Fallen Angel
Authors: Jeff Struecker
Copyright © 2011 by Jeff Struecker
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-7140-1
Published B&H Publishing Group
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: ADVENTURE FICTION \ ARTIFICIAL SATELLITES—FICTION \ MILITARY INTELLIGENCE—FICTION
Jeff Struecker is represented by Wheelhouse Literary Group
1007 Loxley Drive, Nashville, TN 37211
www.WheelhouseLiteraryGroup.com
Scripture quotations have been taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Holman CSB® and HCSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.
Publisher's note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarities to people living or dead are purely coincidental.
"DOD Disclaimer"—The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of Defense or its components.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 14 13 12 11
For Joseph:
I am glad to call you son.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREMOST THANKS TO MY
King, Jesus Christ. Next I would like to thank my best friend, Dawn. Thanks also to Jonathan and DonnaJune for keeping me on track and on time. I would also like to especially thank Spud, Jesse, Blitz, and the rest of 4D. You guys are awesome. Finally, I want to thank my pastor, Don Wilhite, and the rest of my church family at Calvary Baptist Church in Columbus, Georgia. I am glad God brought us together.
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
—EDMUND BURKE
No one has greater love than this, that someone would lay down his life for his friends.
(JOHN 15:13 HCSB)
MILITARY ACRONYMS/ABBREVIATIONS
ABU—Airman Battle Uniform
CID—Criminal Investigations Division
CRRC—Combat Rubber Raiding Craft
ICBM—Intercontinental Ballistic Missile
IED—Improvised Explosive Device
KIA—Killed In Action
NORAD—North American Air Defense Command
NVG—Night Vision Goggles
PLA—People's Liberation Army
POTUS—President of the United States
PT—Physical Training
RHIB—Rubber Hull Inflatable Boat
SAAM—Special Assignment Airlift Mission
SECDEF—Secretary of Defense
SMDC—U.S. Space and Missile Defense Command
STRATCOM—Strategic Command
UAV—Unmanned Aerial Vehicle
USACIC—United States of America Criminal Investigation Command
XO—Executive Officer
THE TEAM
Sergeant Major Eric "Boss" Moyer, team leader.
Master Sergeant Rich "Shaq" Harbison, assistant team leader.
Staff Sergeant Pete "Junior" Rasor, communications.
Sergeant First Class J. J. "Colt" Bartley, weapons and explosives.
Sergeant First Class Jose "Doc" Medina, team medic.
Sergeant First Class Crispin "Hawkeye" Collins, surveillance.
PROLOGUE
Space Command, STRATCOM
Offutt Air Force Base
Omaha, Nebraska
May 27
MAJOR BRUCE SCALON'S MIND
was elsewhere, someplace with sunshine, cool breezes, and warm ocean waves. The where didn't matter as long as it was someplace other than the windowless buildings where he spent the bulk of his days.
It wasn't that he didn't love his job. It had everything he wanted: a challenging mission blended with high-tech electronics. But a man needed to bask in more than the cold light given off by computer monitors.
As a kid he saw photos of the early days of NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command, tucked away in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. From that day on he wanted to be one of those people who monitored the skies over the United States, tracking space objects and missiles launched by any country seeking self-immolation.
One of his favorite childhood games was to draw dials and gauges on cardboard boxes and pretend they were advanced computers. He spent hours creating new and challenging scenarios to occupy his mind.
One day, I will sit behind a desk and know everything that goes on in space
.
But Scalon had a problem. He wanted to be Air Force, yet his Army father wouldn't hear of it. His father thought the Air Force was a second, lesser choice, something a man did because he couldn't hack it in a real military service. Scalon followed his father into the Army. First came West Point, then Officer Training School. His superior officers took note of his skill with all things technical and before long he was living his dream, just doing so in a different uniform than he imagined.
Places like NORAD got all the attention, but many other such facilities existed, each with its specialized mission. On April 7, 1988, U.S. Space Command came to life, its three battalions providing satellite control, communications, and early missile detection. He was proud to be part of the joint military effort to monitor and control space, even if very few citizens knew of the work.
Despite the pride and fulfillment his work gave him, it had one drawback. His was strictly an indoor job. While other soldiers logged time on the ground or in aircraft, he piloted a gray, padded swivel chair. Most days he was fine with that, but at times, like now, he longed to feel the sun on his cheeks and inhale something other than mechanically treated air.
The phone on his desk rang. He picked up. "Major Scalon."
"Major, this is Lieutenant Colonel Amy Moen, Vandenberg."
Joint Space Operations Center in California. Scalon had dealt with them many times. They used optical and radar equipment to monitor space junk. They had more than fifteen thousand pieces to keep track of. Moen was one of the commanding officers of the Space Surveillance Network.
"Yes, ma'am. Is the sun shining in California?"
"The sun is always shining in California. It's the law. Rain has to get a permit to fall. Gray and bleak in Nebraska?"
"Who knows?" Scalon sighed.
"I hear that. We probably have the same view. Listen, we have a situation. A dead Chinese satellite is headed at one of your birds."
"Close?" He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. He had heard this before. Space was so littered with rocket boosters, lifeless communication satellites, and other debris that "near misses" were common. Part of his job was moving GPS and communications satellites out of harm's way. In recent years, the crew of the International Space Station had to take refuge in the station's life raft because debris came within a mile of threatening the lives of the men on board.
"Too close. In fact, if you don't act quickly, we think impact is certain."
That got his attention. He straightened in his chair and placed his fingers over his computer's keyboard. "Which bird?"
"Angel-12."
Scalon prided himself on his cool demeanor and controlled emotions. Both shattered like a crystal vase on concrete. He swore hard and loud, then caught himself. "Sorry, ma'am."
"I haven't been read in on that one, but I'm guessing it's important."
"They're all important, Colonel, but you're right. How much time do I have?"
"You should be able to move it with time to spare—"
Scalon heard another voice over the secure line. Someone was talking to Moen.
She came back on. "Hold one, Major."
A sound told him she placed a hand over the mouthpiece. Although it was muffled he could tell an argument was going on. Then swearing. Apparently it was contagious.
The voices cleared. "Now, Sergeant. I want verification,
now
. You got sixty seconds. Do you read me?"
A young voice snapped, "Yes, ma'am."
"Sorry, Major."
"Problem?"
"More like an impossibility."
"I've been known to believe in six impossible things before breakfast."
The colonel chuckled. "
Alice in Wonderland
. Nice reference. I loved that book when I was—Hold." Again muffled voices. When Moen spoke again, Scalon could hear the stress in her voice. "You need to move Angel-12 and move it now."
"Why? What's happened?"
"The object headed for the bird has picked up speed. It's not stumbling across Angel-12's path; it's targeting it."
CHAPTER 1
"EXCUSE ME, ARE YOU
Mr. Moyer?"
Eric Moyer didn't open his eyes. He was dead tired and wanted to sleep enough that he didn't care who he offended to get it. If he ignored the questioner, she might go away.
"Sir?"
She was insistent.
"Sir. Excuse me? Are you Mr. Moyer?" The flight attendant took on the "don't-mess-with-me" tone the airlines taught them in whatever school flight attendants attended.
Now it was a contest of wills. Moyer countered by turning his head away and pretending to snore.
"Here, let me try, miss."
Pain shot up his shoulder. "Do that again, Rich, and you'll be pulling back a bloody stump."
"Sorry, man, but this young lady wants to talk to you."
"Is she pretty?" He heard several chuckles.
"Almost as pretty as your wife."
Moyer brought his seat back forward and directed his eyes to a petite brunette in a United Airlines uniform—a pilot's uniform. The three gold bars on the shoulder epaulets told him she was the first officer. Members of the flight crew seldom left the cockpit except to use the latrine and that was in first class, not coach where he was seated. Something was up.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Eric Moyer, but you should know that my wife frowns on me dating other women." Moyer, approaching forty, scratched at his goatee, which had just enough gray to make him wonder if he'd be one of those men who bought product to hide unwanted reminders he was no longer young. He wasn't ashamed of a few gray hairs, but if they started appearing in his longish, brown hair, then he might reconsider.
"I can't imagine why." She seemed put out.
"How can I help you?"
She held out a piece of paper. "I'm delivering a message."
"Someone sent me a message via the cockpit?"
"Yes, sir." She pushed the note forward.
Moyer took it and waited for the woman to return to the front of the aircraft. He glanced at Rich Harbison, a giant of a man with ebony skin. His linebacker build concealed a keen mind and an unexpected love for Broadway musicals. To look at him or any other member of the team, a person would be hard-pressed to identify them as one of the Army's elite Special Ops unit. Unlike most military personnel flying commercial, they wore no uniforms, their hair was longer than Army regs allowed—except Rich "Shaq" Harbison, whose head made a billiard ball look hairy—and wore casual clothing.
Rich cocked his head and flashed a "what-are-you-waiting-for" look.
Moyer unfolded the paper, read it, then closed his eyes again. "I so wanted to sleep in my own bed."
Seated around him, the other men on his team spoke no words, but their expressions said everything.
THE PLANE LANDED IN
Los Angeles. Ten minutes after the cabin door opened, Moyer and the five members of his team were on another flight, one held over for them. They were greeted with angry expressions. The passengers didn't like waiting.
One man in first class looked up as Moyer and the others streamed in. "You know, if you'd buy a watch—"
Rich laid his large hand on the man's shoulder. "Rethink it, pal. Seriously. Rethink it."
Moyer led the group through the cabin, each taking a seat wherever they could find one. Rich and Moyer found seats together in the last row of the Boeing 757.
"Omaha?" Rich said.
"Yes." Moyer snapped his lap belt.
"Nebraska?"
"Yes."
"Omaha, Nebraska?"
"See, you got it. And people say you're slow."
"Who says that?"
Moyer shrugged. "Everybody."
"It's a good thing you do what you do because you'd make a lousy diplomat, Boss."
Moyer pushed up in his seat and made a mental note of where each of his soldiers sat.
"So what's in Omaha, Nebraska?"
"Offutt Air Force Base."
Rich rubbed his face. "Air Force! Can I get off the plane now?"
THREE HOURS LATER, MOYER
stepped from the aircraft and entered the Omaha terminal. A man dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt stood near the baggage-claim area holding a handmade sign that read:
MR. ERIC MOYER, TECHNIC WORKS.
Rich leaned close to Moyer's ear. "Technic Works? Really? Do you know how to turn on a computer?"
"That's what I hired help like you for."
"Oh, so that's how it is?
Hired help?"
Moyer walked to the man, his crew nearby but not in a group. Several of the team took places a dozen feet away. Only one followed Moyer and Rich to the sign holder. He was in his twenties, five ten in his combat boots, well muscled, short red hair, and a face that fought a long battle with acne. Of the group, Crispin Collins looked the most military.
Moyer glanced at him, seeing the ever-present iPod earbuds jammed into the man's ears. He tried not to frown but failed. Crispin saw it and immediately removed the tiny speakers.
"You're Mr. Moyer?" The man in the white shirt lowered the sign.
"I'm Moyer."
The man held out his hand. "I'm Tim, your driver."
"I hope it's a big car," Rich said.
Moyer watched the driver's eyes trace Rich's large form. "I think we can fit you in."
"I mean there are six of us."
The man flushed. "Oh. Sorry. We have two large SUVs. We can handle all of you." He cleared his throat and focused on Moyer. "My understanding is your luggage will be arriving late since you changed planes so quickly."
"Our luggage will be home long before we are. Is that right, Tim?" Moyer gauged the man's reaction. He showed no sign of being in the loop.
"I wouldn't know, sir." Tim turned sharply and started for the glass doors.
At the curb outside were two white Ford Expeditions. A young woman in black pants and a pale blue shirt stood by the rear vehicle. The moment Moyer emerged, she opened the front and back doors. Moyer, Rich, and Crispin stayed with Tim. J. J., Jose, and Pete slid into the woman's car.
Moyer sat in silence trying to stuff down his disappointment at being diverted from his home near Fort Jackson, South Carolina. He and his team spent the previous two weeks at Fort Lewis in Washington state working with the 1st Special Forces unit and picking up some specialized and experimental field equipment from the 201st Battlefield Surveillance Brigade. They also picked up young Sergeant First Class Crispin Collins.
Tim pulled onto I-29 and headed south, situating the car in the number two lane.
"So, if I'm not violating some kinda security, where did you guys fly in from?" Tim kept his eyes on the road.
"Fort Lewis."
He nodded, then furrowed his brow. "Fort Lewis, isn't that the new joint base? Lewis-McChord?"
"It is." Moyer smiled and glanced back at Rich. Rich was a purist and believed the branches of the military should be kept separate. It was a pride thing. "One of twelve such bases."
"I suppose that's apropos."
"Oh yeah?" Rich leaned forward. "And why is that—Tim?"
"The Army gave birth to the Air Force. Long before our time, the Air Force used to be the Army Air Corps. Let's see if I can recall my Academy history class."
"Academy. Air Force Academy?" Rich said.
"Yup. Best years of my life. Well, except the first year. That was a little rough."
"Rough?" Rich laughed. "What'd they do, make you wash your own laundry?"
"It was a little tougher than that. I did a lot of marching in the rain."
"Doesn't sound so bad," Moyer said.
"In February? In Colorado? Yeah, it can be bad."
"That was part of your training?" Rich didn't bother to hide his disdain.
"Just at the Academy. The commandant apparently didn't like practical jokes. Anyway, as I was saying, it was in September of 1947 that the Air Force left the Army behind."
"Left the Army behind?" Rich leaned closer to the front seat. Moyer could smell his breath.
"My bad," Tim said. "Poor choice of words."
"Don't let Rich get to you. He is a man of strong opinions."
"And I'm always right too."
Moyer let the quip pass. "Just what do you do, Tim? If I'm not violating some kinda security."
Tim grinned at hearing his words repeated. "I am assigned to Space Command. The same unit the Army leads. It's a joint operation. I work under Major Bruce Scalon. I suppose I should give you my full moniker: It's Captain Tim Bryan, formerly with Air Force Special Operations, now with STRATCOM."
"Didn't like field work?" Moyer kept all sarcasm from his voice.
"Loved it. Love the smell of gun oil. If they made an aftershave that smelled like that, I'd wear it. Got busted up while on mission. Two back surgeries and another Purple Heart later, the Air Force, in its infinite wisdom, decided a desk job might be better for the health of my team. So much for military intelligence." The last words had a chill to them.
"Sorry to hear that." Moyer saw many men who spent years training to do Special Ops work only to be injured and have their lives turned upside down. Those were the lucky ones. They got a second chance.
"I saw plenty of action. So did my dad. Vietnam. Green Beret. KIA."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Captain."
"A lot of soldiers left their all over there." Tim's voice grew soft. "Most people won't understand this, but you guys will. You've been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial?"
"Yeah," Moyer said. "Several times. Your dad's name must be there."
Tim shook his head. "It's not. Over fifty-eight thousand names on that wall but not my father's."
Moyer didn't ask and Tim didn't offer to explain. He didn't need to. Moyer had no doubt the man's father died while on a secret mission, one that couldn't be talked about even four decades after the war ended. That's the way it was for people like Moyer and his team.
He glanced at Rich in the backseat. The man's expression spoke so clearly words were not needed. Although, seated as he was behind Moyer, Crispin was harder to see, Moyer caught enough of the young man to know that, despite the always present earbuds, he heard everything. Crispin stared out the window, his face drawn.
Every Special Ops—whether Army Rangers, Green Berets, Marine Special Operations Command, Navy SEALs, or Air Force Special Tactics Squadrons—held the same fear. Not dying. They were prepared for that. But dying while on a covert operation, leaving their families without the closure of knowing how or why their loved ones would never come home. In the end, they would receive a neatly folded flag and the thanks of a grateful nation. But they would go home and forever wonder what happened.
Moyer decided to lighten the moment. "What can you tell us about Offutt?"
"I can give you the basics. We have about ten thousand military and federal employees. We're home to the 55th Wing, the Fightin' Fifty-Fifth, and a handful of tenant units including STRATCOM. Oh, and we have a great golf course."
"I doubt we have time to do any golfing," Moyer said.
"So you're responsible for satellite operations," Rich said.
"Yes and no. There are several such units working under U.S. Strategic Command—USSTRATCOM. For example, there is the U.S. Space and Missile Defense Command: SMDC. SMDC provides command and control to the 1st
Space Brigade and the 100th Missile Defense Brigade. They also provided space-based tracking.
