Читать книгу Brother's Keeper - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 4

Deep Strike Command

U.S. Naval Station

Yokosuka, Japan

Two days prior.

Scott Rivers ran his fingers through his gray-speckled hair with trepidation. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, squeezing his eyes shut. This was going to be the most difficult assignment of his long career.

He looked down at the dossier he’d been studying for the past three days, going through the two-inch-thick stack of classified documents on one of DSC’s “persons of interest.” As head of the Deep Infiltration Task Group, the covert arm of the DSC, it was his job to select from dozens of qualified aviators for special flight sorties behind and beyond enemy lines.

These men not only had to match the technical skill set of the program, but possess the socio-psychological framework needed for the types of missions often considered suicidal. The chosen few who matched the profiles, passed the rigorous interviews, and scored well on various strategic aptitude tests, would train as members of the Department of Defense’s most secretive group of aviators-the Black Crow Squadron.

The squadron was such a covert team, so concealed from the rest of the fleet and the admiralty, that even contemporary squadron commanders had no idea what they really did. Their clearances and their duties were well beyond the scope of the frontline naval aviator, in that their orders reflected significant geo-political implications and matters of the highest security.

Black Crow pilots were not keepers of the peace, deterrents to war, bomber escorts or part of the forward fighting units like carrier pilots. Black Crows were aerial hit squads, the special forces units of the sky. Their mission was to fly deep into enemy territory under the cover of night or in horrific weather, and exact damage so great and precise that the enemy would be virtually crippled, delayed indefinitely, or completely decimated in that particular effort. These missions were run not just against enemies of the U.S., but against nations whose war machine developments were deemed too dangerous to allow their completion; and if already completed, too dangerous for their deployments or exportation.

Assembly plants, production warehouses, finishing factories, underground railways, smuggling routes, supply depots, weapons bunkers, sponsoring corporations, and satellite and Internet relay stations were all potential targets for the Black Crows. But these were generic targets in nature; there were also the “choice” targets. The homes, villas, chateaus, private planes, yachts and motorcades of warlords, drug lords, dictators, top commanders, renegade leaders, and corporate CEOs who financed them were on the list. Special weapons labs, terrorist training compounds, recruitment camps, weapons sweatshops, and key cyber engineering personnel were all targeted.

Intelligence and pinpoint locational data provided by the Navy’s OPTICA spy satellite and the thermal imaging and identification radars on the planes made AFA or, assassination-from-above missions, a major part of the DSC’s top secret and clandestine protocol. And doing this as deep as 3,500 miles into the enemy homeland gave “deep strike” an entirely new meaning. To put it succinctly, there was nowhere in the country a building, a route, or a person could hide where OPTICA and the Black Crows couldn’t find, hunt down and eliminate.

The enemy governments and militaries kept these attacks and assassinations secret from the general public and the media for the preservation of national pride, as well as hiding the fact that most of the targets were illicit and criminal in nature.

To carry out such missions, DSC needed a stealth air dominance platform that could remain virtually invisible to any of the modern radar and satellite technologies of the day; have a max ceiling of 75,000 feet and a max range of 3,000 miles; and fly seamlessly between the transonic, supersonic and hypersonic regimes. The max escape speed of such an aircraft was Mach 6—a speed unheard in aviation. The aircraft would be the fastest, highest and farthest flying aircraft ever designed; and would have to do all this while heavily armed. These design parameters were near impossible for the modern era, yet they were imperative to counter the anti-air warfare science of the time.

With stealth technology in the hands of dozens of industrialized nations, missiles designed to destroy such aircraft, known as “stealth seekers,” were in constant design and production demand. Most of the models were based on the revolutionary Chinese Dragon Fang surface-to-air missile, the first stealth missile ever designed. It was a breakthrough that would alter traditional aerial warfare roles and tactics. If such missiles entered the realm of enemy governments, no American or allied plane—-military or civilian-—would be safe. And this was already happening, and in one case, proved catastrophic for America. DSC was called in to end it.

The F-1 Cyclone was the answer. In partnership with Lockheed-Martin and NASA’s Experi-Nautics division, the 7^th generation stealth fighter was designed by the aero-science branch of the Naval Weapons Research Lab 5, or WEPS-FIVE. It was the WEPS labs that produced living legends in the field of bleeding edge weaponry, and living legends were the stuff of the Black Crow Squadron; Rivers should know-he was one of them. But there were also the dead ones. It was Rivers’ job to keep as many of his aviators off the ‘dead list’ as possible.

He sighed. He couldn’t believe what he was tasked to do with the profile in front of him. He rubbed his eyes again in despair.

“What are the odds?” he huffed. “How does he expect me to make this work?” The 24-year retired Navy Captain; 15 years of which was as a fighter pilot; six years as a naval-air intelligence staff consultant, and three as a National Security Agency covert analyst-all his experience told him that this couldn’t be done. Yet, his position required him to find a way to get it done.

He was specifically recruited by an old friend when DSC was formed because he was the most experienced and respected staff member of the program. He was held in high regard for his personal and professional counsel for the upper echelon, the pilots, and the missions themselves. His foresight was almost always on the money, and as a civilian he didn’t have to worry about rank, or whose ego would be bruised in dissension. So, when he thought something could or couldn’t be done, it was usually right, and the matter was closed.

He straightened out the files and slid them into the folder. He was about to get up, but then paused. Despite his careful and pragmatic analysis, deep down inside-among his improbable hopes and impossible dreams-something was telling him that maybe, just maybe, there could be a window of opportunity here. He opened the file folder once more, daring to indulge in the thought. But just as quickly, he took a breath and shook his head.

“No way. Things don’t just fall into place so perfectly in life. At least, not for me.” He checked his cell phone; it was time. He gathered the files and walked down the hall to his boss’ office. The door was open and Melinda, the perky office manager, greeted him with her customary warm smile.

“Hey Scott, good morning!” She looked at Rivers’ stolid expression and dropped her cheer. “Oh, boy. I know that face. Are you okay?”

“Things could be better, Melinda. Is the admiral in?”

“Go right on in, sir.”

With a curt smile he nodded and walked into Rear Admiral Bob Marrion’s office, the man who recruited him to DSC three years prior. Melinda closed the door once he was in the room and returned to her desk.

“Sit down, Scott,” said the burly, balled African-American with his massive back to him. Rivers took one of the two seats in front of desk. When Marrion turned around, he had a coffee cup in each hand. He set one down in front of Rivers, then sat down and took a sip of his own. Without looking at him, Marrion used his left hand to tap a few buttons on his laptop.

“I read your e-mail, Scott; twice, in fact.”

“And? What do you think of my assessment?”

“I think you’re wrong, to put it bluntly.” Rivers opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Marrion calmly raised his palm. “Slow down, Scott. There’s nothing wrong with your overall tactical analysis. Your points are clear and understandably conservative; but it seems you fail to see the premise of why I wanted you to head this particular project.”

“Admiral-”

“Bob, goddamn it,” Marrion blurted with light-hearted frustration. “How many times do I have to remind you? I know you still have your uniform pressed in your closet, but you’re a civilian now.” He snickered while Rivers nodded dismissively.

“Bob, you’ve trusted me all these years.”

“Twenty-five, actually,” Marrion added abruptly. “From the day we first met at the Academy.” Marrion smiled with pride, warmly displaying his deep sense of loyalty towards their friendship.

“Well then, why won’t you let this project go? I don’t support it; and even if I did, it’s such a long shot that it will work, to speak of nothing of the cost and risks involved.”

Marrion nodded with understanding.

“Relax, Scott. Drink your coffee.” Rivers put the cup to his lips and took a long sip. Marrion looked away from his laptop and pressed his hands together as if to pray. “Scott, do you believe in second chances?” This question seemed to catch Rivers off guard.

“What?”

“Second chances,” the admiral repeated. “Do you believe in them?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Sometimes thirds, depending on the situation.”

“Good, because I do very much believe in giving second chances,” Marrion said in a very low and committed tone. “You now have the authority to grant second chances to two individuals, maybe even three.”

“How?” Scott asked completely baffled.

“Commander Rudy Miller, the man you replaced.”

“But I’ve never met him.”

“That’s because he left a few months before I called you. He was picked up for Captain, but refused it.” Marrion’s face registered regret. “He couldn’t live with himself and abruptly retired. That’s why you received all your pass-down from me personally.” Rivers simply stared at him, not making any connections. Marrion realized this and nodded. “I just sent you a detailed e-mail attachment with all the facts about the case. You will understand more when you read it.”

“Why don’t you just tell me, Bob?”

“Because we both know you are too cerebral. You need time to mull things over, and I want you to have all the facts of this project on paper so you can integrate it. It’s what you do best, better than anyone I know.” He leaned forward across his desk. “It’s what I’m counting on.”

“I take it that this project is going forward despite my reservations?”

“Affirmative. This matter has one of the highest priorities for the Pentagon and I’m to report to Admiral Espinoza directly at regular intervals, not to mention those above me in the DSC circle.”

“How much time do I have?”

“We have everything you need, and have arranged all the particulars from paperwork, locations, to the logistics. If your initial contact is successful, we’re expecting you to be ready to go in six months. After that, we may have run out of time; which also translates to the world running out of time.”

Rivers mulled over the timeframe and the situation silently. He looked at Marrion whose eyes were almost pleading.

“Bob, it’s such a-”

“Long shot, we know this. But the situation is so dire, so important to our national security, that we’ve got to try.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got to try.”

Rivers looked deep into Marrion’s eyes and saw the concern and fear that shackled him. This was indeed a massive undertaking, perhaps an impossible one; but if Bob Marrion asked him to do it, who was he to deny him? Who was he to ignore 25 years of close friendship? He nodded his head affirmatively, albeit reluctantly.

“Thank you, Scott.” Marrion handed him a sheet of paper. “This is your e-ticket for your flight to San Francisco. You leave tonight. Melinda has money and documents for you, plus two return reservations. If it doesn’t work out, let us know and we’ll cancel the other reservation.”

“I understand. Then I guess I’d better get packing.” Marrion stood up and offered his hand, which Scott took without hesitation.

“I know this is completely out of your job description, Scott; but as far as I’m concerned, if there’s anyone who can make this work, it’s you. Don’t worry, if you can’t, just come back. We’ll find another way.” Rivers nodded, still clutching Marrion’s hand.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Admiral.” He let go and proceeded towards the door.

“It’s Bob, goddamn it!”

Rivers smiled, suddenly a bit more comforted that no matter what happened, he’d still have his impenetrable friendship with Bob Marrion.

More than 20 hours later, he would find himself in a room at the Concord Sheraton Hotel, just a few miles from where his new mission would begin.