Omega Missile (Shadow Warriors) Read online

  The bundle hit sand and the four jumpers followed. Each rucksack touched down, followed by the hard slam of rapidly descending bodies all within forty feet of the bundle.

  Three of the four were on their feet immediately, unhooking their parachutes while shaking off the shock of landing. Throwing rucksacks over their shoulders, weapons at the ready, they ran over to the canister, pulling their chutes with them.

  "Where's Scanlon?" Brinn, the leader, asked, checking the other two faces.

  They turned and looked at the fourth chute lying on the sand about thirty feet away, and the motionless dark form at the end of the suspension lines.

  "Shit," Brinn muttered as they ran over. Brinn was tall and built like a linebacker. His face was weathered with age and stress and his crew cut hair was mostly gray. Like the others, he was dressed in black fatigues with a combat vest covering the top half of his body. Adorning the vest were the assorted tools of Brinn's chosen trade. A pair of night-vision goggles were looped around his neck and he pulled them up.

  Reaching the body, Brinn unsnapped the man's helmet, grimacing as he was greeted by the sight of dark red blood mixed with gray brain matter. Looking aside he spotted the sharp boulder that had caused the injury. Scanlon's luck had run out. It could have been any of them, Brinn knew, but of the four, Scanlon was the one they could least afford to lose.

  But there was a plan for that, an extra body for that contingency. He turned and stared at the person directly across from him who was looking down, ashen-faced, at the dead man. He had doubts about Scanlon's backup, never a good thing on a mission.

  "You're primary weapons now, Parker," Brinn said. "Sanchez is your backup."

  Parker looked up from the body without comprehension.

  "You are primary weapons," Brinn repeated. "You got that?"

  Parker slowly nodded, fighting the shock of Scanlon's violent death.

  "Don't fuck up," Brinn added as he took off his helmet and placed it next to the body.

  Parker followed suit. "I'll do my duty." Long brown hair, tied in a ponytail fell down her back as she shook it free of the confines of the Kevlar helmet. Parker was in her mid-thirties, five-and-a-half feet tall and slender. Her face had high cheekbones and was creased with worry lines around the edge of her mouth and eyes. At the present moment, those lines were furrowed as she turned from the body and looked at the canister.

  "Let's move," Brinn ordered.

  "Wait. What about Scanlon?" the third member of the party, Sanchez, asked. He was a wiry Hispanic, with dark skin and close-cropped black hair. He was kneeling over the body, his voice betraying his emotion.

  "Rig a thermal grenade on the body to go off in four hours," Brinn ordered. "There'll be nothing left but bone and teeth. His gear is sterile anyway, so he's deniable. We sure as shit can't carry him with us." He tapped Parker on the arm. "Let's get the package and get ready to move."

  Parker caught the gaze that Sanchez had focused on her. It was difficult to see his features but for a moment his black eyes held her with an intensity that caused her to turn back to the canister. She saw that her hands were shaking and she drew a deep breath.

  An hour later, the three lay sweating in the chilly early morning air just below the east canyon rim. The five-hundred-foot climb carrying the slung canister had been harder than they'd anticipated and time was growing short.

  Brinn pulled a small GPR—Global Positioning Receiver—out of his combat vest. He checked the data on the small screen. Sanchez was pulling a radio and small satellite dish out of his rucksack, opening the dish and setting it at the proper azimuth and elevation to their designated satellite. Parker was unsnapping the clasps on the side of the canister.

  "We're in the right spot," Brinn said. He looked up at the crest ten feet above and gestured for the other two to stop what they were doing and follow him. The three slithered up on their bellies until they could see over.

  A quarter mile away, set against the side of a steep mountain, a road led up to a massive steel and concrete portal, which was surrounded by rows of barbed wire and armored vehicles. The door set in the opening was big enough to accommodate six vehicles side by side and was over thirty feet high. The door was protected from overhead observation by huge camouflage nets draped on steel poles. In the bright green glow of their night-vision goggles, they could see not only the door, but the guards surrounding it, and the bright glow of infrared searchlights that illuminated the entire area for the guards' own night-vision goggles.

  "That's the tip of the iceberg," Brinn said, indicating the door. "The Israelis have hollowed out most of that mountain." He tapped his hand on a flat rocky space to his right. "Put the special here," he instructed Parker. "Get me up on MILSTAR," he ordered Sanchez.

  The other two scurried back to their equipment. Straining, Parker dragged the sixty-pound canister to the indicated spot. She finished removing the snaps and flipped open a panel, revealing a computer keyboard and LED display set into the side of the canister.

  She pushed an inset button and the screen came alive, scrolling through its own internal systems check.

  "I have access to MILSTAR," Sanchez whispered from the radio.

  Parker opened a small door to the left of the keyboard and pulled a thin cable out. She handed the free end to Sanchez who screwed it into a corresponding portal on the top of the SATCOM radio.

  She typed a command into the keyboard and watched the screen. "We have secure connection from the REACT computer to MILSTAR," she announced in a low voice.

  "I've sent our infiltration report burst to Cheyenne Mountain," Sanchez said. "They know we're in location and ready."

  Brinn nodded. He took one last look at the tunnel entrance, then slid down next to Parker. "You sure on your procedure?" he asked.

  "I'm sure," she replied.

  He looked at her long and hard, clearly unhappy about the turn of events. His stare was broken by words forming on the screen.

  "I have an incoming Emergency Action Message," Parker said. The screen cleared and new words formed, followed by a six digit code. "Emergency Action Message received," Parker said. She reached inside her black fatigues and pulled out the thin steel chain she wore around her neck. Attached to it was a laminated card wrapped in black plastic. She peeled the plastic back and checked the numbers on it against those on the screen.

  "EAM code is current and valid," Parker called out.

  "Code current and valid," Sanchez repeated, checking his own card.

  "Code verified," Brinn said. "Prepare weapon," he ordered.

  Parker typed in the sequence of commands that she had long ago memorized and practiced day after day. After precisely forty-seven seconds she stopped. "Weapon prepared."

  "Check the EAM," Brinn ordered. "What's the delay set for?"

  For a moment the trained routine broke as all three sets of eyes met over the canister. Parker looked back down. "As briefed, I read a delay of two hours from activation to blast if the bomb is initiated."

  "Yeah, right," Sanchez muttered, earning himself a glare from Brinn.

  "Hopefully we won't have to find out if the computer's telling the truth," Parker said.

  Sanchez laughed bitterly. "Yeah, hopefully."

  Brinn's voice had a hard edge to it. "Captain Sanchez, I don't like that tone."

  Sanchez kept quiet, merely lifting his eyes to Parker as if they had some silent pact. Parker ignored him, wishing she could leave the bleak desert landscape and this blighted mission. She tried not to dwell on the next few hours, but instead thought of exfiltration and home.

  Parker looked at the sky. There was no sign of dawn yet. They had another two hours of darkness. Brinn pointed across the canyon and down to the left where a knoll was silhouetted against the night sky about three miles away. "That's our overwatch and exfiltration point. I hope we can make it in two hours if we have to."

  Brinn leaned back against his rucksack. "Might as well make yourself—" he paused as there was a low bee
p from the computer in the side of the canister.

  "Oh, fuck," Sanchez muttered.

  Parker read the new message with a trembling voice. "We are ordered to free firing locks so the bomb can be remotely controlled by the REACT computer through MILSTAR."

  "Great, just fucking great," Sanchez said. Freeing the firing locks took activation control away from the team.

  "Free firing locks," Brinn ordered, ignoring Sanchez.

  "Something's not right about this," Sanchez said flatly and with certainty.

  Brinn shook his head. "Listen, we got sent in here with this thing. We have an EAM. Let's do our job, people."

  "Jesus, what if this is some mistake? We're going to set this thing off—" Sanchez said, but Brinn cut him off.

  "We're not setting it off. We're just removing the safety firing locks. Someone from the National Command Authority will give the order to fire this bomb and that order will be relayed from Cheyenne Mountain through MILSTAR to the REACT computer and that will set this thing off."

  "But we're not at war with Israel," Sanchez argued. "I mean, what's the purpose here?"

  Brinn's voice sharpened. "Do you want to sit here and discuss this until we get scarfed up by the Israelis or are you going to do your job, Captain?" He turned to Parker. "Remove the safety firing locks."

  Parker took a deep breath and flexed her fingers before she began typing into the keyboard, entering the code words she had memorized during the mission briefing. She entered the two words, then put her finger over the enter key.

  "Do it!" Brinn hissed.

  Parker pressed the enter key and the screen cleared. A highlighted box blinked, waiting for Sanchez's code word.

  Sanchez didn't move. Brinn's hand slid down toward the pistol grip of the submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

  Sanchez saw the move. "Hey, Major," he pleaded, "we could be starting World War III here. I just feel like something's wrong. There's no reason to arm this thing. I tell you there's something fucked up going on and we're about to add to it."

  "You don't need a reason, Captain," Brinn said stoically. "Your job is to type in your code."

  "Don't you think I know that, sir?" Sanchez replied. "This isn't my first mission. But we never went as far as removing the firing locks before."

  Parker silently watched the two men arguing, alarm and fear swimming across her fine features. She was having a difficult time accepting that this, her first Red Flyer mission, would probably be her last. Nuclear weapons were her specialty and beyond Sanchez's concerns about the mission, she had her own fears about removing the locks. They'd been assured that there would be a two-hour delay if the locks were removed and the weapon activated by the REACT computer from afar. A certain twisted logic in the back of her brain told her that there might not be a delay. The bomb could go off the second the locks were removed and a firing code transmitted. Why would the powers-that-be leave the bomb sitting here for two hours unattended? To allow the four—check that, three—of them to get away? A lousy three people weighed against a tactical nuclear strike on Israel's secret nuclear weapons storage bunker made for a very uneven equation in her mind.

  Despite that concern though, she had entered her code. What other option was there? They were here and they'd received their orders. Parker felt strangely detached from reality; even her fear felt like someone else's pressed upon her. Sixteen years of military training from her first day at the Air Force Academy was allowing her to function and follow orders.

  "We do our duty," Brinn said. "Enter your code."

  Sanchez didn't move.

  The muzzle of Brinn's sub was now centered on Sanchez's forehead. "Enter your fucking code to remove the locks, Captain, or I guarantee you'll never leave this place alive. Your only chance is to do your duty."

  "Scanlon was primary weapons," Sanchez said. "Maybe he knew something we don't. We don't know exactly what's going on. We—" Sanchez was again cut off by Brinn.

  "We're not supposed to know exactly what's happening. We're supposed to do what we're trained to do when we're given the correct orders!" His finger tightened on the trigger. "You have five seconds, Captain, or I blow your head off. And you know I'll do it." The muzzle moved ever so slightly. "You have three seconds," Brinn warned.

  Sanchez looked at Parker but what could she say? She'd already entered her code. She looked down into the canyon, unconsciously holding her breath, fearing either outcome of Sanchez's decision.

  With shaking hands, Sanchez took Parker's place and typed in his code word. "May God forgive us," he whispered.

  All three tensed as the screen cleared. They each, to varying extent, expected the bomb to go off in their faces. As the seconds passed and nothing happened, they slowly relaxed.

  A new message came up. "Locks are removed," Parker read. "Weapon is armed and ready for incoming commands."

  Another message flashed and numbers began counting down on the screen.

  "Bomb is armed and firing sequence initiated," Parker whispered in disbelief. "Two hours until firing." Without consciously thinking of it, her fingers set the timer on her wristwatch for two hours and she pressed the start button.

  Sanchez stared at the bomb. "I am the destroyer of worlds," he whispered.

  Brinn, his professional demeanor cracked by the last couple of minutes, jabbed a finger in Sanchez's chest. "You're a crazy fuck. If it's the last thing I do, you're out of Red Flyer. You can kiss your career good-bye."

  Sanchez looked at the star-filled sky. "You are both just another button on that panel."

  "Another word and I'm placing you under arrest," Brinn snarled. "Now, let's get out of here."

  The other two didn't need any further urging as they gathered up their rucksacks and slithered down the canyon wall.

  *****

  It took them one hour and forty-eight minutes of hard climbing to make it to the overwatch position. Breathing heavily, they threw their rucks to the ground as they reached the top of the knoll. Brinn quickly undid the flap on his rucksack and pulled out three long plastic tubes. He unscrewed the ends and slid out the stock, receiver, and barrel for a fifty-caliber sniper rifle. With practiced hands, he quickly bolted the three parts together and slid the eight-power scope on top. The first hint of dawn was showing in the eastern sky, lighting up the Jordanian border.

  He pulled back the bolt and chambered one of the five-inch-long rounds. He sighted in on the bomb. It sat where they had left it, undisturbed. His finger trembled lightly on the trigger as he watched, protecting the bomb in its final moments.

  "Prepare to record for the damage report," he told Sanchez, the first words spoken since they'd left the bomb.

  Sanchez pulled a digital video camera out of his rucksack and trained it in the general direction of the bomb.

  Parker leaned back against her rucksack, feeling the sweat beginning to dry on her back. She checked her watch. Six minutes before detonation.

  The three were silent as the minutes passed. Parker looked at her watch once more. A minute. She pulled her goggles down and turned them back on. She felt pain in her shoulders and realized she was hunched over behind her ruck, putting it between her and the bomb. She forced herself to straighten up. She knew the effects the bomb would have, knew that they were safe at this distance. But although her mind knew the facts, her body still felt and feared the worst.

  Brinn put a special cover over the end of his scope, a device that would protect his eye from the effect of the flash. "Give me a time hack," he ordered.

  "Fourteen seconds," Parker said. "Ten." She watched the numbers. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

  She flinched as there was a sharp flash of light in the direction of the bomb, but just as quickly, the light was gone and nothing happened. No shock wave ... no mushroom cloud ... nothing.

  "Malfunction?" Sanchez was looking through binoculars.

  "Something blew," Brinn muttered. He jabbed a finger at Sanchez. "Come up on FM radio and see if our exfil chopper is inb
ound. If you get contact, tell them we have a malfunction."

  "They don't malfunction," Parker said in a low voice, but Brinn ignored her.

  Sanchez turned on the small FM radio secreted in his vest and put the small headset on. "Condor this is Eagle, over."

  He pressed a finger to his ear as he got a reply. He relayed the information to the other two. "Condor is five minutes out."

  "Tell them about the malfunction," Brinn insisted. "Tell them the mission is a no-go."

  Sanchez repeated the information. He listened to the reply, then slowly looked at the other two. "They know. It was a test," he said.

  "What?" Brinn was confused.

  "A test. They had a small conventional explosive rigged in the canister, not a nuke," Sanchez said.

  "Why the fuck would they have us come out here for a goddamn test?!" Brinn exploded.

  "To see if we'd do it," Parker said in a quiet voice.

  *****

  Major Brinn, Major Parker, and Captain Sanchez were directed into a dimly lit conference room by the taciturn lieutenant who'd been their escort since their arrival at Cheyenne Mountain two hours earlier.

  The trip to Colorado had required a series of rides with plenty of time to reflect, from the moment the HH-53 Pavelow helicopter had swooped in to pick them up in Israel and fly them to Turkey, where a U.S. Air Force jet had been waiting to take them to Germany, then on to the United States. They'd been debriefed by several men, some wearing civilian clothes, on the flight back to the States. Parker, Brinn, and Sanchez had spent the flight anxiously awaiting this after-action review of the exercise. Not once had they been told why they'd been sent on a test mission into Israel with what they thought was a nuclear bomb. Nor were any regrets or concerns over Scanlon's death expressed.