Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (31 page)

 
          
Briggs
pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and set the channel for security
control. “Red Man, this is Hotel.”

 
          
“Go
ahead, Hotel.”

 
          
Ormack
had finished his walkaround, and he, Carter and Elliott were shaking hands.
Visitors began filing into buses to take them off the flight line. The crew of
the Megafortress was climbing up the belly hatch into the massive bomber.

 
          
Briggs
keyed the mike button: “Status check of Foxtrot posts.”

 
          
“Last
status check one-five minutes ago reports all secure. Last Rover check zero-one
minutes ago reports all secure.”

 
          
“Copy.
Break. Rover Nine, this is Hotel. Report to Five Fox trot for relief. He wants
to get a look at the monster up close. Five Foxtrot, you copy?”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Lovyyev,
alias Airman Crowe, nearly pulled the trigger of his M-16 in panic when he
heard his call sign over the security net. He was about to pick up the microphone
and say something when he heard, “Break. Hotel, this is Rover Nine. Job Control
has requested us to assist in clearing the flight line. We are moving into
position. Please advise. Over.”

 
          
Lovyyev’s
throat was stone dry. He didn’t dare try to speak. Nothing would come out.
Should he walk out of the car? Wave? Should he do anything . . . ?

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Briggs
stared at the armored car in front of Hangar Five. Jacinto sure was acting
strange. Normally he would have jumped at the opportunity to check out any
aircraft, from an old Piper Cub to the hypersonic spaceplane. He was being
oddly reticent this morning. Well, tough. He was too late.

 
          
“Rover
Nine, continue to clear the flight line. Five Foxtrot, sorry, maybe some other
time.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Lovyyev
still kept away from the mike button. He turned and saw KGB veteran Gekky
Orlov, alias Sergeant Howard, standing inside the hangar, his M-16 out of
sight, watching him. He knew Orlov had a tiny earpiece radio set to the
security-net frequency. He was looking hard at him, trying to get him to calm
down. Orlov could tell without seeing him that Lovyyev was ready to collapse.
Don’t key that microphone,
be silent...

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
No
reply. Strange.

 
          
A
crew chief was hauling a huge Halon fire bottle over to the left inboard engine
pylon and several of his assistants were positioning themselves around the B-52
to act as safety observers for this engine start. Briggs suddenly found himself
in the middle. He got inside his sedan, closed the windows against the sound of
external power carts being started, switched on the engine, and headed for the
security checkpoint to watch the taxi and takeoff.

           
But as the first dull roar of the
number four engine began to invade the early morning air, Briggs stopped the
car just short of the checkpoint. He was perhaps four hundred yards from Hangar
Five. Still no sign of Jacinto. Hal picked up his car microphone. “Five
Foxtrot, this is Hotel. How copy?” No reply. “Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. Come
in. Over.”

 
          
There
may have been a reply but Briggs couldn’t hear it over the steady scream of the
eight turbofan engines on the massive B-52 bomber. The crew was running through
their pre-takeoff equipment checks. The three-thousand-watt taxi lights on the
front landing gear trucks flashed insistently at him, indicating that the
B-52’s attack radar was on. Briggs was parked right in front of the bomber. He
started his car and moved away from the B-52’s front quarter.

 
          
The
pre-takeoff checks were running quietly. As Hal Briggs continued to try to
raise Five Foxtrot, the crew chief ran in front of the Megafortress Plus with
two lighted wands, and using hand signals ordered his assistants to pull the
B-52’s wheel chocks.

 
          
Hal
considered cruising over to the guard post but it was too late. The crew chief
swirled his wands in the air, a signal to Ormack and Khan in the cockpit that
they were clear to run up their engines for taxi. The engines began a deafening
roar and the huge bomber lumbered forward. It stopped briefly to test its
brakes, then taxied out quickly onto the ramp and moved toward the open
exit-gate. Rover Nine and Rover Seven, the two M113 combat vehicles, fell in on
either side of the B-52, their gun turrets now manned and armed with automatic
cannons.

 
          
Briggs
let out a loud sigh of relief when the B-52 taxied clear of Hangar Five—if
there had been a commando or terrorist there he would have struck then, as the
Megafortress taxied right in front. He almost expected to see a bazooka or TOW
anti-tank missile round hit the Old Dog’s jet-black surface, but there was no
movement. Hal keyed his car’s mike:

 
          
“All
units, be advised aircraft exiting main parking ramp heading for taxiway delta.
Begin pre-launch sweep check and report to Red Man when complete. Red Man,
report status to Hotel when complete.”

 
          
“Red
Man, wilco.”

 
          
Hal
put his car in gear and fell in well behind the B-52 as it headed down the
taxiway toward the sand-colored four-mile- long runway. The security units
surrounding Dreamland were reporting in to Red Man Security Control as briefed.
Individual tactical units would report to their sector commands, who would
report to their team leaders, who would report to Red Man. Everything was going
smoothly.

 
          
The
last to report in were the units not involved with the B-52’s operations—base
security, individual building security and standing flight-line checkpoints. It
took several minutes, by which time all units had reported in as ordered... all
except Five Foxtrot.

 
          
That
did it. Definitely something wasn’t right here. Hal Briggs stopped his car dead
in its tracks and picked up the mike: “Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. Check in
immediately. Over.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
He
couldn’t wait any longer—Lovyyev could hear the irritation in the voice of
whoever this Hotel character was. Orlov had disappeared into the hangar. For an
instant he thought that Orlov was running, escaping before the security patrols
closed in, but he knew better. Orlov was one of the best KGB operatives in
North America
. He would never run out on a mission unless
it was completely hopeless, and he certainly wouldn’t run out on another
operative.

 
          
He
had to answer, but he needed to sound convincing. What was the nationality of
the security guard they killed? Spanish? Mexican? Why didn’t the
United States
use one damned race in the military like
most of the rest of the world? In the
Soviet Union
they used
Russian
soldiers. Other
nationalities swept floors or collected garbage.

 
          
Taking
a deep breath, he composed his reply in his mind, as taught to him in an
all-day cram course by Orlov, and keyed the mike: “Five Foxtrot, all secure.
Over.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
A
chill ran down his spine. Hal had a tough time hearing the faint response, but
even if it had been a whisper it wouldn’t have made any difference.

 
          
That
was not Rey Jacinto on the mike.

 
          
The
Old Dog had now reached the end of the runway. It paused for a few moments as
it aligned with the runway centerline. For an instant Hal thought that now
would be the perfect time to strike—here, away from the ramp, isolated and
vulnerable—but as he began to issue orders to cover the bomber from attack, the
engines slowly accelerated to full thrust and the huge plane rolled down the
runway.

 
          
Hal
Briggs stared transfixed at the huge dark creature blasting down the runway. He
could see huge puffs of dust and sand erupting from the edge of the
semi-camouflaged runway, those could be mortar rounds impacting near the plane—
which conjured up the memory of the last time he had seen the Old Dog take off
eight years ago, not five hundred yards from this very spot, when there
were
mortar rounds exploding all around
them. The same sense of fear gripped him . . .

 
          
But
this time it turned out to be huge dust clouds kicked up by the wingtip
vortices generated by the Old Dog. A few moments later the bomber was airborne,
the gear was up, the SST nose retracted into flight position and the Old Dog
was racing skyward once again. It climbed nose-up, more like a light fighter
plane than a half-million-pound strategic bomber.

 
          
In
minutes the B-52 was out of sight. No alerts, no warnings. Members of the M113
Rover crews had gotten out of their ACVs to watch the takeoff. Hal checked Five
Foxtrot once again. He could see clearly inside the hangar, but there was no
sign of any munitions maintenance men in there, and the missiles were still on
DreamStar’s handpoints beside the air intake. A power cart was hooked up to
DreamStar, with hoses and cables snaking around to the fighter’s service panel,
and now that the Old Dog had departed, Hal could hear the roar of the external
power cart’s jet engine. It was as if the MMS crew had simply left the plane
alone and on power to watch the Old Dog’s takeoff. That was a major breach of
security, not to mention good sense. You never left a plane unattended with
power and air on. Jacinto knew that—where was
he
during all this? And whose was that voice on the mike? Or was he
imagining ... ?

 
          
The
upper hatch on the armored car was open, and Briggs noticed that a
fifty-caliber machine gun was now mounted on the armor-shielded gun bracket on
the car’s roof. Still no sign of Jacinto. Maybe he had watched the takeoff,
after all. But why mount his machine gun now? Or had he done it during taxi?

 
          
Briggs
picked up his microphone. “Five Foxtrot, report status and location of the work
crew at your location. Over.”

 
          
No
reply.

 
          
“Red
Man, this is Hotel, radio check.”

 
          
“Hotel,
this is Red Man. Five by.”

 
          
It
wasn’t his radio. Was there a radio “blind spot” out here? Was Jacinto’s radio
malfunctioning? If it was, he should have gotten a replacement long ago
—if
it was Rey Jacinto in there.

 
          
“Roger.
Break. Rover Nine, meet me at Five Foxtrot on the double. Over.”

 
          
“Rover
Nine on the move.” Briggs could see the two alert crewmen run back inside the
ACV. The low-slung, eleven-ton mini-tank made a tight turn and headed back
toward the parking ramp on its twin-steel tracks.

 
          
Briggs
put his car in gear and headed toward DreamStar’s hangar. Somebody was screwing
up by the numbers here, it was past time to find out who and what.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Lovyyev
was silently screaming at himself. Only a few hours in place, he speaks three
words on the radio and is discovered.

 
          
Be
calm, he told himself. Things were happening out there on the flight
line—perhaps there was still time to bluff his way out of this. This Hotel person
may get too busy to check on him.