first arrived, they had to pass through another series of security checkpoints, including a handprint and retinal identification analyzer and an X-ray corridor to check for implanted listening devices, weapons, or recording devices.

“What a goatfuck,” Rebecca said. “All to see our own planes.”

“They’re
our
planes now,” she heard Patrick say in her head.

“Is that you, General McLanahan?” Rebecca asked, shocked to hear that voice come out of thin air. “Are you still listening to me, General?”

“We’re still connected until you disconnect,” Patrick said. “Your planes are through that corridor ahead of you. We have some techs and engineers waiting to start briefing you on the modifications.”

“What do you mean, they’re yours?”

“Governor Gunnison and General Bretoff have leased the planes to us for an indefinite period of time,” Dave Luger replied. “Actually, ever since you flunked your pre-D, we’ve been modifying them. You need to learn how to fly them right away. You start action in the forward area in two days.”

“You’re still assuming we want to be a part of any of this,” Rebecca said. “Judging by the treatment we got this morning and the support we’ve received from you and your organization, I vote we tell you to go to hell.”

“It would be a shame to lose you, but at the end of our little tour here, if you don’t want in, I’ll cut the bracelets off and send you home,” Patrick’s ethereal voice in their heads said. “We can’t take the chip out without a surgeon, but it’s completely safe and quite inert without the bracelet, I promise. I’ve had one in for years. Deal?”

Rebecca still looked skeptical and did not reply, but something on the wall caught her eye, and she went over to examine it. It was a series of photographs, memorabilia, charts, and other items, including a control wheel from a B-52. Rinc and Annie went over to look at the items as well.

What riveted Rebecca Furness’s attention was the big WAC chart and a remarkable pencil and paper recreation of an old two-page SAC Form 200 flight plan next to it—describing a B-52 bomber flight from Dreamland to Kavaznya in the Soviet Union, with a
final stop in Anadyr near the Bering Strait. The chart had the triangle fix position marks on them, along with the old-style cross data blocks with Zulu time, track, groundspeed, and winds or drift angle. The Form 200 was filled out in meticulous detail with precise architect-like printing. It was dated 1988 and even had the headings filled out—it was as if whoever drew this thing up wanted to duplicate a standard Form 200 exactly, from memory.

Rebecca’s mouth opened in surprise as she read the names of the crew members on the flight plan: Brad Elliott, pilot; John Ormack, copilot; Patrick McLanahan, radar navigator; David Luger, navigator; Wendy Tork, electronic warfare officer; and Angelina Pereira, gunner. Most of those names were legends in the Air Force, pilots or engineers or weapons designers known the world over—and here they were, all on one mysterious hand-drawn flight plan.