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Authors: Wings of Fire (v1.1)
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dump,
known by its map coordinate Bravo Two. The area was unguarded and unsecured,
and military and civilian personnel passed by it constantly without being
stopped or challenged by anyone—there was no reason to suspect it was anything
else but a garbage dump. Patrick had dismissed it in their search. “Nike, what
are you doing at Bravo Two?”
“I
want to check this place out,” Wohl replied. “I’m secure.”
“Nike,
let’s stick with the recon plan, shall we?”
“I’ll
be back on schedule in no time.”
“Stalkers,
looks like there’s some activity on this side of the base—your guy might have
missed a bed check or something,” ex-Air Force security officer and commando
Hal Briggs reported. The commandos on this mission were spread out around the
sprawling, isolated desert base in strategic support locations, and moving from
one spot to another without attracting any attention took time. “They’re doing
a search around the perimeter. Might as well let Nike poke around a bit
more—he’s safe there for now.”
“If
the alarm’s been sounded, we need to bug out of here,” Patrick said. “Your best
exit point now is Alpha One, Nike. Get moving.” To Briggs, he added, “Taurus,
can you cover him?”
“Dammit,
Castor, we traveled too far to turn around the moment someone has a bad dream,”
Wohl radioed. “I’m secure, and I think I found something interesting, so I’m
staying put for sixty lousy seconds longer. The FlightHawks will have to RTB in
less than fifteen minutes anyway—they might not complete a full reconnoiter,
and there won’t be time to recover, refuel, and relaunch them before daybreak.
I’m staying . If you don’t like it,
come in here and try to drag me back. Nike out."
McLanahan
cursed again—it seemed as if he was doing that a lot lately—and wished for one
of his long-range bombers loaded with smart bombs to be flying overhead right
about now. Twice retired from the United States Air Force—the last time
involuntarily—Patrick had been a one-star general, the deputy commander of one
of the world’s most secret weapons development and testing facilities, the High
Technology Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake,
Nevada. The weapons from that facility had many times been used in real-world
conflicts, from Russia to China to America and everywhere in between, and Patrick had been a part of the action
originating there for over a decade. Patrick had seen and experienced the
best—and worst—of both human suffering and technological amazement.
But
they would probably not see action within a decade, if ever, because few
politicians and bureaucrats—including, in Patrick’s estimation, the current
administration of U.S. President Thomas Nathaniel Thom—had the guts to use
them. Just one of HAWC’s Megafortress bombers could destroy several dozen
armored vehicles and keep an entire battalion of troops at bay, without being
detected on radar and without exposing itself to undue risk; if they were given
the order, one Megafortress could destroy the entire base without so much as
rustling an innocent civilian’s tent flap, if there were any here. They had already
proven the value of a small commando team paired up with one stealth bomber in
the skies over Russia , right near Moscow itself.
But
since then, Thom had all but shut down HAWC and had sent most of America’s
fleet of bombers to the Bone- yard, along with about a third of the active-duty
military and other deep cuts in tactical weapons and units. McLanahan and the
other commandos here at Samah were not here under government sanction. It was
dirty, difficult, and dangerous work.
No
wonder Patrick found little to smile about these days.
known by its map coordinate Bravo Two. The area was unguarded and unsecured,
and military and civilian personnel passed by it constantly without being
stopped or challenged by anyone—there was no reason to suspect it was anything
else but a garbage dump. Patrick had dismissed it in their search. “Nike, what
are you doing at Bravo Two?”
“I
want to check this place out,” Wohl replied. “I’m secure.”
“Nike,
let’s stick with the recon plan, shall we?”
“I’ll
be back on schedule in no time.”
“Stalkers,
looks like there’s some activity on this side of the base—your guy might have
missed a bed check or something,” ex-Air Force security officer and commando
Hal Briggs reported. The commandos on this mission were spread out around the
sprawling, isolated desert base in strategic support locations, and moving from
one spot to another without attracting any attention took time. “They’re doing
a search around the perimeter. Might as well let Nike poke around a bit
more—he’s safe there for now.”
“If
the alarm’s been sounded, we need to bug out of here,” Patrick said. “Your best
exit point now is Alpha One, Nike. Get moving.” To Briggs, he added, “Taurus,
can you cover him?”
“Dammit,
Castor, we traveled too far to turn around the moment someone has a bad dream,”
Wohl radioed. “I’m secure, and I think I found something interesting, so I’m
staying put for sixty lousy seconds longer. The FlightHawks will have to RTB in
less than fifteen minutes anyway—they might not complete a full reconnoiter,
and there won’t be time to recover, refuel, and relaunch them before daybreak.
I’m staying . If you don’t like it,
come in here and try to drag me back. Nike out."
McLanahan
cursed again—it seemed as if he was doing that a lot lately—and wished for one
of his long-range bombers loaded with smart bombs to be flying overhead right
about now. Twice retired from the United States Air Force—the last time
involuntarily—Patrick had been a one-star general, the deputy commander of one
of the world’s most secret weapons development and testing facilities, the High
Technology Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake,
Nevada. The weapons from that facility had many times been used in real-world
conflicts, from Russia to China to America and everywhere in between, and Patrick had been a part of the action
originating there for over a decade. Patrick had seen and experienced the
best—and worst—of both human suffering and technological amazement.
But
they would probably not see action within a decade, if ever, because few
politicians and bureaucrats—including, in Patrick’s estimation, the current
administration of U.S. President Thomas Nathaniel Thom—had the guts to use
them. Just one of HAWC’s Megafortress bombers could destroy several dozen
armored vehicles and keep an entire battalion of troops at bay, without being
detected on radar and without exposing itself to undue risk; if they were given
the order, one Megafortress could destroy the entire base without so much as
rustling an innocent civilian’s tent flap, if there were any here. They had already
proven the value of a small commando team paired up with one stealth bomber in
the skies over Russia , right near Moscow itself.
But
since then, Thom had all but shut down HAWC and had sent most of America’s
fleet of bombers to the Bone- yard, along with about a third of the active-duty
military and other deep cuts in tactical weapons and units. McLanahan and the
other commandos here at Samah were not here under government sanction. It was
dirty, difficult, and dangerous work.
No
wonder Patrick found little to smile about these days.
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