Strike Force

He read off a few more names, but still that feeling persisted, and so this time he turned fully around and studied the area. A security vehicle with blue flashing lights on the roof was escorting what appeared to be a technical maintenance vehicle, basically a medium-sized eight-ton truck with a small crane on the front to load and unload missiles and ammunition. Both were common sights — why was he feeling so uneasy? Everything looked completely…

…and at that instant, the two vehicles quickly accelerated and headed straight for the ceremony area — and now Buzhazi could see a line of security cars and armored vehicles racing out of the hangar area toward them, lights and sirens on, pursuing the two vehicles!

“Get out!” Buzhazi shouted into the microphone. “Get out of here, now!” The crowd stood still, heads excitedly turning back and forth, but no one was moving. “I said, run! Everyone run!” He turned to a couple of guards who were standing about thirty meters away, AK-47 rifles slung on their shoulders. “You! Guards! Stop those vehicles!”

But it was too late. Buzhazi had enough time to run away from the podium toward the base operations building, wildly motioning for the crowd to follow him, when the truck plowed into the S-300 surface-to-air missile launcher. There was a small explosion, perhaps from a bit of gasoline ignited by a spark…and then seconds later the thousand kilos of high explosives packed into the rear of the truck detonated. Buzhazi felt himself picked off his feet by a red-hot wave of energy, along with pieces of concrete, burning fuel and metal, and body parts, and flung through the air.

ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

THAT SAME TIME

“You’re where?”

U.S. Air Force Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan smiled at the Vice President’s astounded and somewhat angry tone. “I’m still at the ‘Lake,’ Maureen,” he said. Even on a secure radio connection, he or anyone he knew never mentioned the name “Groom Lake” or even “Elliott Air Force Base” to anyone. The top-secret weapons and aerospace development and testing facility in the Nevada desert north of Las Vegas, named after its first controversial firebrand commander Lieutenant General Brad Elliott, was always called “the Lake.”

“Did you forget, Patrick? We have a meeting in Washington in three hours!”

“I didn’t forget,” Patrick said. “I’ll be there.”

The other man in the back of the Air Force blue Suburban with him, U.S. Air Force aerospace engineer and test pilot Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble, smiled. Everyone at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, nicknamed “Dreamland,” was wired with subcutaneous satellite transceivers that allowed worldwide two-way communications — and the ability for the government to track and listen in on that person worldwide, for life — and so he was accustomed to listening to persons talking into thin air. “Say hi to the Vice President for me, General,” Noble said. Patrick nodded, and Boomer went on checking maintenance logs and reports on his tablet PC.

“Who was that, Patrick?” Vice President Maureen Hershel asked from her office at the Old Executive Office Building in Washington, D.C.

“Boomer said hi,” Patrick said. “He’s going to fly me to the meeting.”

“‘Fly you to the meeting?’ Why is he…?” And then Maureen stopped. She had been briefed on this mission, several days ago — she just didn’t know that Patrick would be the one flying it. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Patrick…”

“I’ll be there,” he asserted. “Gotta fly.”

“That’s an understatement,” Maureen said. “Call if you’ll be late. See you…whenever.” And the connection was broken, leaving his reply, “I love you,” unheard except by “Boomer” Noble.

Patrick stepped out of the Suburban with his flight helmet bag and took a deep breath, barely able to contain his excitement. The early-morning air was crisp and cold, with barely a hint of a breeze. The sky was completely cloudless, as it was for much of the year in south-central Nevada. He and Boomer reviewed aircraft documents on the hood of the Suburban, signing off the various pages and transmitting the forms to HAWC’s maintenance and records computers.

“The bird’s code one and ready to go, General,” Boomer announced. “Let’s get you to that meeting.” He looked at the three-star general standing beside him. Patrick was staring at something intently. “Something wrong, sir?”

“No…no, not a thing, Captain,” Patrick responded. A huge grin spread across his face, and he looked at Noble with an unabashedly childlike expression. “Not…a…damned thing.”

Boomer looked at the object of Patrick’s amazement, nodded knowingly, and took a deep breath himself. “Yes, sir, I know what you mean,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean.”