Strike Force Charlie (28 page)

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Authors: Mack Maloney

BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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“Take this, please,” she asked him. “And when you get to the last mile on your journey … when it might seem like you can't go another stop, take it out. Hold it. Think of my son. His memory. What he died for. I hope it will give you the strength to carry on.”
Ryder was speechless. The rest of the team were as well. A helicopter flew over. The truck started to pull away. Ryder had just enough time to snatch the medal from her hand before they were moving very quickly. The two oldsters stood in the empty parking lot, suddenly alone, watching the truck go.
June waved and blew them a kiss.
Jack stood, back straight, shoulders proudly square, and gave them a long, crisp salute.
 
 
Thus began an 14-hour, 400-mile odyssey.
They rode the first semi out of the Black Hills and along the approaches to the Rockies, entering by Interstate 25. The constant grind of gears as the truck climbed the initial peaks was broken only by the thrill of the huge vehicle tearing down the other side of the mountain. The smell of diesel exhaust and burning brakes filled the compartment where the ghosts lay.
Their first stop was at a small town called Pebble Creek. Another diner, this one barely a log cabin, with gas pumps. Another truck was waiting here. This one was hauling wallboard. The team had no conversation with the driver—none was needed. They tried to squeeze themselves in among the huge slabs of hardened plaster, being careful to hide their weapons first. This truck carried them for two more hours, again a cycle of long, smelly climbs, followed by the hair-raising joy of barreling down the other side of a mile-long slope.
They changed trucks again midafternoon. This switch was made at another tiny truck stop, this one deep in the forest of the lower Rockies. The transfer was swift, but the team spotted not just one but two helicopters flying over the area. A reason for concern? They were not sure. Copters flew over the Rockies, didn't they?
The third truck was an enclosed lumber hauler. It smelled of thick pine and sap, but because this was expensive wood, it was all wrapped in packing blankets, with plenty of extras for the team to sack out on.
This trip lasted another three hours. The fourth and last transfer took place in a highway rest area in the dead of night. This was another covered semi—no blankets, no expensive wood products. Just an empty trailer. It was the most uncomfortable leg of the journey but was also the shortest. Barely two hours later, the truck stopped and the team piled out.
They were in deep forest with nothing but trees and the
roadway. The driver pointed to a path leading into the thick woods.
“That's the way, boys,” he said.
Fox looked at the path and then back at the driver.
“You want us to go where?” he asked, as puzzled as the rest of them.
“You guys need an airplane right?” the trucker said.
“We do,” Fox replied for them.
“Then I was told to tell you just walk that way,” he said, again pointing to a very narrow path. “And just keep going straight.”
With that, he revved up his engine and with no wave, no salute, rumbled away, leaving them alone, in the middle of nowhere.
 
The first bus carrying the Al Qaeda missile teams would be traveling along Route 27 in West Texas early on the morning of July 3.
It was to stop at a rest area along the highway on the premise of letting its passengers use the bathrooms. At this rest area would be a sleeper agent who'd been living in Texas for seven years, waiting for this day to be activated. He would join the others on the bus, which would then pass through Amarillo, then on to Dallas
Fort Worth, where another missile team would try for another shot at another airliner.
Taken from the cutout Ramosa's laptop, this information was written down in scribbles by Bates during the hasty phone conversation with Ozzi just hours before the campground attack. It was scribbled because it was taken for granted at the time that the two ghost teams would be talking again soon. A very bad assumption, as it turned out.
Why this information was lying inside Ramosa's laptop, virtually unprotected, they had no idea. The laptop contained nothing further on any other sleeper teams. It was the only evidence they'd picked up so far that actually gave the movements of the first bus, where it would be, at a specific time, in a specific place.
Certainly it was a valuable piece of intelligence. But it
couldn't do the west side ghosts much good now. They were hopelessly lost, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, or at least thought they were. They'd been walking through the woods in the dark for two hours now, not knowing what else to do. The path they'd been told to take was narrow and winding and the forest overhead so thick, it barely let the moonlight through. They were moving in a line, with Bates out front, followed by Fox and Puglisi, and Ryder bringing up the rear. The terrain was so screwy, and with very little light sometimes it was hard for them to tell if they were going uphill or down—a perfect analogy for their lives in the past week.
They must have looked strange, Ryder thought more than once during this trek to nowhere. The four men, heavily armed and armored, right down to their battle helmets and suits, walking through the dense woods. It was almost as if they were in another place, in another time. The Ia Drang Valley? The Huegten Forest?
It just didn't seem like they were still in America.
These and other strange thoughts had been bouncing around Ryder's skull for the past two hours, maybe as a defense mechanism against dwelling on more important things he should have been thinking about, no matter how painful they might be.
Gallant … Ryder couldn't count the number of times since the aftermath of the campground attack that when some kind of question came up, he'd turned to ask Gallant what he thought they should do, only to find his comrade was no longer there. The guy had been their rock. Mr. Dependable. A quiet presence that spoke volumes about his professionalism.
It should have been me
…
That was the song going around Ryder's head now, a dreadful tune that wasn't going anywhere else soon …
It should have been me
…
Another worry, though, the one he tried to keep
out
of his head, was almost as troubling: Dropped off in the middle of nowhere? Walking through a black forest for two precious
hours? With not the faintest idea where they might be or why?
Had they been betrayed? By the Ruckers? By the truckers? By the people on CB planet? It would be a simple deceit if they had. Send them into the woods so deep, that even in summer it got so cold at night, they might not ever come out again. Or just plain get lost. These were the demons nipping at Ryder's heels, when suddenly, he heard Bates cry out …
“What the hell is this?”
The four of them stopped in their tracks. They were walking in a line with Bates out front. Never had Ryder heard the computer whiz sound so excited. A strange smell came to him just about the same time he heard Bates yell. Burnt wood. Suddenly, it was very thick in the forest air.
Bates had come upon a clearing in the woods. It was what lay beyond that had caught his attention. It was no longer a forest. It was the
remains
of a forest. The landscape for the next mile or so looked more like the surface of the moon than some place in the Rockies.
“What happened here?” Puglisi asked. “A bomb hit this place?”
“Worse,” Fox said. “A forest fire … .”
They kept walking, though. Strangely, the path itself was still visible. But they were more careful, more aware, than just stumbling along, still not knowing where it would bring them.
It took them a half hour or so, but they finally found themselves back in the woods. Ryder at least was happy to be under trees again; walking through the devastated forest was one of the creepiest things he'd ever done. But they were in for another surprise, because up ahead was another clearing, and this one had not been caused by the scorched earth of a forest fire.
This was a lake.
And floating on that lake, glimmering in the dark, was an airplane.
A firefighting airplane.
Draped in American flags.
The Hunn Solution
Maria Chunez had never been on a Greyhound bus before.
She'd never had a reason to before today. Growing up in the border town of Mexiras, about forty miles south from Laredo, she'd stayed close to home, never crossing the border or even wondering what Texas was like. But earlier that year, her niece had moved to Oklahoma City, finding a great job right away. As a Christmas present, six months early, she'd sent Maria and her two young sons round-trip tickets to Oklahoma by way of Greyhound.
Maria had spent a lovely week with her niece; now she was heading home. At 35, this had been the biggest event in her life. She loved Oklahoma City; she loved the American people. But most of all, she loved the Greyhound bus.
It was so new and shiny and clean—and so pleasantly cool inside. It had a bathroom onboard, which was just astonishing to her, plus TVs, movies, and radios. All of the passengers she'd met on the ride up to Oklahoma had been very nice to her, even when Muneo, her youngest at two years, got fussy. She liked it all so much, she was already dreaming about another trip to Oklahoma City, same time, next year, riding on the big silver Greyhound again.
It was six in the morning now and the bus was heading south on Route 27. Many of the passengers who got on in
Oklahoma City had got off at Amarillo. Since four that morning, it had been just Maria, her two sons, two elderly nuns, and the driver onboard. Maria had slept well in her seat during the night, as had her sons. A rest stop about an hour before had given them a chance to get breakfast, from a vending machine, another novelty Maria had never seen before. Still nearly 20 hours from home, she looked forward to spending the day watching the landscape of West Texas go by.
And Maria was doing just that when she first saw the strange airplane. It was funny that she noticed it at all. She was fascinated by the vast cotton fields, with their red dirt and huge circular watering systems. She was staring out the window, marveling at them, when, off in the distance, she saw the red and yellow airplane. It was very low; that's what caught her attention. It was out to the east, off to her left, flying very fast and coming right at the bus.
Maria had seen airplanes before, of course, but not one quite like this. Its bottom was shaped more like a boat than an airplane. Its wing looked like it was upside down, attached on top of the plane and not on the bottom, as she had always thought airplanes were built. It had two strange things hanging down from the end of this strange wing. They looked like two smaller boats themselves.
Why would an airplane look like a boat?
Maria thought.
She looked around the bus and wondered if anyone else could see it. But the nuns were asleep and so were her kids. The bus was just about the only vehicle on this part of the highway this early morning. She didn't think it was important enough to bother the driver about it, at least not at the moment.
But when Maria looked out the window again, the airplane had come up on them so fast, suddenly it looked like it was going to crash into them. It was so close now, Maria could see the face of the pilot bearing down on them.
At the very last moment, the plane veered wildly to the right and disappeared over the top of the bus. The noise of its two engines was deafening, though, enough to cause her
two sons to wake up crying. Maria blocked her ears. The nuns woke up startled, too.
Just as suddenly, the airplane reappeared. It had turned over and was now riding right alongside the bus, flying so low, it was almost even with them. Planes were supposed to be fast, Maria had always thought. How could this plane go slow enough to match their speed? She had no idea. Its wheels were down now and it looked like parts of its strange wings were lowered and its engines were smoking almost as if they, too, wanted to be moving faster. But the rest of it was a mystery to her.
Maria thought for a moment the plane was trying to land on the highway. Maybe that was it … . But then she saw two small doors open on the side of its skin and two men appear behind them. They were dressed in black uniforms and were wearing helmets. They looked like soldiers, except they had beards and long hair and appeared to be disheveled. The plane was so close by now, Maria could clearly see their faces.
She could also see their guns.
This was frightening, because Maria knew about guns. And these were huge. They were hardly hunting rifles but more of the type she thought the military would use.
Again, all of this was happening so fast that just Maria and the bus driver were really seeing what was going on—and he had yet to react. The unreality of it all had overwhelmed him as it had Maria. She sensed he wasn't sure what to do, stop or keep going. The plane started shaking. It wasn't flying fast enough! The men inside crouched behind their weapons as if they were about to fire. She could see them taking aim … .
But then something happened, Maria wasn't sure what, but the men behind the guns were suddenly distracted. The plane started shaking again, and with an even louder roar from its engines it was gone. Climbing quickly, it shot off down the highway.
But the strangeness was not over. In fact, it was just beginning.
Barely had Maria caught her breath when she saw the airplane coming again. This time it was heading in the other direction, flying close to another Greyhound bus, this one going north on Route 27.
The weird plane was doing the same thing, somehow matching its speed with that of the bus, the men hanging out of the open doorways now on the other side of the plane, their guns in full view. Maria saw all this in the blink of an eye as the two buses roared by each other, going in opposite directions on the highway.
At that point, the man driving Maria's bus regained his composure. He seemed intent to keep on driving when he looked into his rearview mirror—and suddenly switched lanes. He did this with such speed, everything not tied down on the bus was suddenly airborne. They nearly tipped over, the bus swerved so violently. Maria was just able to grab her kids and hold on, thinking something had just happened to the driver, that maybe he'd been shot. But actually he'd just saved their lives. For not an instant later yet
another
Greyhound bus went by them, traveling in the passing lane as if they were standing still. It was going at least twice as fast as they, driving wildly down the highway. Had it hit them from behind, at that speed, they would have all been killed.
In the split second it took for this bus to go by, Maria could see its windows seemed to be darker than the bus she was on. And it looked like many people were aboard. But she was amazed, too. She didn't know America had so many Greyhound buses. They were everywhere!
Finally her bus driver pulled over to the side of the road. It was now obvious that something was very wrong here. Every vehicle on both sides of the highway had stopped by now, too—except the speeding dark-windowed bus.
Suddenly the weird airplane appeared yet again. It swooped down on top of the speeding bus and, without any hesitation, the gunmen on board started firing at it. Maria's bus driver was on his cell phone now, yelling to someone about the incredible events they were witnessing. The person on the other end must have told the driver to get out of
the area as quickly as he could, because he threw the cell phone aside, put the bus back into gear, and started inching forward again.
But now there were many more cars stopped and pulled over on the highway, creating a small traffic jam at the crest of a rare hill. Maria's bus stopped, too, and this allowed them all to look out on the airplane and the speeding bus as they roared down the roadway, the gunners on the plane firing away without mercy.
Suddenly the speeding bus wasn't speeding anymore. It had slowed down so much, the plane had to accelerate or it would have crashed. Finally the plane pulled up and started circling the bus, which by now had swerved onto the median strip and slowed to a crawl.
“They've killed whoever was behind the wheel!” Maria's driver cried out.
Still the plane circled the bus, twin streams of red gunfire tearing up the vehicle in a most methodical fashion. Even with her untrained eye, Maria had to marvel at the person piloting this plane. And the more the men in the plane shot at it, the slower the bus went. Finally it just stopped altogether.
But the airplane dropped even lower now and continued firing into the bus. Suddenly came a huge explosion. Even though they were at least a half-mile away, Maria's bus was rocked by the resultant shock wave. The flash alone was blinding; it looked like a fireworks display was erupting from the back of the bus. Maria could see colors she never knew existed.
Although many people on both sides of the highway were now getting out of their cars to see these events, some even recording it all with their small video cameras, Maria's bus driver resumed driving again. They were about thousand feet away when they saw the airplane climb out of the fireball. It circled the devastated bus once more, then, with a roar of its engines, thundered away, heading west.
Not 30 seconds later, Maria's Greyhound passed the wreckage of the bus. It was totally engulfed in flames. Incredibly, there were some bodies sprawled on the ground
outside its front door. Several people onboard had tried to get out at the last moment, but the airplane's gunners had shot them down as well.
As they drove by, Maria got a fairly close look at these bodies. There were four of them; two were still on fire.
All were dressed like soccer players.

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