“I’ll bet pilots get better food than this,” Lance whined.
The official Air Force explanation for the bland, unappetizing food was that it was the polite and considerate menu choice. In other words, it reduced the possibility of farting while sitting next to each other for twenty-four hours in a sealed room.
Cyndi hung her parka on a coat hook, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and said, “Let’s go to work.”
They approached the blast door. On the outside of it was a painting.
Attempting to bring some levity to the deadly serious job, years ago a crew had engaged in a little gallows humor by painting a mural on the door. Under the rendering of a modified Domino’s Pizza box were the words World-Wide Delivery in 30 Minutes or Less, or Your Next One is Free.
Cyndi picked up a phone on the wall and said, “It’s Captain Stafford at the door.”
The four-foot-thick blast door could only be opened from the inside.
Three hydraulic rams the diameter of paint cans slowly forced the massive, sixteen-thousand-pound door open. It took two full minutes.
Cyndi and Lance stepped into a small concrete lined capsule the size of a brown UPS delivery truck.
Chapter Nineteen
The cramped space was packed with equipment. Computer cabinets lined one wall, and a REACT console was on the other. The updated Rapid Execution and Combat Targeting system console controlled all communication and launch systems. Tubes and transistors had been replaced with microchips and lines of software code. It was the newest piece of equipment in the LCC—installed in 1994.
Curtains hid a single bunk on one end of the space. At the other end was a combination metal sink and toilet commonly found in jails and prisons. With no shower, baby wipes were the only way to freshen up if their alert period was extended. Various human-generated odors had permeated every surface after decades of continuous use. As if the olfactory receptors in a person’s nose hadn’t been assaulted enough, circuit boards in the electrical equipment gave off a pronounced ozone smell.
If prisoners in America had been subjected to these conditions, ACLU lawyers would be stampeding to the courthouse to file lawsuits.
Visibly upset, Dr. Zhao scampered up to Cyndi. “How you people spend twenty-four hours locked in this dungeon?” Considering the short amount of time he’d been in the US, his English had come a long way. “I only been down here for a few hours, and I have two panic attacks.”
“That’s right, he did,” the guard who’d accompanied the doctor volunteered.
“It’s not for everyone,” Cyndi answered. “If you’re claustrophobic, you are in the wrong business.”
“Is everything ready, doctor?” Lance asked as he entered the LCC.
“I do everything I came to do,” Zhao sternly replied. He stood at attention in front of Cyndi and saluted. “God bless America. China, go to hell.”
Cyndi wasn’t sure how to respond to the odd statement. So she returned the salute.
Zhao gathered his things and rushed down the hallway toward the elevator that would take him back up to fresh air and the wide-open Wyoming prairie. The guard grabbed his rifle and sprinted after Zhao to keep from losing sight of him.
“Casa, sweet casa—again,” Lance joked as he sat down in the right seat at the control console.
“I expect you to take this alert tour seriously, Lieutenant. I want everything done by the book.” Cyndi took the left seat.
Lance turned his head away and mumbled, “Well, you wrote it, so…”
“Close the blast door.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lance lifted a red cover on the console and flipped the switch.
Silver hydraulic rams tugged on the massive door. It closed with a resounding thud. Rubber seals inflated around the perimeter of the door, blocking any outside air from entering. Pumps under the floor kicked in, creating positive pressure inside the LCC. The crew was now protected from a chemical weapons attack.
Cyndi and Lance took off their holsters and stowed them in a large storage cabinet under the console.
A monitor on the wall showed Dr. Zhao and the guard making their way across the grounds toward the gate.
The guard opened the box attached to the fence, pulled out the handset, and announced, “Security in place. Open the gate.”
Lance looked over at his missile combat crew commander.
“Cleared to open,” Cyndi responded.
Lance pushed down the button that controlled the gate. As soon as the doctor and guard were clear of it, he lifted his finger. The gate latched securely closed.
Eager to finish his day and see his four kids, the pilot had already started the engines on the helicopter when he saw his passengers come out of the building.
As the men walked toward the helicopter, they became lost and disoriented. The spinning rotors had kicked up loose snow, causing it to swirl around them.
They felt like they were trapped in an enormous snow globe.
The men made their way toward the helicopter by focusing on the sound of the engines. Out of an instinct for self-preservation, they ducked their heads before walking under the spinning rotors. They climbed aboard, followed by the security detail. Once everyone was buckled in, the helicopter lifted off and took up a course directly back to Warren.
Fifteen minutes into the flight they flew by the open pit mine. After the Grey Wolf helicopter had passed, a pair of black AH-6M Little Bird attack helicopters rose from deep within the pit.
Two FIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles hung off the left pylon of the lead ship. Two Hellfire missiles hung from the wingman’s ship. Each aircraft sported a GAU-19 Gatling gun on their other pylon.
With no reason to have engaged their defensive systems, the transport helicopter pilots flew toward home, blissfully unaware of the attack helicopters stalking them.
A Stinger missile fell away from the pylon of the lead aircraft. Its solid rocket motor ignited a millisecond later. A white smoke trail blazed toward the unsuspecting Grey Wolf like Satan’s crooked finger.
It homed in on the heat spewing from the exhaust. The warhead detonated the instant it touched the fuselage.
The five men on board
