Strike Force Charlie (31 page)

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Authors: Mack Maloney

BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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So then they had a gunship of sorts. But what were they going to do with it? Luckily, Bates had saved the scribbled notes he'd taken down that night on the mountain. They gave the time and location of the first bus, just as ghost team east had found it on Ramosa's laptop. Once Ryder and Bates were able to discern exactly where they were—by tuning in an ordinary AM radio broadcast on the plane's communication suite they discovered they were in the Spanish Peak section of the lower Rockies—they were able to figure out roughly where they had to go.
The CL-215 had a big fuel capacity, and when they found
the airplane its tanks were full. Getting down to the Texas panhandle area, a few hundred miles away, was not a problem. Nor was finding Route 27. It was just about the only major highway that cut through the upper part of the wide-open West Texas landscape.
It was finding the right Greyhound that proved a bit hairy.
They all knew by now that in any kind of combat the numbers usually worked against you. It was not the ghosts' intention to tear up a section of Texas roadway or harm innocent civilians. On the flight down they discussed just how they would be able to pick out the right Greyhound bus. All they really knew about the terrorists' vehicles came from the Mann report, which said they were just like any other Greyhound, at least on the outside, except that their windows were tinted a little darker than a normal bus, this to mask whatever evil things were going on inside.
But telling the tint of a bus's windows while traveling at 150 knots 2000 feet above a stretch of highway was not an easy thing to do. When the ghosts arrived over the area, just as the sun was coming up, they flew in circles above the cotton fields until spotting a Greyhound going south, the direction in which the Ramosa information said the target bus would be traveling.
They zeroed in on this bus and were ready to open fire on it when Fox and Puglisi, at the gun stations, noticed that not only did the windows not seem so overly blackened but also they could see inside the length of the bus, meaning there was no hidden rear compartment. Ryder pulled the CL-215 away at the last possible instant, averting disaster. Just a few moments after that, they spotted a second Greyhound, this one heading north. Wrong direction, true, but they
had
to check it out. So they got right down on the deck again and flew parallel to it for several frightening seconds before it was determined that this, too, was a normal Greyhound, again because they could see all the way into it, front to back, not to mention the terrified faces of those unsuspecting people onboard, staring out at them.
That's when they spotted the
third
Greyhound—and they
sensed this was the real deal almost immediately. First, it was traveling at a very high rate of speed going south on Route 27. In fact, it nearly forced the first bus they'd buzzed right off the road. Second, when they got down close enough they knew it was the target as indeed the windows did look darker, so much so it was impossible to see into the bus. Plus, why would one Greyhound be traveling right behind another?
The key, though, was when cars and trucks traveling on both sides of Route 27 started pulling over due to the confusion being created by their flying antics—all but this strange third bus. That was enough for the ghosts. They opened fire on the vehicle and kept pouring it on even as the Greyhound tried to flee. When it was over, the four dead soccer players lying on the ground were confirmation they'd hit the right target.
Their nasty work done, a quick retreat was in order. They headed for New Mexico, to a border area known as Las Conchos, which was practically uninhabited yet had many lakes and watering holes where they could land unseen. They set down on a tributary of the Pecos River and stayed here the rest of the day and now into the night, all the time thinking,
Now what?
Somewhere along the way, Ryder fell into a deep sleep, again a rarity for him. It was the combination of the strange dream and the storm of static that finally woke him up.
Now his teammates were hauling him to his feet.
“You've got to hear this, sir” Bates was telling him. “It's freaking important … .”
Fox was sitting on the riverbank nearest the tied-up plane. He'd written notes up and down both his arms. They looked like really bad tattoos. Ryder plopped to the ground beside him.
“What's going on?” he asked the DSA officer with another yawn.
“I'm not sure,” Fox replied. “That's the problem …”
He explained that just a few minutes before, while he was
up in the plane's cockpit watching over things as the other three slept, the plane's UHF radio suddenly came to life.
“I heard this guy's voice,” Fox explained. “It was strange because it sounded so calm. So together. He kept saying the same thing over and over, almost like it was a recording or something. I tried answering him, but it was as if he couldn't hear me. Or didn't want to.”
Ryder was still half asleep, still getting his bearings.
“UHF radios can pick up signals from just about anywhere,” he told Fox.
But Fox just shook his head. “This wasn't coming from ‘just anywhere,”' he said. “And this wasn't just anyone. He knew
a lot
about us.”
As proof, Fox displayed the notes on his left arm, using a flashlight to help Ryder see. They contained bits and pieces of information on exactly what the team had been doing in the past week: their missions in Campo, Chicago, and Nebraska. Times and places, all recounted in detail so the person doing the talking would be believed.
Ryder ran his hands over his head, wishing he were still asleep. Was this a hoax? A trick? Who would be using their names on this radio? Who would even know they were here?
He asked Fox, “Did you recognize the voice?”
Fox just shook his head. “No—but I have a good guess who it might have been.”
Ryder looked up at Bates and Puglisi. “You guys hear any of it?”
Both said no. Like him, they'd been asleep.
A silence came over them.
Finally Ryder said to Bates and Puglisi, “Do you think it was really
him
?” He careful not to speak the actual name, a superstitious thing more than anything else.
Puglisi said: “Who else could it be? He's got a very long reach.”
Fox could only shrug. “I've never heard ‘him' before,” he said. “So I wouldn't know. But this guy knew everything about us, although judging from his accent, I would have
guessed he was just some rancher, calling from nearby.”
Ryder looked out at the CL-215. Its radio was still turned on, still turned up in volume, in case the mysterious caller came on again.
“But would he actually know to contact us here?” Ryder wondered. “On this thing?”
Puglisi and Bates just shrugged again. So did Fox.
“No idea,” the DSA officer said. “But in any case, this is what he told me …”
Fox displayed his left hand now. Ryder looked at the scribbled notes and exclaimed: “Wow,
that's
what the second bus is up to?”
Fox nodded soberly. “That's what he said. And get this: He also said that Hunn was the one who cracked the case.”
“Hunn?” Ryder exclaimed. “Really? That's a bit
freaky.
”
“I hear you,” Fox replied. “But he was dead certain about it, just like he was dead certain about what we should do next”
Fox displayed the notes on the back of his right hand now. They all read them by flashlight. They included things such as flight paths, times, stops along the way.
“Damn,” Ryder swore softly. “When is all this supposed to happen?”
“That's just it,” Fox replied. “He said
today.
The Fourth of July …”
Ryder was shocked. He looked to the east. The sun was just beginning to come up. “But that means we've got to get going, like right now!”
“Precisely,” Fox said.
About 10 seconds of complete silence went by, each man with his own thoughts. Then, suddenly, they were all running. Ryder along the wing and into the CL-215's cockpit, Bates on his heels. At the same time, Fox and Puglisi scrambled back to shore to gather up their stuff.
Once inside the flight compartment, Ryder immediately started the amphib's twin engines. Bates meanwhile slipped into the seat next to him. Ryder had pressed him into service as his co-pilot lately.
“Do you think that was
really
‘you-know-who' talking to Major Fox?” the egghead asked Ryder now.
Ryder just shrugged as he revved the engines to full power.
“I guess we'll know soon enough,” he replied.
The Honorable J.C. Hood was running late this morning. He was usually out of his home and on his way to the Las Vegas central courthouse by 7:00 A.M. This was the time his limo driver usually picked him up for the 20-minute trip downtown. Almost 70 years old and a widower, Hood was a so-called day judge. His court handled anything that needed adjudicating during a normal day in Las Vegas—if any day could be called normal in Vegas. Petty thefts, to drunk and disorderly, to murder, the alleged offenders all came before Judge Hood first, who usually set bail, released them with a fine, or had them locked up.
But he was running late today because his driver, Eddie, had called in sick. This was very unusual. In the 10 years he'd been driving Hood, Eddie had never called in sick. True, it was the Fourth of July, but day court in Vegas was open 365 days a year. Still, Eddie would usually tell Hood when he was taking a day off. He hadn't mentioned anything of the sort when he drove Hood home last night.
So now Hood was waiting for a substitute driver to be found and then a car would be sent for him. Justice would have to wait a little while today in Vegas.
It was a pleasant morning; the sky was clear, the weather expected to be typically hot and dry. July Fourth was usually
a big time in Vegas, with fireworks and a parade and more than the usual influx of visitors. But there was also the huge air show going on at Nellis Air Force Base, the sprawling military facility just outside town, and this almost guaranteed Hood would have a busier than normal day.
More than 300,000 people were expected to show up at Nellis today, though Hood had heard possibly upward of 400,000 might be on hand, as this was apparently going to be more than a typical air show. Crowds at these sorts of things were usually very well behaved. Still, Hood knew whenever there was a huge number of people put in a confined area, incidents such as drunkenness, assaults, and so on, almost always popped up. And even though the air show was being held on military property, any lawbreakers would be turned over to the local cops and eventually would show up in front of Hood.
Finally a car pulled into Hood's driveway. The judge folded his morning copy of the
Las Vegas Sun
and walked toward the vehicle. It was a Lincoln Continental, the same type of car that Eddie usually picked him up in, but oddly, this one looked more like a rental car than one of the luxury models from the city pool.
And not only did the driver's side door open, but the passenger side door opened, too. A pair of men climbed out.
There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about them except both pulled their suit jackets back to reveal they were carrying handguns in their waistbands.
Hood nearly wet himself on the spot. But the man closest to him said, “Don't worry. We are friends of a friend of yours. He just wants us to entertain you for a few days.”
The man sounded so reasonable, Hood was suddenly not so afraid. Before joining the Las Vegas justice system, he'd worked undercover for the CIA for many years. He'd gone through things like this before.
But he was puzzled.
“My ‘friend' wants you to ‘entertain' me?” he asked. “How? Where?”
The two men smiled. “Out in Dry Springs,” one said.
Hood thought a moment. Prostitution was legal in most of Nevada, but not inside Las Vegas itself. Dry Springs was a very small town about forty miles outside of Vegas. It's only claim to fame was that it contained the legal brothel closest to the gambling capital's city limits.
“So, in other words, ‘my friend' has asked you to kidnap me?” Hood asked them.
The man who did most of the talking thought a moment and said, “Let's just consider it a short vacation.”
“And who is this ‘friend' of mine?” Hood finally asked. Throughout his years with the CIA, he'd made many “friends.”
One of the men came close and whispered in the judge's ear.
Hood's eyes went wide at first, but then he just smiled and shrugged.
“For that ‘friend,'” he said, “I'll do anything … .”
It was not even nine-thirty in the morning and already Captain Mark Audette was going crazy. He was an Air Force PAO, as in Public Affairs Officer. His job 364 days a year was to act as a liaison between the local Las Vegas community and sprawling Nellis Air Force Base, which was located just down the street from the famous Las Vegas Strip. He worked with families of personnel assigned here to acclimate them to the new environment. He dealt with neighborhood groups and business leaders close to the base on better ways to handle mutual concerns. He organized softball tournaments, picnics, awards ceremonies. If one of the base's planes went down or there was an accident of some kind, Audette would release the details and handle the media. As far as a military job went, it was easy duty.
It was that 365th day of the year when he really earned his stripes. The annual Fourth of July air show at Nellis usually took months to plan, and for good reason: more than a
quarter-million people had attended in each of the last three years. This year, that figure might swell to 400,000 or more because a very special event was being planned: the Salute to Veterans Flyby. In the annals of air show history, it would be one of the largest events ever. “The Super Bowl of Air Shows” was how it was being billed. For this reason, today would be one the busiest days of Audette's military career.
Every year, the stars of the Nellis air show were the USAF Aerial Demonstration Team, much better known as the Thunderbirds. World-famous and admired, the T-Birds' red, white, and blue F-16 Falcons never failed to dazzle with their seemingly impossible aerobatic maneuverings. They would be appearing today, of course. But there was another treat in store for the multitude who would be on hand, something to get everyone's mind off the craziness of the last few weeks. A C-5 Galaxy cargo plane, just about the largest operational aircraft in the world, was heading for Nellis at this very moment. Onboard were no fewer than 500 veterans of both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Army personnel, Marines, Air Force, and Navy, many of these people were amputees or men who had suffered other serious wounds in those faraway conflicts. Many were also medal winners, heroes in the sand and mountains. This Independence Day, Nellis would belong to them.
In their honor, a huge flyby was being planned. It was to be made up of the aerial escort for the C-5 bringing these men to the show. The Thunderbirds would be the coleaders of this escort. Other combat aircraft from units all over the country—F-117 Stealths, F-15 Eagles, Marine Harriers, and Navy S-2 Vikings—would also take part. There was even going to be an F-22 Raptor, the mind-boggling sophisticated fighter of the future, on hand, as well as a demonstration model of the even newer F-35 JSF experimental attack plane. Three venerable B-52 Stratofortresses would also be part of the entourage, as well as a trio of B-1 Lancer bombers and three B-2 Stealth bombers.
This was a spectacular gathering of modern aircraft, but there was even more—and this was where the surprise came
in: also joining the aerial escort, as a kind of mystery guest, would be the U.S. Navy's aerial demonstration team, the famous Blue Angels. It would be the first time such an air armada, including
both
of the country's air teams, would be flying together.
Coordinating all this aerial activity was a massive job that, thankfully, was being handled by someone else. Audette's role was more earthbound. He was in charge of making sure everything ran smoothly within the gates of Nellis. Getting the civilian spectators onto the base, getting them into the proper viewing areas, and, once the huge event was over, getting them back out the door again.
This wasn't just a case of opening the barriers and letting the throngs in. It had to be done on an orderly basis, the military way, with at least one eye on security. That's why Audette was already going crazy. He'd just come on duty officially—after working until four in the morning—and right away there was a problem at one of the base's four main gates.
It had to do with the large number of motor homes, RVs, and buses the Air Force was allowing onto the base for the day. Most of the spectators for the show would have to walk in from huge designated parking lots surrounding the front of the base, passing by a cursory security check at each gate. But the vehicles lined up at Civilian Access Gate 3—there were nearly 200 of them in all—belonged to handicapped drivers and special needs organizations, such as Indian orphanages and schools for troubled kids, as well as busloads of youth groups. To avoid any kind of discrimination rap or charges of nonaccessible facilities, the Air Force had decided to let these vehicles drive right onto the base.
But now there was a traffic jam of these vehicles at CAG 3. Why? Because the gate itself was not functioning. It was stuck in the down position, and the sentries manning the entrance didn't know what to do.
These were just the kinds of problems Audette did not want but knew he would get today. The good news was, he had a blank check from the base commander to do whatever
had to be done to have the show go off flawlessly. And that's exactly what Audette intended to do.
He was now roaring along the flight line in an administration car, local base speed limits be damned, heading for CAG 3. Already thousands of people were streaming in through the walk-up gates; there were two dozen of these. At least 100,000 people were already on-site and hundreds more pouring in every second. Audette checked his watch—it was 0935. The huge assembly of aircraft for the veterans' flyby had been coordinated right down to the last minute. But the majority of the spectators had to be on the base before the show could begin. That was one of the cardinal rules of the show's organizers. Audette couldn't let a bunch of RVs and buses at the side gate screw up the timetable.
He arrived at CAG 3 a minute later, stopping with a screech. The three young airmen who were serving as gatekeepers were in a tizzy. They were attempting to lift the stuck gate manually, this after trying to disconnect the wiring system that made it go up and down. Nothing was working. Behind the jammed barrier, as promised, Audette saw the long line of RVs, motor homes, and buses; they were backed up for almost a half-mile. These vehicles should have been on-site more than an hour ago.
Audette jumped from the car and immediately took action.
“We're going to break it down,” he told the three sentries.
They stared back at him, confused. “Break what down exactly, sir?” one asked.
“The gate,” Audette replied forcefully. “We're going to break it in two and let these vehicles in.”
The sentries looked at each other in puzzlement. Destroying Air Force property of any kind was just not in their vocabulary. The military made you pay for things you broke. But orders were orders. So, at Audette's urging, all four of them took hold of the wooden yellow-striped gate and began pulling on it. It took longer than it would have seemed, but finally the wooden barrier cracked, then broke, nearly sending all four of them on their asses. Audette regained his footing and then looked up at the driver of the first vehicle waiting
in line, a huge Winnebago Deluxe. The guy behind the wheel looked about eighty years old. He was displaying both handicapped license plates and
HANDICAPPED-DRIVER
placard on his windshield.
“Welcome to Nellis!” Audette yelled to him. “You may now proceed … .”
The old guy got the message. He hit his accelerator and lurched forward, riding over the remains of the broken gate. The drivers behind him saw what was happening and commenced blowing their horns in triumph. Soon they were pouring through the gate, one every few seconds, urged on by Audette's emphatic arm waving. He would have put an ordinary traffic cop to shame.
It took nearly 15 minutes for them all to go through. Some of the RVs looked the size of battleships. Others were barely bigger than pickup trucks. There were several old converted school buses, even an old moving van that had been converted to a house on wheels. Mixed in were many private luxury coaches, leased buses, and a Trailways coach carrying orphans from LA, as well as a couple Greyhound buses.
Audette waited at the gate until they were all in. Then he instructed the sentries to string some yellow CAUTION tape across the CAG 3 opening.
He would have a repair crew come out and fix the wooden gate later.
 
John Cahoon was driving the last RV in line.
He'd been waiting outside the Nellis access gate since ten o'clock the night before, queuing up, as many others did, expecting to be let in at the crack of dawn. He was a big air show enthusiast. But this being a military affair, he knew it might not run as smoothly as most. By the time he actually drove onto the base, it was nearly 10:00 A.M., 12 hours after he'd arrived.
That was OK, though, because as it turned out, when he reached the designated parking area for RVs and other large vehicles displaying handicapped or special needs signs,
he discovered that in practice the first were being made to go last and the last were going first. Translated: the military personnel in charge of parking the large vehicles made the first to arrive park at the rear of the holding area and then filled in the area from back to front. This resulted in Cahoon getting a front row space, practically right on the flight line itself. From his point of view, it couldn't have worked out better.
Cahoon's wife had asthma; this was how they were able to get a handicap placard, their ticket to this piece of asphalt heaven his motor home now rested on. He was driving a Ford Super Chief, also known as the Godzilla of motor homes. It was 57 feet long and, with its side extension pulled out, 18 wide. It had a living room, a den, a kitchen, two bathrooms, a shower, a washing machine—dryer combo, plus a smoking room where Cahoon stored his scotch and beer. Both he and his wife were retired Boeing workers, out from Chicago to see this show before going on to visit their son's family up in Reno, a few hundred miles to the north. Cahoon's wife liked to sleep late; he, by contrast, was a morning person. So by 10:15, just minutes after reaching this primo parking spot, Cahoon was already outside, with his grill fired up, cooking some midmorning brats and pounding down a beer.
A Winnebago Gold Arrow was parked on one side of him; it was a rowboat compared to Cahoon's rig. He could see the owners still inside, sound asleep in the driving chairs, tuckered out, no doubt, from the long wait in line. Too bad. It was Cahoon's way to make friends no matter where he set down. But the two people in the Gold Winny looked dead to the world. He wasn't going to disturb them. At least not yet.
On the other side, to his left as he was looking at the flight line, was a Greyhound bus. It looked almost brand-new and incredibly shiny, as if it had been sitting in a garage somewhere until today. The tires looked like they had about a hundred miles on them, tops. Even the exhaust system appeared unused. Cahoon's brother once drove for Trailways, the Dog's biggest competitor, so Cahoon had never heard many good words about Greyhound. But he had to admit, this bus was
gleaming more than any Trailways rig he'd ever seen, even if its side windows were tinted to the point you could hardly see inside it.
Things must be good at Greyhound,
he would remember thinking.
As Cahoon watched, turning his brats and now working on his second can of Bud, the door opened on the big silver bus and four men stepped out. Three were dressed like soccer players; the fourth was wearing a San Diego Chargers T-shirt with the words I AM CHARGER MAN stenciled across it.
The men set up four chaise lounges, having difficulty getting them to unfold properly. Once they had their seats in place, they retrieved a cooler from the bus. From Cahoon's perspective, just 15 feet away, it looked to contain nothing but water, no beer, no bug juice. Out next came two small video cameras and a box that Cahoon guessed was filled with tortilla chips or Doritos or something.
Mexicans,
he thought.
He finished his second beer and started on a third. The air grew warmer and the base tarmac more crowded. Thousands of people were pouring onto the base, many walking past the handicap area. Some gazed at Cahoon's smoking grill with envy, staring at his beer. He was wearing a garish T-shirt of his own, one that said on the front: BOEING … BOEING … GONE! Those people who got the joke laughed and waved. His neighbors next vehicle over just sat in the chaise lounges and talked among themselves. Cahoon could hear parts of their conversation, just bits and pieces, but to him, it didn't sound like Spanish.
After finishing his beer and his first brat sandwich, Cahoon was feeling very neighborly. His wife was still asleep; the PA announcer had just informed everyone they were still an hour away from the beginning of the show. What else did he have to do?
He opened up a fourth beer, even though it was not yet 11:00 A.M., and strolled over to where the four men lay on the chaise lounges.
They were surprised to see him but seemed friendly enough. All four were very dark-skinned, and their hands
were rough and oily. Cahoon's eyes were drawn to the box they'd brought out with them. It wasn't filled with snacks as he'd suspected—but cell phones. At least a couple dozen of them.
“Nice set of wheels,” Cahoon said, talking to none of them in particular. “Looks brand-new … .”

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