CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
'You really don't care if the boss blows a gasket, do you, sir?'
Lt. Col. Squires and Mike Rodgers were jogging across the field. It was less than a minute since the Jet- ranger had touched down and already it was airborne again, headed back to Quantico. The two officers were leading the line of Striker men toward the C-141B, which was revving up on the airstrip ahead. In addition to his gear, Squires was carrying a Toshiba Satellite portable computer with a specially designed side-mounted laserjet printer, which contained flight plans for 237 different locations, along with detailed maps and possible mission profiles.
'Now what would Hood blow a gasket about?' Rodgers asked. 'I'm a quiet sort of guy? listen a lot. I voice my opinions politely and deferentially.'
'Begging your pardon, sir, but Krebs is your size, and you had him bring an extra set of togs. Our playbooks are all designed for a twelve-man squad. You're taking George's place, aren't you?'
'That's right.'
'And I'll bet a month's pay that Mr. Hood hasn't okayed it.'
'Why trouble him with details? He's got a lot on his mind.'
'Well, sir— right there are two very good reasons why gaskets blow. Pressure, and a piece o'something where it doesn't belong. In this case, you? here.'
Rodgers shrugged a shoulder. 'Sure, he'll be pissed. But Hood won't stay that way. He's got a perfectly capable team back at Op-Center and, hell, we don't agree on much anyway. He won't miss me.'
'Which brings up another point, sir. Permission to speak freely?'
'Shoot.'
'I've got a perfectly capable team here too. Are you going to be running the show, or are you taking Private George's place?'
'I won't be wearing my stars, Charlie. You're in command, and I'll do whatever job needs to be done. You and your little laptop will have twelve hours to bring me up to speed.'
'So this jaunt is just your idea of a good way to start the week. A chance to get out from behind the desk.'
'Something like that,' Rodgers said as they reached the huge, black transport plane. 'You know how it is, Charlie. If you don't use the equipment, it gets rusty.'
Squires laughed. 'You, sir? Rusty? I don't think so. This kind of action is in the Rodgers's genes way back to— was it the Spanish-American War?'
'That's the one,' Rodgers said. 'Great-great-granddad Captain Malachai T. Rodgers.'
The officers stopped on either side of the hatch, and as Squires shouted, 'Go! Go! Go!' the men climbed through without breaking stride.
Rodgers's heart swelled as the men went aboard, beat as proudly as it always did when he saw American soldiers running to do their duty. Young, afraid, and varying shades of green they went anyway, it was a sight that never failed to stir him. He was one of them during his first tour in Viet Nam and, after getting his Ph.D. in history from Temple University while he was stationed at Ft. Dix, he went back and led battalions of them in the Persian Gulf War.
Tennyson once wrote that Lady Godiva was a sight to make an old man young, and women did do that to him. But so did this. Twenty-six years slipped away in less than a minute, and he felt nineteen again as he followed the last enlisted man into the plane, allowing Squires to bring up the rear.
Despite his own somewhat glib assessment, Rodgers knew that the Lieutenant Colonel was right. Hood definitely would not be happy that he was going. For all his smarts and his often astounding skills as a mediator, Hood hated letting anything out of his control. And by going into the field, half a world away, Rodgers would effectively be out of his control. But above all, Hood was a team player: if it was necessary for the Striker team to go in and perform any covert actions, the Director wouldn't let ego stop him from letting the team— and Rodgers— do the job and grab the glory? or play the goat.
As soon as they were aboard, the men took their seats along the sides of the bare cabin while the ground crew finished prepping the massive plane. First introduced in 1982, the Lockheed C-141B Starlifter, with its 159-foot 11-inch top-mounted wings, was heir to the laurels of the earlier C-141A, introduced in 1964. That plane distinguished itself with year after year of daily nonstops to Viet Nam— its performance record one of the many unheralded benefits to come from the war. No other army had a troop transport that reliable, and that gave the U.S. an edge.
At 168 feet 4 inches in length, the C-141B— longer than its predecessor by 23 feet 4 inches— could accommodate 154 troops, 123 paratroops, 80 stretchers, and 16 sitting casualties or cargo. Flight refueling equipment located in the back added 50 percent to its normal range of 4,080 miles— longer if, like now, it was carrying less than its 70,847-pound payload. The jet would make it to Hawaii without any trouble, where it would be met and refueled in flight by a KC-135 tanker. From there, it was an easy run to Japan, and then a rapid half-hour chopper ride to North Korea.
While the crew finished up their preflight checklist, the Striker men went through their own inventory. In addition to his own gear— camouflage uniform, otherwise unmarked, a nine-inch knife, and one Beretta 92-F 9-mm automatic pistol, also unmarked— each man was responsible for bringing items the team would require, from the cardboard-box meals of ham sandwiches and candy bars to the field phones to the all-important TAC SAT radio with a parabolic antenna that unfolds for a satellite uplink.
Leaving the men, Squires and Rodgers headed for the cockpit followed by Sgt. Chick Grey. The Striker team had no special needs for the flight, but it was up to the Sergeant to find out if the flight crew required anything of the men, from weight distribution— not a problem on this mission, where they'd be rattling around the cabin— to the use of electronic equipment.
'You want to brief him?' Squires asked Rodgers— with a bit of an edge, the General thought. Or maybe he was just yelling to be heard over the four loud 21,000-pound st Pratt & Whitney TF33-P7 turbofan engines.
'Charlie, I told you— you're the head chef. I'm just here for dinner.'
Squires smirked as they made their way down the ribbed cabin to the open door of the flight deck and introduced themselves to the pilot, copilot, first officer, navigator, and communications officer.
'Captain Harryhausen?' Sgt. Grey repeated the name as the Lieutenant Colonel booted the computer, the navigator looking over his shoulder. 'Sir, are you by any chance the same Captain Harryhausen who flew a United DC10 to Alaska last week?'
'I'm that very same Captain Harryhausen, U.S. Air Force Reserves.'
A grin tore across the Sergeant's beefy face. 'Now if that ain't one for Robert Ripley. My family and me were on that plane, sir! Jeez— what were the chances?'
'Actually very good, Sergeant,' said the Captain. 'I've had the Seattle-to-Nome route for seven months now. I put in for this assignment so I could finally fly into someplace with warm sunshine and no ice, unless it was in iced tea.'
As the Captain proceeded to tell Sgt. Grey what he already knew— that his men should refrain from using Disc-mans and Game Boys until he gave the word— Squires pulled a cable from the laptop, plugged it into the navigator's console, pushed a button on his keyboard, and dumped the data into the C-141B's navigation computer. The process took six seconds; even before he'd closed the Toshiba, the onboard computer had begun matching the flight path with weather reports that would come in every fifteen minutes from U.S. bases along the route.
Squires faced the Captain and patted the computer. 'Sir, I'd appreciate your letting me know the minute we can fire this up again.'
The Captain nodded and returned the Lieutenant Colonel's salute.
Five minutes later they were taxiing down the runway, and two minutes after that they were banking away from the rising sun, heading southwest.
As he sat beneath the swinging light bulbs inside the wide, nearly empty cabin, Rodgers found himself reluctantly contemplating the downside of what he was doing. Op-Center was just half a year old, its modest
