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  The Line

  ( Black Ops - 2 )

  Bob Mayer

  They killed Patton when he opposed them. They've cowered Presidents into going to war. For more than half a century, a secret organization of Army officers known as The Line has been covertly manipulating US Policy. Now, in a political climate rife with dissent and unrest, The Line has ordered a pivotal top-secret operation that will let the world know who is really in charge: take out the President on Pearl Harbor Day. But The Line didn t count on Boomer Watson, a member of the Army s elite Delta Force and Major Benita Trace, both West Point graduates, staying true to their oath of allegiance and willing to fight The Line with their lives. From The Ukraine to Pearl Harbor to West Point to the Army-Navy game in Philadelphia, it s a race against time to stop The Line as December 7th looms.

  Written by a West Point graduate, former Green Beret and NY Times Bestselling author, this book crackles with authenticity and action.

  Bob Mayer

  The Line

  PROLOGUE

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  25 NOVEMBER

  1:00 P.M.LOCAL 1800 ZULU

  The man in the high-backed chair was hidden in the shadows cast by the halogen desk lamp. A thin sheaf of laser-printed pages was the only object on the desk in front of him. A hand, the skin withered with age, slowly reached out and angled the first page so it could be read.

  11 JUNE 1930

  U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY, WEST POINT. NEW YORK

  The smooth marble felt cool to Cadet Benjamin Hooker’s hand. He gazed up the shaft of Battle Monument to the stars overhead, then up the Hudson River where the hulking presence of Storm King Mountain loomed to the left, a darker presence against the night sky. It was a view that never failed to raise a strong feeling of attachment and sentiment in Hooker’s heart.

  That feeling was immediately followed with an uncertainty that had two causes. The first was that tomorrow he would graduate and be leaving his home for the last four years. The second was the written message he’d been given by a plebe earlier in the day. The words had been simple and direct: “trophy point. 2130 HOURS.” There had been no signature, but the paper was written on stationery from the office of the Commandant of Cadets.

  Hooker momentarily played with the notion that the note was an elaborate prank set up by his classmates; but he knew he dared not be here, on the chance that the message was legitimate. Although why the commandant would want to see him at such a strange place and time left him at a loss.

  Hooker knew he held a special place in his class of 241 cadets. He was ranked second in academic standing and was the fifth recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship in the history of the Academy. Tall and thin, with an angular face that most of the women coming to the Academy for hops found appealing, there was about him a sense of intellectual reserve and emotional distance from others that counteracted his physical attraction. He had straight brown hair that was at the very limit the regulations would allow — unusual for a man who otherwise followed every rule and regulation to the letter. His eyes were black, and when they focused on an individual they had the ability to make that person feel that they had 100 percent of Hooker’s attention. Many a long-suffering plebe had felt the power of that gaze during a hazing session in Hooker’s room.

  Those same eyes flickered across the Plain to the barracks where his classmates were spending their last night as cadets. There was distinct feeling of excitement and anticipation in the air. Although Hooker shared in it, he had different expectations for the immediate future. While his classmates would go to various officer courses and then report to regular Army units scattered all over the world, Hooker was heading to England for two years of study at Oxford before becoming part of the “real” Army. Although the prestige of the scholarship was great, he was concerned about the possible negative effect those two years out of the active Army loop might have on his career.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hooker.”

  The voice caught Hooker off-guard, his thoughts already halfway across the ocean. He stiffened as he recognized the figure silhouetted in the glow of lights around the Plain.

  “Good evening, sir,” he automatically responded.

  Colonel William B. Kimbell’s physical appearance was in accordance with his martial reputation. West Point, class of ‘14, Kimbell had been blooded on the fields of Europe in the Great War, earning a Silver Star for gallantry. The colonel had been wounded three times, but each time had returned to the fight until peace had arrived before a fatal wound.

  As commandant, Kimbell was in charge of the welfare of the Corps of Cadets, and because of that, ran every aspect of their lives outside the classroom.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kimbell said, Hooker automatically knew that Kimbell was referring to the overall view — regardless of direction. To the north, the Hudson and Storm King framed a scene many artists had captured on canvas. To the east, across the river, lay Constitution Island, the far anchor point for the Great Chain that had been stretched across the river during the Revolution to stop the British from moving on it. To the west, at Plain-level, stood the cadet gym and above it and to the left, loomed the impressive edifice of the cadet chapel, overlooking the main Academy grounds, a slight concession by the planners that there might possibly be an institution more powerful than the Academy. To the immediate south was the billiards-table green surface of the Plain where Hooker had sweated through four years of innumerable parades. Beyond the grass were the barracks where the comraderie of four years of suffering had forged unbreakable bonds among the members of the class of ‘30.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  The commandant turned and started walking. Hooker immediately fell in step, half a pace to the rear as required by etiquette. They passed the links of the Great Chain that were displayed and halted behind a collection of old cannon barrels.

  “Looking forward to Oxford, Mr. Hooker?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kimbell glanced at him in the darkness. “It is an honor for the Academy to have had you selected for the scholarship.”

  Hooker let that pass without comment. He reined in his emotions and focused on the present. There was a sense of something important about to happen — something beyond graduation and the beginning of a new life.

  “Are you worried about missing two years of time in the field?” Kimbell asked.

  Hooker wasn’t surprised that the commandant could guess his worry. Any officer would feel the same. “Somewhat, sir.”

  “Somewhat?” Kimbell snapped.

  “What does that mean?”

  Equivocal answers were not acceptable at West Point.

  Hooker had had that lesson beat into him from the first moment he’d disembarked the train four years ago. There he had been given the four answers a new cadet was allowed:

  “Yes, sir; no, sir; no excuse, sir; sir, I do not understand!”

  Hooker hastened to amend his mistake. “Yes, sir, I am concerned. While Oxford is certainly an excellent opportunity, nothing can replace spending two years with troops.”

  “Hmmph,” Kimbell snorted. He reached into his dress uniform coat and pulled out a pipe and started filling it.

  “I’ve watched you. Hooker. I’ve looked through your records and talked to your instructors and tactical officer. They say you like working alone. That you possess a mind of the highest caliber, but that your leadership ability might leave something to be desired.”

  Hooker stiffened at the implied rebuke, because he knew it was true. He had a hard time dealing with subordinates who couldn’t keep up with his thinking. He had little patience for those who could not meet his high standards.

  “Major Whittaker in Engineering says that you are the type of person who would rather deal with conceptual problems than with
people,” Kimbell continued.

  “Is that true?”

  Hooker had already been chastised once for a vague answer.

  “Yes, sir, it’s true.”

  “Then two years away from troops won’t make much difference, will it?”

  Hooker felt himself being controlled into a position, although he didn’t know what it was. “No, sir.”

  Kimbell’s voice softened.

  “You know, Mr. Hooker, we all can’t be at the head of regiments and divisions. The Army has other needs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Especially in these hard times with all the cutbacks.

  There are dark clouds on the horizon. Not many see them, but I think you do, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hooker was surprised. Kimbell must have read his paper on German rearmament, otherwise why would he have made that comment? But why would the commandant be interested in a senior cadet’s history theme paper?

  “When do you leave for England?”

  Hooker wondered about the change in direction of the questioning but promptly answered.

  “The tenth of July, sir. ‘ “Where are you sailing out of?”

  “New York, sir.”

  “Change it. Sail out of Savannah. I want you to go to Fort Benning before you leave.”

  Hooker remained silent, waiting for the commandant to clarify his command.

  “Do you know Colonel Marshall, the deputy commander of the Infantry School at Benning?” Kimbell asked.

  “I heard him speak in March when he came up here, sir. The topic was—”

  “Yes, yes,” Kimbell interrupted.

  “I was at the lecture too. Marshall is a most fascinating man. He has some interesting ideas.” he added cryptically. “And he’s not even a graduate, did you know that?”

  “I understand he graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, sir.”

  “That’s correct. Not quite the same thing as the Academy but they do an adequate job with what they have,” Kimbell conceded.

  “Indeed, it’s to our advantage that Marshall’s not a Graduate.”

  Our advantage? Hooker thought. He felt a slight trickle of sweat run down the back of his stiff dress gray uniform coat.

  Kimbell was looking up the river. “Marshall’s got vision, Hooker. He’s no fool. He was in the war with me and he saw what happened afterwards. Even with two years to prepare, we weren’t ready for France. We lacked the proper training, and we most certainly did not have the proper equipment. Many good men died because of that. And then we came back, and the first thing they did was gut the Army.

  And we’re back where we were before the war, even worse in many ways.

  “This Briand-Kellogg Act.” Kimbell shook his head. “As if by signing a piece of paper they can outlaw war. Hell, Hooker, I don’t like war but my job is to be prepared to fight and to win. Now the President signs this treaty and seems to think everyone else in the world is going to abide by it. Well, you and I know they will not. So it is our job to be prepared, no matter what those damn civilians in Washington think.

  “They use the state of the economy as an excuse to justify what cannot be justified. The national defense must always be the number one priority. It cannot be tied to the vagaries of those fools on Wall Street. We must be beyond that.”

  Colonel Kimbell let loose a few puffs from his pipe.

  “What do you think. Hooker?”

  Hooker didn’t have to think about his answer. I agree, sir. It’s our duty to defend our country and that means being as well prepared as possible in peacetime, as well as being ready to give our lives in war if that is required.”

  Kimbell nodded. “Yes, but that first task is difficult, given the short memories of most of our politicians.” He reached out and tapped Hooker on the shoulder. “Colonel Marshall and I talked for a long time in March. He’s in a very good position at Benning. He’s in charge of all tactics instruction and not only does he see the students who go through the Infantry School, he also gets to know all the instructors.”

  Kimbell turned back and faced Hooker. “Every few years we are going to select someone — someone special — among the Corps. Someone to do a different sort of job that will be very important.” Kimbell paused and Hooker felt his heartbeat slow down and time seem to stand still. He felt on the verge of a great destiny. One that had been written just for him.

  I told you that not all of us can be at the front of the troops.

  That’s why I want you to see Colonel Marshall. Why I’ve chosen you to be the first one. Colonel Marshall will tell you what is expected of you. What your country expects of you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kimbell slapped Hooker on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Well, you need to go back to the barracks and get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. The biggest day of your life so far, if I remember my graduation correctly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hooker watched as the commandant walked off toward the officer quarters on the northwest side of the Plain. Alone again with his thoughts, he realized that the past four years had prepared him for this moment. The rigorous academics, the physical conditioning, the hazing, the forge of high demands that had made him what he was. And now the future beckoned for him to serve his country — his army — in the way his abilities were best suited.

  He didn’t know what Colonel Marshall would ask of him, but Hooker knew he was prepared to give all just as the 2,230 names inscribed on Battle Monument — the name of every officer and enlisted man of the Regular Army killed in the Civil War — had given all. He also understood from the recent conversation that the statue at the top of the monument, representing Fame, was not to be his lot. He was going to be asked to serve in another capacity and, while it brought a momentary rush of regret, he also accepted it with the same fortitude that had served four hard years on the Plain.

  Hooker used his right hand to remove his class ring from his left ring finger. West Point was the first school in the country to adopt the use of class rings, beginning with the class of 1835. The Academy tradition was that while still a cadet, the ring was worn with the class crest turned toward the heart. After graduation, the ring is turned and the Academy crest is closest to the heart. Hooker turned the ring in the moonlight, watching the stars reflect off the black onyx stone, then he slipped it back on, the Academy crest turned in toward his heart.

  “Fanciful but dangerous,” the old man muttered, removing his reading glasses.

  “We have all copies?” he asked in a louder voice from the shadows, holding the pages up.

  The aide had stood silently on the other side of the large wooden desk, unmoving while the pages had been read.

  “We have all that were sent out, sir. The author still has the original.”

  “Is this all of it?”

  “That’s all that was sent, sir.”

  “And this is being submitted as fiction?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just a book proposal right now. We believe that’s all that is written.”

  The gnarled fingers crumpled the pages.

  “You were right. This must be stopped.” As the old man threw the wad of paper toward the trash can, the light glinted off the black onyx set in the large ring on his left hand.

  “We need to know where she got this information. Then take care of it and the author.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 1

  AIRSPACE. THE UKRAINE

  28 NOVEMBER

  2:32 A.M.LOCAL 0432 ZULU

  “One minute! Lock and load!”

  In the glow of his night vision goggles. Major “Boomer” Watson could see the hand gestures reinforcing the words of his executive officer.

  Captain Martin — one finger up, then palm slapping the magazine well of the AK-74.

  The Soviet-made Mi-24 Hind-D shuddered as the pilots reduced airspeed and. crept even lower to the heavily wooded Ukrainian countryside, until they were flying less than twenty feet above
the highest treetops. Boomer reached up and slightly adjusted the focus on his AN-PVS-7 night vision goggles, using the forward bulkhead separating the eight Delta Force troopers from the pilots up front as his reference point. In the green glow of the inner eyepieces, the other occupants of the blacked-out cabin showed up clearly, the men similarly outfitted in long Soviet-style overcoats, night vision goggles, AK-74s, and combat vests bristling with the tools of death.

  Boomer knew the pilots were wearing their own goggles up front in order to fly the Russian aircraft well below minimum safety zones. He wasn’t overly worried. The pilots were from the top-secret 4th Battalion of Task Force 160—the Nightstalkers — and were more than proficient in their job of flying captured and “appropriated” foreign aircraft.

  Instinctively, Boomer slid a thirty-round plastic magazine out of a side pocket of his load bearing vest, slipped the back lip into the magazine well, then levered it forward, locking it in place. He smoothly slid back the charging handle on the right side, chambering a 5 .45mm round. His thumb flicked over the safety, ensuring the weapon was still on safe.

  “Ten seconds!” Martin yelled from the right door.

  Boomer stood, letting the folding-stock AK dangle on its sling and grabbed both sides of the open left door. He peered out, ignoring the chill night air blown down by the rotor wash. Getting oriented, he recognized the landing zone from the satellite imagery they’d hurriedly been fed minutes before loading at their base in northern Turkey. On time and on target.

  The LZ was on a mountainside and the only way the pilots could get in close without having the tips of their blades hit dirt, was to put the nose in, touching the front wheels, while keeping the tail up in the air. As soon as the wheels touched. Boomer jumped out, landing in waist-high grass. He ran to the side ten paces and hit the ground, weapon pointing into the darkness. As soon as the last man was out, the sound of the turbines increased and the helicopter lifted and was gone, leaving a deep silence.