The CH-53 descended from the black desert sky onto the
landing area of the HARBINGER compound, creating a swirling
cloud of dust to rival the sand storms of the Sahara. Even
before the wheels touched the ground, the first of the
NAPATT troops were out of the aircraft's rear cargo door and
establishing a defensive perimeter. Major Dandridge stepped
from the belly of the helicopter, placed his hand over his
flight cap, and jogged toward the compound. Major Heath,
commander of the team, and two airman followed close behind.
Dandridge started toward the command post, but changed
his heading when he spotted a figure running toward him. As
the man approached in the camp's now-lit floodlights, the
Major could see it was Lieutenant Colonel Whymouth, the
project's director. Whymouth recognized Dandridge, but had
never seen NAPATT (like most of the rest of the world), and
was taken by surprise by the three men clad in jet black
uniforms, Kelvar vests, black face masks, and specialized
weapons.
"Any casualties Colonel?" asked Dandridge.
"At least three dead, five wounded. They escaped by
helicopter to the east."
"What type chopper?"
"Bell... Looked like a Jetranger, maybe a Longranger.
Definitely civilian."
That was good, thought Dandridge. A Jetranger had a
maximum speed of 140 compared to Super Stallion's speed of
210. "How many men?"
"Six, tops. We got one of them," explained Col.
Whymouth.
"Good. Get the body to Nellis for identification on
the next chopper. What about the HARBINGERs?"
"Roger's missing."
That was it: the little shit had pulled it off. "Thank
you, Colonel. We'll get him back," Dandridge stated, and
lead his entourage back to the chopper. "Major Heath..."
"Sir!"
"Have your men load up, ask the pilot to get ready to
take off. We'll be heading east." Heath began to speak
softly into a small plastic tube protruding from the ear of
his facemask, and his troops around the helicopter began to
run up the rear ramp.
"Sir. The pilot's picked up a transmission from Air
Search And Rescue. The patrol chopper made an emergency
landing in the bomb range."
Dandridge leapt onto the ramp and ran to the cockpit.
Heath had already radioed the pilot that everyone was
onboard, so the aircraft started its takeoff roll.
"Captain, has SAR picked up the patrol chopper's crew yet?"
asked the Major.
"No Sir. They radioed for them to continue east and
locate the enemy aircraft."
"Did you get Patrol's position?"
"Yes Sir."
"ETA?"
"Four minutes."
"Take us there." The pilot nodded and brought his
machine left to the new heading. Dandridge stepped into the
cargo bay of the aircraft, and stood next to Heath. He
attempted idle conversation, but was unable to keep a clear
mind. How could the government have allowed this to happen?
If Keeney had let Dandridge clean up this mess when he took
over the position, this would not be happening. Even if
Keeney had given him an interceptor, like he'd asked,
Dartmouth would never have made it this far.
Heath stopped his statement in mid sentence and started
talking into space. "Sir, the pilot's spotted Patrol's
emergency strobe."
"Tell him to set down. We'll pick up the crew, then
continue on our present course." Dandridge stepped toward
the open ramp, and the aircraft's nose pitched down. The
blackness of the desert below rose to meet the descending
helicopter until the nose pitched up, once again, and the
ship touched lightly on the ground. Dandridge stepped from
the aircraft, and motioned the crew inside. "Was it just
the two of you?"
"Yessir," responded a First Lieutenant. He looked into
the cargo bay and studied the troops that sat along the
walls of the helicopter in black uniforms, bathed by the
eerie red glow of the night-lighting. "Who in the world are
ya'll?"
Dandridge flashed Heath the thumbs-up, and the chopper
lifted off once again. "Lieutenant, what you see on this
aircraft is top secret. It would be best to consider
everything that has happened, or will happen this evening, a
dream. Do you understand?"
"Yessir."
"Tell me about the other helicopter."
"We were on patrol in the southern sector, when we
received a call from base to intercept a hostile aircraft
heading east. We proceeded as instructed until we spotted,
I mean we dreamed that we spotted, a helicopter in the
sector. Control cleared us to fire. We continued our
pursuit until they returned fire, severing the electrical
wiring harness. We lost electrical power to our instruments
and lights, and had to set down."
"You mean you hadn't lost your engine?"
"Correct, sir."
"You fool!" bellowed the Major. "You broke contact
because you lost your cabin lights!"
"And instruments," whined the Lieutenant, "Sir..."
Dandridge swore and stomped the width of the cargo bay.
He looked at the officer and screamed in disgust. The pilot
lowered his head, fearing the worst. If this had been
Vietnam, Dandridge would have thrown the man from the cargo
door.
"Sir?" offered the pilot.
"What!"
"We did hit them."
Dandridge didn't dignify the man's comment with a
response, but turned to stare out the ramp door. Heath
approached from the front of the aircraft. "Major: pilot
reports we've left the range."
"Tell him to maintain present course and speed."
"He's located fire on a hill to the left of our
courseline."
Dandridge's eyebrow raised. Fire. Uhm. Fire's good.
"Have him set us down two hundred yards from the flames.
We'll check it out."
The pilot banked the chopper and switched on its
lookdown radar as he approached the hill. He followed a
small valley and set down in the middle of the saddle formed
by two hills. To the right, just below a small ridge, were
the remains of a burning helicopter. The troops repeated
their dismounting drill, and Dandridge, Heath, and the
patrol chopper's pilot stepped out of the aircraft.
Three of Heath's troops followed him, as Dandridge led
the way. He stopped a hundred feet short of the wreck.
"See sir," chimed the Lieutenant proudly, "I told you I hit
it."
The Major couldn't accept that it was going to be that
easy. Dartmouth might be a good reporter, but he didn't
have the experience or the knowledge to pull off this
operation. This wasn't the end-- Dandridge could tell by
the way the scar tissue of his face tingled and the sweat
burned the empty socket of his eye. Someone else was
orchestrating this exercise, and maybe he was smart enough
to make it work.
"Major Heath, have the pilot send SAR this position.
Tell them we've got an aircraft down." Dandridge turned
toward the CH-53. He wasn't about to give up simply because
Dartmouth might be dead. After all, the man had pissed him
off, and for that, Dandridge would chase him through the
gates of Hell, and squash him like the bug he was.
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