The Fate Of Nations: F.I.R.E. Team Alpha: Book One (21 page)

              Okesa finally looked up from her tea. “I could never betray Monica; not telling her would be the same as lying.”

              “Well”, Carter said.”You need to know that nothing will change between you and me professionally. I won’t be transferring you unless that’s what you want.”

              Her eyes rose to meet his. “Thank you.”

              “I can’t honestly tell you that it won’t be a bit awkward between us for a while. But you’re Monica’s best friend. And, since that’s not going to change, you and I are going to be part of each other’s lives.”

              Okesa sipped her tea. “I hope so; Monica has been so good to me.”

              "Monica loves you," Carter said."So, the three of us are going to have
to
work this out."

              Okesa shifted slightly in her chair. “You're not angry with me?"

              "Hell no," Carter said. "If anything, I'm flattered. Like I said; it took a lot of guts and integrity to be so honest. I don't think I could have done it."

              "Is that true?" Okesa said; raising her eyes to see Carter's face.

              "You're damned right it's true," Carter said. "Hell, I tried to weasel out of having this conversation with you."

              Okesa managed another week smile. "What are we going to do, then?" Okesa asked.

              Carter shrugged. "For now, nothing,” he said. ”Once we all get home from this next mission the three of us can sit down, have dinner, and talk this all through. It will get worked out. There may be some awkward moments but, the way I see it, we’ll all be damn lucky if we’re still alive a week from now to feel awkward.”

              “That is true,” Okesa agreed.

              “The way I see it,” Carter said, “situations like this fester into something ugly when people ignore their feelings; or try to conceal them. Sooner or later everything comes out in the open all at once and at the worst possible time. At least this way we can deal with the situation calmly like reasonable people and not get blindsided by an emotional avalanche.”

              “That was my reasoning,” Okesa agreed. “I wanted Monica to hear about my feelings from me; not from second hand word of mouth.”

              “That was the right move,” Carter said. “Everything’s above board and there’s no room for misinterpretation or speculation.”

              “Thank you for being so understanding,” Okesa said looking Carter in the eye again. “

              “Not a problem,” Carter said. “But what I’m really having trouble understand is what you, or Monica for that matter, see in a beat up old soldier like me.”

              Okesa’s eyes brightened. “That is a question Monica should answer. Besides that, if you cannot see your endearing qualities form yourself, it is likely that no one could make you see them.”

              Carter smiled. “I can be pretty thick headed,” he said; “just ask Monica.”

              Okesa chuckled, “She actually used the term ‘mule headed’” she said.

              Carter laughed. “So, are you going to be alright until we get back from Brussels?” he asked.

              “Yes,” Okesa said. “It is a tremendous relief to have it all out in the open; knowing that you and Monica aren’t angry with me.”    

              “Alright,” Carter said. “Let’s just keep our heads in the game, go to Brussels, kill the enemy, and blow a bunch of shit up.”

                              Chapter Six

              Wright-Patterson Air Force Base

                            14 May 2104

              Light rain was falling. Hicks watched the arrowhead-shaped plane taxi onto the loading area. It was painted a flat, almost black gray and made surprisingly little sound. Built for radar evasion it was an aerodynamic lifting body and was without any obvious wings, fins or stabilizers that would provide a radar-reflective surface. There were no visible exhaust ports and no engine nacelles. The plane’s engines were recessed deep inside the fuselage; not only to muffle their sound, but also to mask the heat they produced. The skin was smooth and seamless; devoid of protruding rivets or bolts.

              Hicks turned at the sound of Carter’s voice, “The damn thing doesn’t look it should fly,” Carter said.

              “Well it does,” Hicks countered. “There are only four like it in the world. It can fly at six-hundred miles an hour, two hundred feet above the ground or at mach-four at one-hundred and twenty thousand feet while carrying up to ten fully equipped special operators. You can point a radar right at it from a hundred feet and not get a reading. If we need to, we can launch it from and aircraft carrier. It has a four thousand mile mission range, and it can be refueled in mid air. It’s so secret we didn’t even give it a name”

              “The pilots just call it the
Black Arrow
,” Carter said. “It does look like an arrow head.” The plane had come to a halt and a team of technicians joined the flight crew in performing one last pre-flight inspection.

              Turning to face Carter, Hicks found him already wearing the FIRE team’s standard black assault suit, both his main and reserve parachutes, the latest in closed circuit SCUBA gear, and seventy pounds of other equipment, weapons, and ammunition. He carried his helmet under his left arm. His face was covered in black, light absorbing camouflage paint.

              “I don’t think they’re quite ready for you,” Hicks said gesturing toward the working flight technicians.

              “I always try to get to the embarkation area early,” Carter said. “That last few hours before an operation is launched are the worst. If I’m here it at least feels like I’m doing something.”

              “It’s always best to get into battle quickly,” Hicks agreed.

              “We received a burst transitions from the subs carrying the other teams. They’ve arrived on their launch station as scheduled. Team Bravo is already at Rickenbacker Air Force Base; they’ll take off thirty minutes after you do. I’ll be heading for the
USS Inchon
as soon as I see Team Alpha off.”

“Say goodbye to Mama Hicks for me,” Carter said as a small truck carrying his team rolled to a stop nearby.

              Hick clapped Carter’s arm. “I will,” he said.

              Team Alpha spent several minutes checking each other’s equipment as the aircraft technicians finish their pre-flight inspections of the Black Arrow. When that was done the flight crew’s chief waved the team over; indicating that they could board the plane.

              Hicks shook each operators hand in turn. “Good luck Team Alpha; and good hunting.”

              “We’ll get the job done, Sir,” Carter said.

              “I know that, Doug,” Hicks replied. “There was never any doubt.”

              Carter only smiled slightly. “Let’s go, people,” he said to his team.

              Minutes later the Black Arrow was airborne with Team Alpha aboard. It was only seconds before it was swallowed by the darkness. Hicks found himself chilled by a cold that had nothing to do with the absence of heat.

                    [][][]

              You could forget that you were riding inside a super-sonic aircraft. The Black Arrow’s passenger compartment was pressurized, heated and equipped with sound and vibration dampeners. The compartment was spacious when compared to other military transports. It was lit, somewhat dimly, by small lights over each operator’s head. The operators were seated, facing each other, in well cushioned seats that were partially recessed into the plane’s fuselage; four on each side. Beside each team member was cylinder-shaped chamber just large enough to accommodate one fully equipped trooper.

              Carter looked at the cylinder directly across from him. He knew that it was connected to a slanted, six-foot, tube that lead to small hatches at the bottom-rear of the plane. When it came time to make the parachute drop, each operator would enter the cylinder next to them and a pressure door would seal it. When the plane approached the jump point, the tube would be de-pressurized and the operators would be given a five second warning before the cylinder’s floor would retract beneath their feet; dropping them into the tube. The doors at the end of the tube would retract into the fuselage only for the seconds it took for the operator to exit the plane. This system meant that the parachutists could make their jump without opening large doors in the sides or rear of the plane and compromise its radar-defeating shape.

              Beside him, DeFontain was also scrutinizing the drop-tube. “You’ve never jumped from a Back Arrow before, have you?” he asked the Jamaican woman.

              She turned her hooded, camouflage face toward him. “No, Boss,” she answered. “I it is going to be strange not being able to jump on my own. Just waiting for the floor to slide out from under me is going to be unnerving.”

              “Well, if we opened the cargo doors, we’d almost certainly be tracked on radar," he told her. “Would you rather jump while the pilot is dodging missiles?” he asked, tilting his head.

              She smiled slightly. “No, Boss; I think we can do without the missiles.”

              “So what else is bothering you?” Carter asked."You’ve been thinking hard about something for the whole flight.”

              DeFontain’s brow furrowed. “I’m wondering why the WCA soldiers fight for such a government,” she said. “Ever since our raid on the prison in France I’ve wondered why anyone could fight for a government that would do that to its people. Many of the prisoners we freed were children. Mertens and the other prisoners were in wretched condition.” She paused and looked at down; shaking her head. “Why don’t the people rise up? Why do the soldiers continue to obey? I can’t understand it."

              “That’s not something that’s something that’s easily understood,” Carter said. “Most WCA troops are conscripts and fight because they have to. The WCA makes sure that none of their military units serve in or near their home countries, or even in the same region. That way, their families are alone and defenseless. If a WCA soldier refuses to fight their families are killed or imprisoned.”

              “Also consider,” Williams said from his seat across from Carter, “That some of their units, such as the First Earth Guard, have been indoctrinated from childhood. Their parents were devout globalists, and so where their ancestors all the way back to the nineteen-sixties; perhaps even longer ago than that. You must understand that the globalist movement is not new; it is ancient. The WCA, as it exists today, is the product of centuries of planning. Its leaders have been prepared to assume their leadership roles from childhood. They carefully laid the groundwork for manipulating and controlling the masses.”

              “That’s right,” Carter said. “Units like the First Earth Guard are the hard core globalist believers. They look at individual liberty and self determination as the reason for all of mankind’s problems. Some even think that individualism is a mental illness. They actually believe that the WCA would eventually evolve into a system that isn’t oppressive; that everything would be better when everyone just accepts their social status, does whatever work that they’re assigned by the State, and is content to obey the ruling class. They would have all their needs met by the State, but would be completely subservient to the collective body politic. It would be kind of a political hive mentality.”

              “That would work too,” McNamara interjected. “Once you kill off every one who won’t sit down and shut up.”

              “I still can’t understand why no one fights back.” Defontain replied. “Even if it means having loved ones killed. Living day to day waiting to be killed or imprisoned for saying or doing the wrong thing has to be worse than death.”

              “Some people are fighting back; the FNF for instance,” Carter said, pointing to the FNF insignia on DeFontian’s uniform. “And don’t forget that the mission we’re on right now depends on the underground resistance fighters; it would be impossible to accomplish the mission without them. Most of the people we liberated from that prison in France were resistance fighters or political dissidents. They sacrificed everything to fight for what they believe in. As I recall your parents were killed for being dissidents.”

              “Yes, they were," Defontain confirmed. She realized that all eyes were now on her. “They were both doctors. They were educated in America, but they returned to Jamaica and opened a free clinic with the help of some American missionaries. When the war broke out, they treated casualties from both sides.”

              “And they were gunned down along with anyone else who wasn’t a WCA soldier,” Carter added.

              “Yes,” Defontain conformed. “I was in Florida; my fourth year of medical school. When I found out what happened to my parents, I joined the FNF.”

              Carter touched her arm. “Going from the reports I’ve read; your parents put themselves between their patients and a platoon of WCA troopers and stood their ground. They may not have fired a shot or threw any punches, but I’d say sure as hell resisted the WCA in their own way. They showed a whole lot of courage. Not everyone can take up a rifle. Some people resist just by being stubborn.”