Finest Hour (17 page)

“As you were,” Hood said, moving to the front of the briefing room.

Everyone took their seats, except Morant, who remained standing at the back of the room.

Hood dropped his duffle to the floor and turned to address the Black Dogs.

“Good to see you, men.”

The soldiers let out a collective “hooyah.”

“Before we get started, I think it’s appropriate to say a few words about those who died in Lexington.”

Several of the soldiers stiffened at the mention of their lost brothers.

“It’s important to mourn their loss. I would, however, remind you that when brave men die, their courage lives on to stoke a thousand fires in the hearts of the living.”

Another loud “hooyah” rang out.

Hood nodded to Morant, and the big man stepped forward to turn on the projector. The floor plan for the Greenbrier bunker slowly materialized onscreen.

General Hood studied it for a moment. He had familiarized himself with the layout during the flight over, but switching from paper to an overhead projection required a quick reorientation. He was confident that every man in the room had also taken time to study the map prior to his arrival. These men were the best of the best. His job was simply to give them the specifics of the mission and get the hell out of their way.

“The entire unit will be participating in a mission dubbed
Operation Clean Sweep
. We leave tomorrow at 1500 hours, traveling via a CH-47F Chinook protected by two X-49 SpeedHawks. We expect to be on site by 1800 hours, at which time, we will enter and clear the Greenbrier bunker of all occupants. We have until 0500 the following morning to be back in the air with all remains and personal belongings. Any questions on the mission objectives?”

Morant said, “Are all inhabitants to be considered hostiles?” It was a tactful way of asking whether they were to kill everyone or only those who put up a fight.

“That’s correct. We don’t have an exact count on the number but believe it to be less than ten.”

“Any professional soldiers?” asked a man in the front row.

“Only one. General Kent Carr.”

Several of the men looked to one another, but no one voiced an objection.

“Other known occupants include the Director of FEMA, the Secretary of Energy, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the nation’s previous president, Rosalyn Glass. We also believe that her personal physician, Dr. Tran, may be in the bunker.” He looked around the room to see if there was even a whisper of concern regarding the targets.

There wasn’t.

“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Morant.

“We should assume that they do.” Hood stepped over to the chalkboard and picked up a long wooden dowel. He used it to point to the right and left edges of the overhead map. “There are three main entrances into the bunker, all of which are protected by heavy blast doors. The East and West Entrances are both vehicular entrances. The third entrance is through the Exhibit Hall Foyer, accessible from the resort above.”

The soldier from the front row said, “Are the doors able to be breached?”

Hood shook his head. “Not in the time that we have, no.”

“Do we at least have intel that they’ll be opening the doors?”

“We do not.”

Several soldiers mumbled to one another.

“Sir,” the man continued. “If we can’t cut or blow our way in, and if they’re not going to open the doors, how are we planning to get inside?”

General Hood pointed to a small square situated in the upper left corner of the map.

“There’s a fourth point of entry that routes directly into the facility’s power plant.”

“A shaft?” asked Morant.

Hood nodded. “It’s part of the air intake system.”

“And it’s not blast protected?”

“On the contrary,” said Hood. “It has a blast door as sturdy as the others. But in this case, large circulation fans have been built into the wall above the door.”

“Big enough for a man to fit through?”

“Blueprints indicate that the fans are twenty-one inches across.”

“I’m sure as hell not going to fit through that,” said Morant. “But we have at least one man who might.”

Nearly everyone turned to face a soldier sitting near the far side of the room. He had the build of a professional jockey, lean and short, but was by no means slight.

“Buckey,” said Morant, “twenty-one inches is plenty, right?”

“That’s what she said.” Several of the men began to laugh, but before it could get out of hand, Buckey added, “Yes, sir. Twenty-one inches shouldn’t be a problem.”

Morant nodded, a smile unconsciously tickling his lips. Buckey was one of his best, a man who could tell a joke one minute and carve a man’s eyes out the next. He bordered on being psychotic, but given the business they were in, that trait rose to the top of every man’s resume.

Hood turned to face the screen, tapping the entrance with his dowel.

“We’ll lower Buckey in with a cutting torch. He’ll remove one of the fans and enter the facility here, in the power plant. Once inside, he’ll navigate the plant, traverse along the West Tunnel, and open the West Entrance.”

“Where the rest of us will be waiting,” added Morant.

“Correct.”

“No disrespect, sir,” said the man in the front row, “but that still leaves a hundred and twelve thousand square feet to search and clear. Even with forty of us, that’s going to take a full day to do right.”

“Which is why we’re going to gas them.”

“Sir?”

“We will deploy the payload from an Mk-116 Weteye.”

“Sarin? That’s some bad shit, sir.”

Murmurs broke out as soldiers discussed the risks of a chemical attack.

“I’m assuming you want us to place it in the intake system,” said Morant.

“That’s right.”

“So, why take the risk of breaching the fans? Can’t we simply deploy the gas in the shaft and let it be sucked in? Once it has time to do its thing, we can go in and clean the place out. Simple and efficient.”

General Hood nodded, “We could if it weren’t for one complication.”

“Which is?”

“The facility’s air handling system is configured with NBC filters.”

Morant nodded. “The filters would absorb the sarin.”

“Correct.”

“Where are they located?”

General Hood turned back to the screen.

“There are six filters in total,” he said, using the dowel to point each of them out. “Three are on the upper level. The first is in the power plant ducting, which is the easiest of the six to take care of. The second is above the cafeteria, and the third is in the medical facility. The other three are located on the lower level. To get to those requires entering the Senate Leadership Room, one of the many records room, and a large dormitory area here.” He tapped the screen.

Morant thought for a moment, playing it all out.

“We’ll need six teams in play, plus a seventh to keep the exit clear.”

Hood nodded. “Forty men, minus the helicopter crews, leaves us with seven teams of five inside the bunker, each working to accomplish an integral part of the mission.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of moving pieces, and communications are going to be shit inside the bunker.”

“Which is why I got these.” Hood bent over and unzipped his duffel. When he straightened, he was holding a small handheld radio. “Not only do they broadcast at much higher peak power levels, they also incorporate the latest in ultra wideband technology. Their spread spectrum operation will have much better penetration than conventional radios.”

“You’re telling us that those little spook radios are going to reach through a mountain of steel and concrete?” Morant looked skeptical.

“Perhaps not from end to end, but they should at least allow adjacent teams to communicate. That in turn will enable us to pass information along like links in a chain. Not ideal, perhaps, but it should work.”

“As long as the chain doesn’t get broken.”

“I don’t think a handful of politicians possess the skills necessary to disrupt a team of forty of the finest soldiers in the world. Do you?”

Morant pressed his lips together but said nothing.

Hood continued. “Once the filters are removed, we’ll evacuate, all except for a few soldiers who will stay behind to deploy the sarin.”

“They’ll need full NBC gear.”

He nodded. “Of course. After the gas has had time to dissipate, the rest of the team will re-enter to remove the bodies and all related personal effects.”

“What’s the disposal plan?” asked the man in the front row.

“We’ll transport the bodies via helicopter to a staging ground outside of the small town of Eagle Rock. There, they will be burned and buried.”

General Hood took a moment to study the soldiers while they weighed his plan. Clearly, they had reservations about working with sarin, which was understandable—they’d be fools not to. Also, as Morant had pointed out, the operation required lots of moving pieces. Even so, in Hood’s assessment, the risk of failure remained low.

In thirty-six hours, the burned remains of Rosalyn Glass and her supporters would be safely interned in shallow pits. It was dangerous to underestimate the difficulty of any mission, but looking out at the weathered faces of forty of the hardest men in the world, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which they would fail.

Chapter 11  

With the gang of Ravagers now scattered to the four winds, Mason and Leila were free to put a few miles behind them. They crossed into Virginia, passing through the small towns of Mouth of Wilson, Independence, and Wytheville, none of which introduced any new delays or dangers.

As they entered the town of Dublin, Virginia, Mason saw a sign for the Radford Army Ammunition Plant, some ten miles off to the east.

“What do you think?” he said, glancing over at Leila. “Is it worth a quick detour?”

“Do we need additional ammunition?”

“We do for the Browning. Besides, there’s a good chance that we might find some grenades or C-4.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you planning on starting a war?”

“No. I’m planning on ending one.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Then I suppose we should go and see what weaponry we can find.”

Mason turned right onto Lee Highway, quickly passing through the town of Fairlawn. The main drag consisted of a Family Dollar, Advance Auto Parts, and Grime Fighters Car Wash, all of which looked abandoned. Almost as soon as they exited the town, the entrance to the Radford Army Ammunition Plant came into view. It was marked with a brick sign and a replica of a military rocket that towered fifteen feet into the air.

As they approached the entrance, the road split. A small service road trailed off to the left, blocked by a line of blue barrels. A guard booth sat along its shoulder, but not surprisingly, it was empty. The road to the right was larger, passing in front of a visitor’s center. That building, too, looked dark and vacant.

Not seeing a good reason to drag heavy barrels out of the road, Mason turned right, passing the visitor’s center without incident. After a couple of hundred yards, they came to another guard station, this one centered between the incoming and outgoing lanes. A faded green Army pickup truck sat parked behind the booth.

As they approached, a young man stepped from the guard station, wearing a uniform that consisted of a white service cap, long-sleeved blue jacket, white pants, and a matching white belt that crisscrossed his chest. To their surprise, the teen’s only weapon appeared to be a decorative saber hanging at his waist.

Mason stopped the truck about thirty yards away and considered his options.

“My goodness,” said Leila. “He’s just a boy.”

“And getting ready to go to a military formal by the looks of it. Definitely not regular army.”

“I don’t see any weapons on him, other than the sword.”

“Which probably isn’t even sharp.” Mason opened the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Be careful. It could be a trap.”

He smiled. “If it is, you and Bowie can come rescue me.”

Hearing his name, Bowie leaned around from the bed and whined loudly.

“Unh-unh. You got into enough trouble last time.”

Bowie danced around but didn’t hop down.

As Mason approached the guard station, he parted his jacket so that his badge and pistol were both visible.

When he was ten yards out, the boy held up a hand and called out.

“Hold!”

He stopped.

“Please state your business.” Despite his direct tone, the young man couldn’t hide the nervous rattle in his voice.

“I’m a deputy marshal looking for ammunition to be used for official government business.” Mason inched forward a few more steps as he spoke. It was as much to test the boy’s training as anything else. And by allowing the advance, that training was clearly lacking.

“Sir, you’ll have to turn back. The plant is closed.”

By the time Mason stopped, he was barely ten feet away. He studied the boy’s uniform, spotting a name tag that read “Potter.”

“What unit are you with, Potter? You’re certainly not regular army.”

“Sir, I’m Cadet Private First Class Potter, with the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets.”

“University cadets?”

“Yes, sir.”

That, thought Mason, explained a lot.

“What’s a cadet doing guarding an Army depot?”

“Sir, I can’t really say. I would ask that you please return to your vehicle and leave the premises immediately.”

Mason noticed that PFC Potter was starting to sweat. He could ask nicely only so many times, and he was undoubtedly considering how other options might unfold.

“Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Commandant Franks, sir.”

“And where’s he at?”

Potter swallowed hard. “Missing.”

Mason tipped his head sideways.

“Missing how?”

“Sir, I can’t really say.”

“Well, someone’s in charge.”

“Yes, sir. Cadet Captain Artz is currently the ranking officer.”

“All right then. I need for you to take us to Captain Artz.”

“But sir—”

“No buts. Either you take us to see your captain, or we’re going in to find him ourselves. As you undoubtedly know, a deputy marshal has the authority to proceed unannounced onto any military installation.” The assertion was completely bogus, of course, but Mason suspected that an Army cadet wouldn’t know enough to question it.