While Diaz discussed poxviruses in the back of the plane, the Special Forces soldiers of Team 5 were relaxing in the front section of the specially modified Boeing C-17. Their time in France had been short. After being on the ground for less than twenty-four hours, they were speeding to a classified location for a mission that was still unclear. Such was the life of a Special Forces soldier. Move, adjust, move again … all without being seen. But this time things were different. Something big was about to happen. The soldiers could feel it.
Looking through one of the jets small round windows, Ben could see a swarm of unmarked, desert camouflage-painted planes flying all around them. Off the tip of their right wing, he saw four more Boeing C-17 Globemasters, all flying in formation, while off to their left, he could see two air-refueling tankers, plus a fighter escort consisting of six Israeli F-15’s. He knew from experience that the cargo planes held more specially-trained troops, along with their armored vehicles, a few MH-60 Blackhawk helicopters, and enough supplies and weapons to launch a small war.
Speeding across the Atlantic with a heightened sense of urgency, this aerial armada was headed to a government airfield far from prying eyes deep in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona. The construction of the airfield had been funded by the American CIA back in the days of the Cold War, and for years it had sat deserted, its wooden buildings baking in the sun, until a private company based in Nevada had leased the property from the General Accounting Office to test new drone aircraft they were developing for the military.
After flying over the Isthmus of Panama, the formation flew out over the Pacific Ocean before turning north and heading straight up the center of the Sea of Cortez. After descending to a height of fifty feet, they continued wave hopping over the water to avoid radar until they crossed an isolated stretch of beach forty miles west of the condos that followed the water’s edge in the resort town of Puerto Penasco, Mexico. From there, they continued their low altitude, high speed run over the desert, skirting towering, rock tumbled mountains ringed with cactus, until finally they crossed over the international border into Arizona.
The primary reason for the aircraft’s stealthy approach was to avoid alerting the Mexican government to their presence, but there was another reason. They wanted to test the Mexican’s air defense capability. As predicted, nothing happened.
Now, as the glow from the lights of the desert city of Tucson, Arizona illuminated the dark sky off their right, they went to high alert. Entering U.S. airspace was a much different proposition than entering Mexican airspace, and within minutes, they were surrounded by American fighter jets of every description, including F-16’s, F-15’s, and the new F-22 Joint Strike Fighter. Wagging their wings in greeting, the American fighters peeled off and headed back to their bases. This brief encounter with American Forces had also been anticipated by the Israelis, for on this occasion, their crossing of the U.S. border at night had been cleared by the President of the United States following an urgent phone call from the Prime Minister of Israel.
Flying north over the Superstition Mountains, the pilot of the lead fighter jet began scanning the darkness below for signs of their destination field. Entering a coded radio frequency into his flight computer, he clicked his microphone switch once, and immediately a row of intense white lights along both sides of a long runway began switching on, revealing a glowing ribbon of paved desert that lay stretched out before him. Seconds later, at the approach end of the runway, another set of lights erupted in an arrow-like line of sequenced flashes that pointed the way to their landing spot. Pilots who were long on nerve and short on fuel referred to the running flashes of light as the rabbit, because it ran along the ground and pointed the way to safety when they were forced to make a landing at an unfamiliar field on a dark and turbulent night.
Circling down to land in pairs, the desert air was still warm when the planes whistled to a stop in front of a row of wooden WWII era hangars. The first men to emerge from the planes into the dry stillness could see bats flitting beneath the halogen lights by the hangars, while in the distance, a ring of dark jagged shapes rose from the desert floor, blotting out the star-filled sky along the horizon, a clear sign that this isolated base was encircled by a ring of tall mountains.
John stretched as he breathed in the warm, dry air. “Our ranch is a couple of hundred miles on the other side of those mountains. I suddenly have a craving for some Mexican food.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for some MRE’s until the cooks set something up in one of the hangars,” Lev said. “I heard they’ll be making a little foray into town in the morning to buy some extra supplies. I can slip them a special request if you care to make a list. I love Mexican food. Be sure to write down corn tortillas and skirt steak … oh, and lots of hot sauce … and cheese, lots of cheese.”
John was scribbling furiously as he made his list. “I can build a fire with some of the mesquite wood around here and we’ll be eating like kings tomorrow night.”
Lev pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a match. “We’ll use that hangar over there as our main base of operations. I want to hold our first briefing in an hour.”
“What about that?” John said, pointing to a mobile home parked beside the hangar.
“It’s worth checking out. I hope it has air conditioning. It’s supposed to be 107 degrees here tomorrow afternoon.”
“Just like the Negev Desert.”
Memories of the year before flooded their thoughts, but they were quickly drowned out by the sound of helicopters approaching over the desert-lots of helicopters.
The sudden appearance of so many helicopters at once looked surreal as they emerged from the darkness and passed over the lighted runway. One by one, they hovered into position and landed in rows in front of the hangars. When the last turbine engine whined to a stop, the Israeli soldiers watched as thirty American pilots walked out of the darkness into the glare of the hangar’s lights. A tall man wearing an olive-drab flight suit and a gray cowboy hat walked right up to Ben. Both men’s faces lit up as they hugged each other like long-lost brothers.
“Ben Zamir, you little Jew piss-ant.”
“Ed Wilson, you stupid redneck.”
“I take it you two know each other,” Lev said.
“I believe the cavalry has arrived,” Ben said, turning toward Lev with a grin. “Professor, I want you to meet Colonel Ed Wilson, the commander of this wing of the U.S. Army’s First Air Cavalry Division. We trained together in a joint training exercise at Fort Bragg last year.”
“Good to meet you, Colonel,” Lev said, extending a hand to a smiling man with a short military-style haircut and thin moustache. To Lev, the man looked just like Errol Flynn, the popular 1940’s era movie star. His tanned face crinkled around a pair of intelligent gray eyes-eyes that seemed to catch every movement around him.
“Where did you and your men come from, Colonel?”
“Fort Hood, sir … Texas. Please, call me Ed.”
“Then you better drop the sir and start calling me Lev.”
A big grin spread beneath Wilson’s thin moustache. “Ok, Lev. Where do we bunk?”
The two men looked around at the American and Israeli forces staring at each other across an invisible line on the tarmac. They looked like two football teams sizing each other up before a big game.
“Don’t worry, Lev,” Wilson said, still grinning. “These men will all be swapping war stories and showing each other pictures of their sweethearts an hour from now.”
“Good, because we’re just about to start our first briefing. Let’s get everyone inside the hangar.”