The Seraphs Call - Chapter Twenty Three

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Johannesburg, South Africa

The APV marked South African Military Police, trundled toward the C-5 that sat powering down on the isolated hanger far from the main terminal of Johannesburg International.  The two occupants of the cab wore regular Army uniforms, khaki brown, with gold braded red berets covering their close shaven heads.  To all appearances, they were a regular detachment sent to escort a high profile visitor or dignitary, but all thirteen occupants of the massive vehicle were nothing of who they appeared.

Their leader, a big man with reddish hair and a Commanders eagle on his beret, sat in the passenger seat and glanced at the glowing face of his watch, “how long till they find the bodies in the barracks?”

 “Don’t worry Commander; we will be gone with the plane long before they even suspect there is something amiss.” The dark haired man smiled briefly his white teeth in stark relief in the darkness.  “Much less check the barracks.”

The big man scowled, “And the nerve gas…?”

“The nerve gas will make all on the plane unconscious, nothing more…” 

“But it can kill…”

“Not unless your target or some of his helpers have weak hearts, Sir.”

“Sir Stuart is former SAS; I doubt he has a weak heart.  I still think its unnecessary risk.”

“Sir, you wanted minimum resistance, right?”

The Commander nodded.

“This is the only way to avoid a direct assault on twenty one members of the U.N. Special Forces.  If we were lucky enough to not take heavy casualties, then the likelihood of the plane being made non-operational by combat damage would be high.  That would f**k our escape plans wouldn’t it?”

“I just wish we had more time to plan this…”  The big man muttered.

“Central HQ came up with this in less then 24 hrs…it involves all the best we could get into place on such short notice.”

The Commander started to say something else, but the both saw the dark shape of the C-5 appear in the high beams of the truck.  Their vehicle stopped with the screeching sound of air brakes, and the driver killed the motor as the aircrew approached their truck.

The massive bulk of the fueling truck was already attached to the underbelly of the plane; and with it, the standard four-man team, driver, pump operator and two hose jockeys.  The Chief of the aircrew on duty strode casually towards the cab of the APV, concentrating more on his clipboard checklist then on those he was approaching.

The Commander reached up and keyed the small headset transmitter in his ear.  “All units neutralize ground crew, silenced weapons only.” 

The ground crew chief was nearly to the truck when the red dot of a laser sight appeared on his right left temple.  He did not even have time to react before a round struck him, splattering a rooster tail of blood and brains from his skull as he fell to the tarmac.  In a split second, a forest of red beams lanced through the darkness, soon followed by sounds of multiple bodies falling with dull thuds, as the team hit their marks with well-orchestrated precision.

The Commander stepped from the cab as his team attached the nerve gas canisters to the central oxygen intakes of the Cargo plane.  Within seconds they had the valves open and sharp hissing intake of the gas entering the ventilation of the plane was the only sound in the dark of the hanger.  The big man bent down and turned over the body of the Air chief as he waited, studying the man’s face intently. “You were right on target, all of them are Americans.” He muttered darkly.  “I recognize this one from my old days with the KGB, definitely CIA.”

“Imagine the Afrikaners surprise when they find one crew of bodies extra in the barracks.”  The dark haired man smiled the same unnerving grin.  “Should not be long till Sir Aubrey and his crew are snoozing, Sir, better have our men dispose of the bodies.”

The team worked quickly, disposing of the bodies in the trash dumpsters alongside the hanger, hosing the blood from tarmac and ground crew vehicles.  When the nerve gas had dissipated from the C-5, all traces of the team were erased.

“Do you think the Americans are going to know what to make of this?”  The dark haired man grinned at the ghosts of empty vehicles spread under the plane as he circumvented the outside locks on the C-5’s passenger door and popped the sealed compartment open.

“Let’s hope not, the more we can keep the Americans in the dark, the better off we are.”  The Commander replied as he followed his companion into the plane.

“And what if they have plants in the U.N. team?” The dark haired man asked.

“Then we dispose of the bodies over the Indian Ocean,” The Commander smiled grimly, “though burial at sea is too much an honor for this scum.”

The clank of the fuel hose detaching from the plane resounded hollowly through the aircraft hull as they checked the slumbering occupants--no sign of movement, all sleeping peacefully.

The Commander heaved the limp pilot of the C-5 from the seat and with the help of his assistant strapped the man in the cargo compartment with the rest of the sleeping passengers.  They similarly disposed of the rest of the cockpit crew to the rumbling sound of the team pulling the ground vehicles away from the plane.

The big man glanced at his watch, “time to leave before they miss the good Sir Stuart and his crew at the terminal.”

The dark haired man sat in the pilots chair and began running preflight checks.  “Yes sir, we’ll be ready once the full team is aboard.”

The Commander strode back to the door and waited, starring watchfully into the darkness as all of his men boarded.  No lights, no sirens, no interruptions to the peaceful darkness, there were no signs the Afrikaners or Americans were any the wiser.  The big man lumbered to the cargo compartment and sat heavily in his jump seat, fastening his harness straps as the whine of the four jet engines powering up filled the plane.  The last man in secured the compartment door just as the plane began to back up to align itself for takeoff.

The sirens blared in the night as the C-5 picked up speed for takeoff.  Afrikaner Army vehicles descended on the runway too late.  Further down the runway, emergency vehicles were racing to block the path, hoping the pilot would abort the takeoff, but all they heard was the four jet engines rev higher.  The large aircraft sped faster down the runway, the engines screaming at full throttle as the pilot pushed the aircraft to its limits.  Sixty feet before impact the pilot heaved with all his strength on the yoke, forcing the huge transport into a steep climb.  The aircraft shuddered in rebellion at the massive forces placed on it as it roared scant feet over the heads of the emergency crews.

The four jet trails were all that remained to those on the ground as the C-5 transport disappeared into the night.  The commander heaved a sigh of relief as the plane gained altitude until the Navigator came over the comm., “We’re not out of the woods yet, Folks.  We have four bogeys inbound on our six.” 

The commander jumped from his seat and began shouting orders, “Break out the stingers, Gentlemen.  We have guests!”

The crew reacted with precision, opening the airtight containers and removing ten stinger shoulder fired surface to air missiles.  Though not meant for air to air, they would do the job, once they locked onto their targets. 

“Bogeys are two miles and closing,” the navigator shouted over the intercom.

Six men approached the rear of the plane secured only by the thin safety lines.  The pilot opened the cargo ramp, exposing the interior of the plane to three hundred knot winds that threatened to sweep them out. 

All six watched as the Afrikaner Air Force Fighters approached, releasing the safeties and flipping up the aiming reticules.  The stingers only had an effective range of two miles when fired from the ground, but from the air that distance was cut in half.  Two of the men stepped forward, leaning toward the edge and braced themselves straining against the thin ropes that kept them inside the plane.  The remaining four spread to the sides of the interior to avoid the back blast from the stinger’s launch. 

Waiting for the signal that their targets were within range, both men stood ready, when they felt the pilot dip the nose of the plane, giving them a clear shot.  They launched in tandem, the bright afterglows of the missiles streaking toward their targets.  As the smoke cleared, they all watched as the two lead planes dissolved in a bright flare of the pre-morning sky, the remnants plummeting to the ground.  The next two men stepped forward and fired.  One of the missiles managed to destroy one of the two remaining aircraft, but not before it was able to send a barrage of twenty-millimeter rounds into the bay of the C-5, shredding metal and men alike.  Three of the six men were killed instantly as the large rounds ripped through their bodies, slamming them to the metal deck of the plane.  A fourth was killed when one of the rounds impacted with the stinger he was carrying causing the ignition motor to explode, showing him and others with solid rocket propellant. 

The last target was no longer there, having broken off its pursuit to attack from a different vector.  The navigator watched as the pilot of the U.S.-made F27 fighter attack aircraft closed from directly overhead, and screamed over the microphone, “Hold on ladies.  We’re going to the deck.”

The pilot put the C-5 into a steep dive, the airframe screaming its rejection as the massive G forces threatened to tear it apart.  The only hope they had for survival was bringing the plane in low near the ground.  The last man with a stinger crawled to the edge of the ramp, and scanned the sky above.  He caught a glimpse of their pursuer, aimed and fired, tracking the target through the reticule, but the image was lost as he was thrown from the cargo ramp as the pilot pulled back on the yolk.  He slammed into the ceiling of the aircraft before crashing back into the metal grating of the cargo ramp floor. His neck snapped, only the rope holding his dangling body to the plane as the pilot leveled the plane off only 100 feet from the ground. 

The stinger streaked through the sky and met the jet head on, ripping through its interior before it exploded, disintegrating the aircraft.  The pilot saw the blip on the radar screen disappear as the shards of the aircraft plunged to the ground.  

The commander looked around the compartment, checking over his men and the U.N. team that still slumbered (two of which would never wake up), the seething anger building in him as he counted; five dead, and four wounded.  Now this was personal.

June 17, 2049 – 0710 Hours (Local Time) - Somewhere over Central Georgia

The MH-60JW Black Eagle helicopter screamed along the trees as its engines propelled it at over 150 knots, the skids clipping the occasional branch.  The only evidence of its presence, should anyone catch the silhouette against the early morning sky, was the sheen of the moonlight as it reflected off its dulled black finish. 

Desdin woke as John put the big bird into a fast dive, bringing it to within 10 feet of the ground before leveling out and increasing the throttle, bringing the speed to over 250 knots.  The MH-60JW Black Eagle, the successor to the MH-60 Blackhawk was adapted for fast attack, insertion, and extraction capacities.  The Delta force version was fitted with retractable aerodynamic wings, and whisper-jet engine capable of speeds over 300 knots giving it the edge needed for Special Forces.  

Few pilots had flown these birds, and fewer were expert.  Capt. John Davidson was one of them, being the first Navy helo test pilot to master the skills necessary to fly such a piece of machinery, teaching many of the pilots from all services in its abilities.  As they streaked across the rolling hills of Central Georgia, the sun began to cast its rays across the treetops, the heat scattering the morning fog, which blanketed the countryside. 

To avoid trouble from Robbins Air Force Base F-25 Scramblers, and with daylight quickly approaching, John began the rapid ascent.  He retracted the skids into the body, and engaging the whisperjet, propelling the helo to a cruising altitude of 13000 feet.  As the aircraft approached 8000 feet, Desdin heard the telltale hiss of the cabin’s interior seals engaging and oxygen release valve opening, creating a vacuum within the cabin for the occupants.  Above 10000, it was difficult to breath, but with the sealed interior, it was like flying in a commercial airliner.  They quickly passed 10000 feet and leveled off at 13000, the speed registering 310 knots as John made voice contact with Robbins Air Force Base Controller.

“Robins, this Navy Helo Bravo Echo Two Three, in route to Hunter Air Field, Copy”

“Navy Helo Bravo Echo Two Three, this is Robbins Control.  We do not have a filed flight plan for you, over”

“Roger, Robbins Control.  Flight Plan designated Romeo Charlie Foxtrot Papa”, which to the casual observer would mean nothing, but to the Robbins Controller, meant Restricted Classified Flight Plan, marking a Special Operations flight not scheduled.

“Roger, Bravo Echo Two Three.  Authenticate Romeo Charlie Foxtrot Papa.” 

Setting the helo on autopilot, John extracted the sealed authenticard from his vest pocket and snapped it open.  Each Aircraft carried authenticards activated by the aircraft’s transponder.  He had managed to bring two, one for the trip to Hunter and one for the trip back.

“Robbins Control, Bravo Echo Two Three authenticates Whiskey Three Foxtrot Oscar Niner.”

“Roger, Bravo Echo Two Three.  You are cleared for Robbins Airspace.  Happy Flying,” was the only response.

“Copy, Robbins control.  Bravo Echo Two Three out.”

This meant for the rest of the trip that they would be in radio silence until they reached Hunter Airfield.  John turned to Desdin, “Hunter knows we’re on our way.  Robbins always phones ahead and let’s them know we’re coming.”

“Thanks, John.  I appreciate all of your help” came Desdin’s reply.

Desdin sat back in the copilot’s chair and watched as his friend disengaged the autopilot and began the slow measured descent to 1000 feet, the approach altitude for Hunter Airfield, near Savannah, Georgia.  As they veered to the south to make the approach, John activated the transponder and inserted the authenticard, broadcasting the classified identification to Hunter. 

June 17, 2049 – 0730 Hours (Local Time) - Hunter Airfield, Savannah, GA

Had they approached at a higher or lower altitude, or not verified their identification, two surface-to-air missiles would have been streaking their way within minutes.  They were within 10 miles of Hunter Airfield, approaching from the southwest, when they heard a voice over the secure communications link.  The voice sounded garbled at first, but the authenticard quickly synchronized the comm. and the voice came through clearly,

“Bravo Echo Two, this is Hunter Control.  We have you on approach from bearing 245, ILS 1000 ft.  You are cleared for landing.  Welcome Back, John.”

Capt. John Davidson was well known at Hunter Field, home of the 106^th Special Operations Squadron.  He had trained most of the Helo pilots at their flight school and on occasion was asked to come down and give demonstrations on what the MH-60JW could do in the hands of an expert.  He could do more with the Black Eagle than many Cobra pilots could do with their combat helos. 

He was the only pilot to have successfully performed a full inverted loop with the bird.  A feat still unattempted after five years of the aircraft being in service, either they weren’t crazy enough or he was too crazy.  Either way, he was a living legend in the mind of most of the young bird jockeys as they had come to be known.

  The landing was fast as John brought the bird down to the deck, screaming onto the runway at over 200 knots, twice as fast as recommended.  At the last minute, he deployed the skids, retracted the wings, and killed the whisper jet boost, pulling up only 15 short of the hangar as the regular engines engaged the rotors and he brought it safely to ground.  Desdin was still amazed every time he rode with his friend. 

No wonder this guy’s been married and divorced four times.  One woman couldn’t have been enough for him; Desdin thought and let out a chuckle.

John glanced over at him, “So my flying’s funny?”

Desdin couldn’t help but let out a laugh, “No John.  It’s not your flying.  It’s you.  It’s no wonder you can’t settle down.  Nobody could compare to taking this baby for ride everyday, hahahahah.”

“Funny, Desdin.  I’ll tell my fourth wife you said that, if I’m still married when I get back” John returned his laugh.

Desdin jumped out of the helo and waited for John to exit.  Most of the squadron was at the hangar, readying for a day of training.  This area of the base was isolated from the rest as the 106^th was a special squadron.  Their main role was to support special operations missions, mainly Delta Force out of Ft. Bragg North Carolina.  They had their supply of MH-60JWs, Cobra attack helos, and a few civilian helos with false identification numbering for insertions into zones where military aircraft would immediately risk their mission.  

They began to walk to the hangar, and were greeted with quite a sight.  Clearly, the word had spread throughout the compound about their arrival, and it seemed the entire squadron was coming out to greet them.  Had Desdin not been cleared for these operations, on landing he would have been immediately arrested for being in a classified area.  His involvement in the U.N. project and close ties with the special operations community afforded him special privileges not normally granted a foreign national. 

To many in the community, he was another one of them, though he got the occasional jab about being a kraut, which he always laughingly replied, Zeig Hiel!  Walking closer he immediately recognized the man in front.  Lt. Colonel Jeremy Svenson known as “Swede,” almost too big to be flying helos, measuring in at 6’5 and pushing 275 pounds, picked up his pace, galloping across the short distance from the hangar and first grabbed John in a big bear hug.

”John, glad to see you again.  You’re always welcome around here.”  Greeting a senior officer would have normally required a salute, but the spec ops community was a close-knit bunch, dispensing with many of the formalities when in their own company.  After releasing John, Jeremy turned and grabbed Desdin, lifting him off his feet and suffocated him as the air was forced from his lungs.  “Desdin, my ol’ kraut buddy.  How the hell have you been?  What’s it been, five years?”

Desdin rolled his eyes and smiled, “Jeremy, we had Christmas dinner together last year.  Have you forgotten getting drunk and getting us all kicked of the club?”

The big blonde haired behemoth let out an enormous laugh and motioned them towards the hangar, “How could I forget?  You let everyone, and I mean everyone know that it was my fault.”

Desdin felt good being back among the men he had come to respect over the years, but this feeling was quickly overshadowed by the reason.  Darryl Rathborn was still in danger, if not dead, and it was Desdin’s responsibility to bring him to safety or recover his body.  Either way, he would follow his orders.

The quick change in his attitude and look on his face was a clear signal to Jeremy that something was wrong.  With saying a word, he motioned for the troops to return to their duties and herded the Navy Pilot and Desdin towards his office in the hangar.  Not a word was said between the three until they entered the office and closed the door behind them. 

Jeremy walked around behind his desk, plopping his big frame into the oversized high-backed leather chair, “Desdin, I know this isn’t a social call.  You wouldn’t have gotten John out of bed this early for anything short of an emergency.  What gives?” 

Desdin was much too on edge to sit and began pacing the room, “Jeremy.  This has to remain classified.  There’s been a problem.  Colonel Rathborn’s in trouble.  He’s either dead or badly injured and needs our help.  I can’t officially ask anything of you, but…”

Before Desdin could finish his sentence, Jeremy spoke up, interrupting him, “Desdin.  If Darryl’s in trouble, you don’t have to ask.  You forget who you’re talking to.  We take care of our own, and even if Darryl’s working with a chicken s**t outfit like the U.N., he’s still one of us and we’ll do what it takes.”

Desdin nodded his head, thanking the big Swedes loyalty and honor, “Jeremy, here’s the situation.  As far as I know, Darryl’s gone down in the Appalachians.  I need to get in and bring him out, either dead or alive.  Those are my orders.  I need transport to Bragg and some help.  I don’t think I can pull this one off all by myself.”

Without hesitating, Jeremy punched the intercom on the Vidphone to the hangar, “Sergeant, ready my bird for immediate takeoff.  Full armament load.  We’ll be leaving in 20 minutes.”

“Yes, Sir” was the only response from the intercom and the call was ended.

“Desdin” the blonde man spoke, “be ready to leave in 20.  I’ll grab my second and we’ll be on our way.  I don’t want anyone else flying this mission.  I owe Rathborn my life and I’ll be damned if I don’t everything I can to repay him.”

“Jeremy” Desdin replied, “You know I can’t ask you do to this.”

“Ask me.  If you didn’t tell me about this, I would be offended.  Get your little candy U.N. a*s on that bird and be ready to roll, Mr.  John.  It’s been great seeing you, but times awastin.  Have a safe flight back to Marietta and tell the Mrs., whichever number you’re on, that I said Hello.  Gotta run.” and he quickly pushed away from his desk and left the office.

Desdin turned to John Davidson and spoke, “John, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.  I owe you one.”

John shook his head and chuckled, “I stopped counting a long time ago how many you owe me, Desdin.  Get out of here…you’ve got a Colonel to rescue.”

The two men shook hands and John walked from the office, headed for his helo parked on the tarmac outside the hangar.  Desdin watched his friend walk away, silently bidding him farewell.  The navy pilot jumped into his seat, slipping the helmet onto his head.  His hands began, as if automated, to flick the many switched and buttons necessary to bring the big bird to life.  The rotors began turning.  His friend gave him the thumbs-up.  He lifted the silent black eagle into the skies, and as he always did in John Davidson fashion, engaged the whisper-jet low over the runway and fanned the wings as the helo rocketed home.

Desdin glanced across the hanger as another MH60JW was pulled from the confines, the crew chief riding in the pilot’s seat, engaging the controls to deploy the rotors to their full position.  Swede was in his flight suit and walking in the helo’s direction with another flight suit, presumably for him.  With a quick wave of his hand, he motioned Desdin toward the helo.  Desdin rescued his bags from the floor and headed out the hangar bay door across the tarmac to his awaiting ride.

Entering the loading compartment, Desdin noticed the copilot in his seat.  He didn’t recognize the man, but knew immediately that he could trust him.  If Swede has chosen him for this mission, he was as good as a friend.  With a quick nod, Desdin took his seat on the bench of the back wall of the aircraft and waited. 

After the final check, Swede swung open the door and jumped into the seat, the metal suspension creaking from his sheer mass.  He tossed the flight suit back to Desdin, an unspoken sign for Desdin to don it.  Though the cabin was heated, the winter temperatures would make the ride uncomfortable is his tight fitting body suit.  He quickly slipped into the flight suit and zipped up, feeling the warmth spread across his body as the thermal lining took away the chill. 

Desdin watched in amazement as the big Swede’s skilled hands began the pre-flight check, the instrumentation coming to life as he busily engaged the switches and control necessary for flight.  Desdin heard the low whine as the engines began their strenuous task of engaging the rotors, bringing the massive blades to life.  Within 30 seconds, the rotors were at full speed and they gradually lifted off the tarmac, the speed quickly increasing with their altitude as they headed to the northeast towards their intermediate destination, Ft. Bragg, North Carolina.

 

June 17, 2049 – 0730 Hours - Hunter Airfield, Savannah, GA,

After clearing Hunter Air Field Air Space, Swede engaged the whisperjet and deployed the wings, sending the jet helo rocketing to a speed of 300 knots.  A quick flick of his finger engaged the autopilot and he motioned to his second to take the controls.  Removing his helmet, he exited his seat, stepped back into the cabin, and spoke, “Desdin, I’m not going to ask you too much as you probably won’t tell me.  That’s ok.  All I need to know is what you will need.  I’ll call ahead and make the necessary arrangements.”

“Jeremy” Desdin rarely called him Swede, “I don’t know what I’m walking into, so I don’t know what I’ll need.  I think three other men besides me should be enough.  If it’s not, I guess I’m out of luck.”

“Desdin, if three is what you ask for, three is what you’ll get.  I’m going to ask that I fly this mission personally, if you don’t mind.  And if you do, I’m still going to ask.  You need the best pilot for this and there’s only one better and he went home.”

“Thanks, Jeremy and I know that Darryl would thank you too if he were here.  This is going to be tricky and we need all the help we can get.”

The big Swede smiled, “No problem, Buddy.  Sit back and enjoy the ride.  We’ll be there in an hour and a half at this rate.  I’ll let you know when I’m close.  Without waiting for a reply, Jeremy put his helmet on his head, gave Desdin the thumbs-up, and returned to his seat. 

Desdin noticed that Jeremy had opened Comms with Ft. Bragg Delta Force Operations and was busily arranging according to his request.  Within five minutes, Jeremy turned and looked at Desdin and over the din of the engines shouted back, “It’s a go.  We have three operators standing by.  We’ll touch down long enough to load up and we’ll be on our way.  There’s a little problem.  Apparently, there’s a federal warrant for Colonel Rathborn, but we haven’t been officially told of this yet.  So for now, this is still a rescue mission.  We’ll deal with the results later.  I took the liberty of handpicking the people for this little rescue mission of yours,” Jeremy handed the Palm computer he had been studying for half the flight to Desdin, “Take a look; I’m sure you’ll approve.”

“You work fast; I wanted to have time to….”  Desdin grimaced as he looked at the screen.

“They will be waiting for a touch hop at the helo pad.  I thought it best to save as much time as possible…considering who we’re rescuing.  Darryl doesn’t seem to be able to get himself into small scrapes, only the biggest.” The Swede tried to crack one on to ease the tension.

John’s smile was infectious, and Desdin couldn’t help but chuckle.  But his face grew serious as he began to study the dossiers, focusing with a renewed appreciation on the work his friend had completed so quickly.  That’s typical Spec Ops, Desdin thought.  Better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.

With a thumbs-up to Jeremy, Desdin answered him and smiled.  So far, everything was working out for the best.  He hoped that Rathborn was still ok.

The time passed quickly, Desdin staring out the window, watching the terrain streak by as they made their way across the South Carolina lowlands and quickly into the rolling hills of North Carolina.  Off in the distance, Desdin could see the foothills of the mountains, where his friend was in danger.  A danger he hoped to cure quickly.  

He knew that after they left Ft. Bragg, it would only take a little over an hour before they reached the coordinates of Rathborn’s transponder.  They were not in range of the transponder to discover life signs, only knowing the location.  They wouldn’t know anything more until they were within 10 kilometers, the maximum range of the life sign emitter embedded in every Special Forces operator’s spinal column.

As the bird touched down within the remote Delta Force Compound, the mid-morning sun was beginning to provide a much-needed heat in the bleak of winter.  Swede and Desdin exited the helo and stood by.  The three Delta force operators, Desdin recognizing two of the three immediately, made their way to them across the tarmac, fully geared and ready for combat. 

Each one was dressed in camouflaged clothing, their faces painted with matching schemes, allowing them to blend into the surroundings of the destination.  The weapons they carried were specifically designed for portability and ease of use in quick deployment operations.  All of them carried the necessary equipment for a quick recon and rescue mission, repelling gear attached, satchels loaded with extra ammunition and explosives for close quarters combat.

The men boarded the still running aircraft and it quickly lifted from the ground, screaming across the plush green hills surrounding the base and reached its speed of 200 knots.  Desdin quickly briefed the men on the mission over headsets connected to the aircraft’s internal comm. as Swede listened in.  They didn’t know if they would face any resistance, but they came prepared for the worst.  All they had to do was find Darryl Rathborn.

June 17, 2049 – 0730 Hours Aberdeen Proving Grounds, Maryland

Janus handed the forms to Kovax with a contemptuous arrogance. He was using this to mask his utter fury at the man who could hold something over his head.  “Treasure this, Gregory…you will never get this opportunity again.”  He nodded towards the departing package, “Once I track you down, the only thing that will remain is your prayer for a quick death, and you will pray for death….”  Janus placed careful emphasis on the last statement to make certain that Kovax noted every syllable of his menace.

Kovax knew that to be a statement of fact on Janus’ part, but he didn’t pause for a moment to let that develop into fear, for fear would be his death in playing this deadly game with Janus.  Instead, he gripped his copy of the file folder and headed for the door.  He turned back to look back at Janus, who sat lost in though at his desk, thumb tapping the silver balls of a continual motion pendulum that sat before him. 

You should worry more about what I do with the team now that they are under my complete command.  Look for us to disappear at my soonest convenience Roger, and whether you have the orders signed, sealed, or shoved up your devil a*s, it will not make a wit of difference.

 

The guards stood, stock still in front of Sgt. Davids' cell, M-16’s primed and ready for action as Kovax approached the checkpoint.  They’re taking no chances with Davids now that they know how dangerous a “Long-reach” soldier can be.  Two more soldiers wearing infrared monocles patrolled the outer hallway, H & K ‘S held at waist level, safeties off, hands on tense triggers.  It’s a good thing that most of the soldiers on this base don’t know how many of these we have.  Fourteen virtually undetectable walking weapons, all were as mentally on a hair trigger as this one.

“I’m here to see the prisoner.”  Kovax handed the watch commander his I.D. to run and stepped forward to the triple ident panel, that acted as extra security for the few top-secret prisoners housed in the brig.  A panel opened at hand level, the white outline in the shape of a human hand centered on the scanner.  He placed his hand, palm flat on the scanner, and the computer scanned his full handprint and fed it into the security system.  After but a few moments the computer returned, “Stage one of identity confirmation complete, continue with voiceprint verification.”

“Voiceprint verification, Dr. Gregory Kovax, security clearance Delta Tango, zero, Niner, Charlie, Epsilon, eight, Niner, Zulu.”  He slowly, and clearing pronounced each word into the panel microphone.

 “Voiceprint verification complete, continue with retinal scan.”  The receiver for the ocular scanner opened, the circular opening extended a telescoping servo as he held his eye to the concave opening.  He blinked as it stopped scant millimeters from eye and went to scan his retina.  Within seconds the data matched his pattern against the several thousand registered in the database.  “Stage three of identity confirmation complete.  You may advance into High Security area Charlie Tango Niner.  Have a good morning, Dr. Kovax.”

Sgt Davids sat in one corner of his cell, spine straight as a board, legs crossed in the lotus position.  He seemed oblivious to Kovax’ entrance, but the doctor suspected the young soldier was far more aware then he let on.  The face was expressionless, yet his eyes followed Kovax from the door to the seat on the other end of the cell, unblinking, cold, without nerve or fear.

“Normally you would be locked up and have the key thrown away for the attempted murder of a senior officer.  If I did not need you expressly for this mission I would have you shot.”  Kovax overemphasized the last word, seeking to jar Davids to alertness.

“You know you can’t lie to me old man.”  Davids mouth barely moved, the voice that passed his lips seeming to echo from Kovax’ corner of the cell, as a ventriloquist casting his voice to a dummy.  “I can hear your thoughts, and you mine.  Though my tinge of madness gives you difficulty in understanding,” Davids' lips twitched into something like a wry smile.

“Then you know that you are the key?”  Kovax understood the moment the question passed his lips, that it should have been a statement, because looking at Davids’ hazel eyes he knew the answer.

“Don’t worry so much Doctor; I am saner than I was before the operation.”  Davids seemed slightly irritated by the implication of the doctor’s question.  “But you realize what the nanites have done to me, because it happened to you also.”

“They connect those parts of the mind that are better closed.”  Kovax’ mouth went slack as he grasped the fear that he had sought to deny was a deeply ingrained part of him.

“You’re drooling like a simpleton Doctor.”  Davids jibed sharply.  “I didn’t realize it would be so shocking to you, the great creator of “Long-reach.””

Kovax wiped the stray spittle of his chin and clamped his jaw shut.  His face flushed with embarrassment and anger.  “If you can read me that deeply, you know there are parts that Janus has kept from me, I oversaw the scientific aspects of this, and he took care of the psychological and military applications.”

“But now you are armed with more then Janus could ever guess; what are you going to do with it?”  Davids’ voice was little more then a whisper, but clear and ringing in Kovax’ ears.

“Follow my orders for now…you as my second will know as soon as I do when the time is right to act.”

“And what of this…”  Davids thumbed the slight bump that all the team carried on the side of their neck, the small vial ready to be injected into the carotid as soon as the Lucifer Protocol was activated.

“I control that…Janus will never use that again.”

Those hazel eyes bored straight into Kovax’ soul.  “So you are the god of the team…how will you move your pieces, how much will you sacrifice to win this game?”

The question connected clearly with Kovax’ bloody memories.  “Whatever it takes so that never happens again,” the pain showed clearly in his gray eyes.

“Whatever it takes,” Davids agreed.  His face was as indecipherable as stone.  They both heard the voices of the rest of the team whispering a mute affirmation, “To the bloody end Doctor.”

June 17, 2049 – 0800 Hours - Aberdeen Proving Grounds

“Aberdeen Control, this is Sparrow Hawk VTOL 147, requesting permission for takeoff.”  Captain Maser Bin Hassid, code-name Shu, carefully checked the readings of his VT-131 Dual Pratt and Whitney Jets, as they warmed for takeoff, digital pressure readings spiking then steadying well within the normal boundaries.  His coal-black eyes, set deep in his swarthy face, scanned every reading; missing nothing.  Like all members of his team, he was equipped with an NNI and cybernetic processor, which captured and stored everything that his eyes received.  He sat perched in the raised cockpit on one of the most powerful and versatile personal carriers ever developed by the U.S. Army.  He found it only mildly ironic that his code-name was the same as the Egyptian God of flight.  It made him feel like a vengeful hawk of Allah as the engine cycled and the roar of their vectored thrust filled the cockpit, heard deafeningly through his headset and flight helmet.  Deep within the belly of his titanium plated aircraft, were strapped the personnel, equipment and gear of Lt. Colonel Kovax’ “Long-reach” Team.

“Sparrow Hawk 147, this is control, I do not have a flight plan registered for this takeoff, please identify yourself and provide authorization codes for special clearance.”  The controller’s voice sounded both complacent and disinterested, as if unscheduled flights where a normal routine.

“Control this is Shu, my authorization is Osiris Delta Tango, zero, Niner, zero, Zulu.  Authenticate.”  He smiled.  The stark contrast of his white teeth against his dark face, made him appear absolutely devilish.  This should jolt him out of the early morning duty coma.

“Sparrow Hawk 147, authenticating, please stand by.”  The same droning voice as Shu heard the flurry of tapping keys in the background.  “Sir, You are authenticated.  Codes have checked and you are clear for takeoff.”  The tone had turned sharp and snappy; Shu could hear the salute in the tone.

“Thank you, control.”  Shu reached over his head and switched his comm. to internal speaker, “Cherti, request confirmation of cargo checklist, are we secure down there folks?”

“Yous betcha captain, locked and loaded, strapped and secure.”  Cherti’s voice, heavily laced with the south Bronx, responded after a moment over Shu’s headset. 

“Better be Cherti, never flown one of these except in SIMS, so it might get a little bumpy Ladies.”  He pulled his flight stick back and toggled the thrust.  The Sparrow Hawk lurched ungainly as a wounded bird from its tarmac, climbing slowly on its vertical jets until it reached five hundred feet in altitude.  Shu felt the jet carrier arc higher as the wings began to rotate to their horizontal axis, propelling the Sparrow Hawk upward and forwards.

Within seconds, a supersonic boom filled the air in rural Maryland as Long-reach streaked through the pre-morning darkness, heading: the Blue Ridge Mountains, target: Colonel Darryl Rathborn.