Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“Our question now becomes whether Buchanan is acting on his own.” Turner moved to a wall map. “The President was on the campaign trail tonight out in San Diego, one of those thousand-bucks-a-plate things. He was glad-handing the faithful when he got word of the attack in Washington and authorized raising the alert level. He skipped the speech and got back aboard Air Force One. They’re already in the air.” He tapped the map. “We’re up here outside of Anchorage, and before the sergeants intervened, I was en route to Beijing for a meeting that has been six months in the planning. Naturally, I’ve cancelled the China trip. Instead, I’m going to rendezvous with Air Force One when it lands at Andrews. You’re coming with me, Ralph.”

“I just left there,” Sims said with a groan.

“Quit whining, Colonel. I hate air force weenies to see a Special Ops CO whimper like a little girl. Anyway, you can sleep on the way back, and I’ve got some good news for you. Seems that your Gunny Swanson lived through the crash after all, and that General Middleton has gone missing from his captives in Syria. Swanson apparently busted him free and has been raising holy hell in the town where he was held. They’re on the run, with the Syrians hot on their tails. Things are getting interestinger and interestinger.”

Brady turned to his computer terminal and called up a program to show the weather. “This rain squall is just passing through, and the sergeants have assured me that all of our aircraft are suddenly ready to fly again. They’re warming up my Gulfstream II/SP even as we speak. I say let’s go meet the Boss.” The 11th Air Force commander went to a closet, took out a flight suit, stripped to his underwear, and pulled it on.

“We’ll go back with Pete aboard his Gulfstream,” said Turner. “I could use my own big-ass plane that was going to haul me over the Pole to China, but Pete’s toy is a lot more comfortable,” Turner said. He looked at a big clock on the wall. “Matter of fact, the big bird will be taking off in a few minutes. Bet we beat them to Washington.”

“Am I under arrest?” asked Sims.

“Oh, hell, no,” snapped Turner. “We don’t take orders from that overblown asshole. Buchanan’s up to no good, it has something to do with our Marines getting killed, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

Sims read the news report about the terrorist attack in Washington while the two generals finished getting ready. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed.

“What ‘Oh, shit’?” asked Turner.

“This story, sir! The four people killed by the terrorists in Washington: the ambassador, his driver, another embassy official, and a U.S. Navy officer, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.” Sims’s face had gone red with anger.

“Come on, Colonel. Talk to me.”

“General Turner, it’s an open secret that Lieutenant Commander Towne and our sniper, Gunny Swanson, have been together for a long time. One of those don’t ask, don’t tell things, so nobody officially knew about it. They’re almost engaged, from what I hear. That direct link between her and Swanson is only point one. Point two is that she ran the Middle East desk on Buchanan’s staff in the White House.”

The generals looked at each other. “Goddam, Hank. Those bastards weren’t after the ambassador at all!” said Brady. “They were after the girl!”

Turner, Brady, and Sims walked outside toward the flight line, where the beautiful Gulfstream was warming up in a circle of bright light. Plumes of jet exhaust streamed away in the cold air, and the light rain glistened on its polished skin. Brady asked Sims, “Do you think this Gunny Swanson can get Middleton out of there alive?”

Sims nodded his head in the affirmative. “Sir, I’m beginning to believe that Gunny Swanson can walk on water. Don’t bet against him.”

A great bellow of noise rolled across from the main runway as a Boeing 707 painted in the distinctive sky-blue-and-white pattern of a VIP of the U.S. government raced past them and gathered speed for takeoff. “There goes my plane. Sort of a shame it’s flying empty,” said Turner.

Brady added, “The crew is happier to be going home than to China.”

They watched it lift smoothly into the air. A spark of bright light flashed on the ground in the distance, and a bright dot streaked higher and higher, gaining momentum and altitude at a dizzying rate. The Stinger shoulder-fired missile rammed into one of the hot engines on the Boeing and detonated, and in a fraction of a second the dark sky seemed filled by a ball of fire that consumed the plane even before it hit the ground.

Ralph Sims grabbed both generals and threw them to the paved runway, sprawling across them. “Jesus Christ, General Turner, you were supposed to be on that plane!”

“Go to Alert One! Scramble the fighters!” Brady yelled to a nearby security guard, who grabbed his radio and relayed the order to the Elmendorf command center. Sirens wailed as ambulances and fire trucks burst from their garages and raced down the runway.

A whine buzzed in the sky, and an explosion shook the ground when a mortar round arced in from the darkness beyond the wire. A second round was on the way before the first one struck and landed closer to a big hangar; then a third mortar round landed right on the building that was filled with volatile fluids and ammunition. It erupted like a volcano. Three fighter-bombers undergoing maintenance inside, out of the weather, were blown apart, and the maintenance crews were incinerated. When Sims saw that the mortars were not coming their way, he got the generals to their feet and they all ran for cover.

Air Force security police surged toward the wire as three more mortar rounds rained down, two of them chewing holes into the main runway. The last one grazed the big control tower and exploded on a parked truck, which set fire to everything around it.

The Shark Team was gone by the time police found the empty launching tubes. Both men had been members of the Security Police and nearing retirement when they were corrupted by the big bucks offered by Gordon Gates to join the Sharks. Weapons had been stashed in an off-base apartment for months just in case they were needed. They also had new identities, new passports, and thick bank accounts and were flying first class to Seattle before it was even discovered that they were missing.

When ground troops had cleared the flight path beyond the fenceline, the Gulfstream piloted by General Brady zipped from the runway, with Turner and Sims strapped into the leather seats. Rolling next were a pair of F-16 escorts, armed to the teeth, which took station off the wingtips.

In the calm skies above the Arizona desert, the President of the United States was briefed about the deadly strike at Elmendorf. Four more F-16s sped out to sandwich over and around Air Force One. The President had no doubt that the terror alert was right at the level it should be. His country was once again under attack.

GORDON GATES BROUGHTup a secure e-mail from the Sharks who had hit Elmendorf, read it, and then electronically shredded the message through the Magneto program. It vanished as if it had never been sent. They had done an extraordinary amount of damage and gotten away clean. Gates had long ago discovered the truth of the old question, “Who guards the guards?” and had spent a lot of time and money penetrating the security forces of many military bases. Surprisingly, it was not difficult at all to find otherwise good soldiers ready to sell their services to a high bidder.

Buchanan’s security net had tracked Colonel Sims to Elmendorf, where he was likely to link up with General Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who had been delayed there on a trip to China. Sims would have given Turner the message. So bringing down the Boeing with a Stinger missile meant that Turner and Sims were dead, and the assassination letter would have burned in the crash. Perfect. The mortar rounds were thrown in as icing on the cake to embellish the terrorist possibilities.