Captain Carl Severs, 1st Ranger Battalion, out of Ft. Lewis, state of Washinton, leaned back in the chair at Burger King on El Camino Real. Just off the infamous Lawrence Expressway in the heart of Santa Clara, he and his seven men were seated in pairs throughout the "restaurant" munching down their Double Whoppers. There were somewhat enjoyable, especially since Uncle Sam was paying for them. All of the Rangers patrolling Silicon Valley were able to file expense reports for their meals, and somebody was insuring that they were paid regularly without alerting someone in the GOA as to the volume of hamburgers and french fries going down the gullets of America's finest.
Carl was tiring of this operation. He felt like he was spying on his own countrymen. Every tanned individual they came upon was at once suspicious. Their stereotype of Moslem terrorist was hard to throw off, despite the fact that they had all been drilled with the everyday faces of the core members of the Nimr Billail' organization. He had laughed at his own paranoia over the last two months, as he had, several times, decided he was watching a terrorist about ready to jerk out an UZI and kill everyone in sight, when the man's family would rush up and hug him as they met him for a quick lunch break. It was sad.
Now chewing his hamburger, he wondered how he would really be able to tell. Anyone could be a terrorist in disguise. In fact, there need be no disguise. Just as in Europe, the free worlds allowed, yes and even encouraged travel across their borders. People of all races, creeds religions, and even fanatic believe could mingle at will.
America, of course was special, in that of her people were by definition made up of the all the world's peoples. There were a large number of Iranian's who fled Iran when the Shah was deposed. Saudi's, Jordanians, Turks, Lebanese. It really didn't matter where they had lived. The lived here now, and had been taken into the American society. So you really couldn't point out a foreign looking face, and say to yourself, "there goes a non- American." You couldn't make that generalization.
He supposed the same were true of other countries, say like Israel. Of course, they had similiar problems. Many sects of the Moslem faith lived in and around Jerusalem. They were also spread throughout the Israeli countryside. How could one tell if an Arabic speaking person were simply a Moslem rather than a bloodthirsty terrorist?
And Carl knew that the pressures of this non- surveillance were building upon his men as well. Some of them were really beginning to miss their own loved ones back in Washington. If a terrorist struck in the state of Washington, there would be hell to pay with his men. He could just see the re- enlistment figures after that occurrence.
He sighed, his ride today, Lt. Davis Jackson, grinned. Probably thinking I am commenting on my burger. Of course Davis Jackson loved all fast food. When he was home, he was far to busy chasing the elite women of the Black community, all of whom were totally enamored with the tall Black and mysterious Ranger. Hell Davis cut quite a path through all races of women. He was happy to be lacking in prejudices, and even more so when it came to members of the fairer sex. Capt. Severs only hoped his Lt. used condoms. It would be horrible for this man to come down with AIDS.
Then it struck him. How was Jackson holding up down here in the Bay Area, the warm spring weather bringing out the short-shorts and halter tops? God no wonder the man was stuffing down the food. He was going to gain 30 pounds before he was through. Then Carl realized that his Lt. was just compensating. Indulging in his second love food, instead of his first love, women. "Oh well, have another french fry, Jackson" he said silently to the Lt. wolfing down his second large fry.
Further North in Silicon Valley, Captain Jeffry Normont tossed the bag of cassette tapes into the front seat of the rover, and nodding to the driver, Lt. Avery Jefferson, he fastened his seat belt. The two men then crossed over to the side gate of Hamilton and wound their way down to the south bay, seemingly a couple of sturdy guys out for a drive on the weekend. They never noticed their tail, a non-descript light blue Mercury sedan.
Buck kept close to the Bronco, but made sure it wasn't too obvious. He had followed the men from Hamilton, thinking that perhaps they would lead him to something more interesting than a story about Army helicopters at an Army base. Despite the obvious number of helos on the strip there, it wouldn't be much more than a "tailer" story, not really his style. He needed something bigger, something to pay for his expenses to fly all the way out from Washington.
When the Bronco turned off highway 101 onto highway 92, he consulted his map to see where they might be going. Highway 280 most likely, and into Silicon Valley. Perfect. Or so he hoped. It would be a real bitch if these guys were heading to Half Moon Bay to hit the beaches. The thought caused him to bite his lip for a minute, but shortly the Bronco moved into the left hand lane and swept onto 280 southbound.
After about a forty minute ride, they finally exited off 280 and moved up highway 85, then exited onto El Camino Real. Moving Northwest, the Bronco finally pulled into a local Taco Bell on the famed mission trail, and Buck parked on the opposite side of the small building. He thought to himself, "kind of a long way to come to buy a taco" as the men ordered up some fast food. With a grin he decided to confront them in his normal sweet manner. Sitting down in the small booth next to them, he turned and said,
"Kind of a long way from home aren't you soldier?"
The tall blonde haired man started at the comment, and his partner fixed an ugly stare at Buck that made him regret for the moment that he had chosen to be so direct. But both men shrugged and then the older of the two said,
"Dayton of ABC, right?"
"Ouch. Yep you got me. So who are you?"
"None of your business. You're the blue Ford sedan."
"Ouch again. Yep, as you might have guessed I followed you from Hamilton."
"That's too bad, Mister Dayton" spoke up the other. "Seems you've wasted your time. We're just a couple of reservists on TDY. Nothing to get excited about. So why don't you go bug the shit outta' someone else?"
Buck was quiet for a second as both men grinned at each other while stuffing their mouths with the crunchy remains of four tacos each.
Finally Buck spoke again, "Can't stand it when someone acts so friendly. Nope. Makes me feel like I'm gonna get shafted any minute." Then in a hushed voice he continued, "Well I certainly feel safe...Two guys from Delta right here..."
"Ha!" the tall one barked out turning a few heads in the fast food place. "Boy that's a laugh. I guess we have you fooled. Jeff, I'm considering throwing this idiot out. Next time you shoot in the dark Mr. Dayton, I would recommend you take a big flashlight with you, or least do your homework."
Buck winced as both men laughed it up again, realizing that he had indeed made a big mistake. Right in the middle of their laughter, the younger man produced a black baseball cap, plopped it on over his blonde hair, and led his partner back out to the Bronco. It had a remarkably authentic looking 1st Ranger Battalion patch on it. Then Buck realized that was because it really was a Ranger patch. Boy had he ever stuck his foot into it that time. Rangers thought themselves every bit as elite as Delta, and since both units were part of Special Forces, Buck knew he was still very close to a great story.
But rather than leave Buck behind, the two men were lounging around his car when he finally finished his own order and stepped outside.
"If you want a good story, we can take you to one."
Buck didn't like the sound of that. It whiffed of a subtle trap for a newsman, and one thing he had to avoid was an un-informed source story. His editor would kill him right now. But what the hell. A story was a story, and you never knew, someone might trip up and spill too much.
"Okay I'll bite, but first you have to tell me a little something that will make my day."
"Okay, deal. The business at Hamilton is a ruse, a diversion. If anything else, it is mostly a set of reinforcements to the real action folks here."
"Delta, Right?" asked Buck just a little overly excited about it.
"Boy you have a real thing about Delta! Must be some kinda new groupie. You coming or not?"
He followed the Bronco through the main street of Mountain View and soon they pulled into the lot near the front gate of Moffett. There they invited him to join them in the Bronco.
At the gate, the older man flashed his ID, invoking a salute from a relaxed, almost slow moving Marine Sergeant in charge of the high visibility reinforced guard detail.
"I'm Sergeant Normont, this is Sergeant Jefferson and Buck Dayton of ABC. Please call this number and ask for Commander Guard."
The Marine saluted again, the name Commander Guard somehow inspiring a new quickness to his movements.
Once inside Moffett they drove through the aging but well kept buildings of the base, and along the freshly mowed expanse of grass that served to surround the two small ship's guns mounted near the flag pole. Hoping to get a little more out of the men, Buck asked a naive question, assuming he would get some more of the humor and perhaps a little information. But the two had obviously been given orders to the contrary on their drive from the Taco Bell.
Finally they pulled up to a small office building near the huge Hanger One. Inside Buck waited while the two men disappeared through an unmarked office door. He tried to ignore the well marked Marine with the flap open over his deadly .45 caliber automatic. He had no doubts about his status here, and the Marine's reaction if he were to stand up as if to leave. So he sat quietly, almost meekly. No sense in stirring he natives. Especially those with thick necks of leather. He had far too much respect for the reaction time and single minded match of action to the given order of a Marine. He was quite clearly content to wait patiently. After all this really was what he had intended, to be in on whatever had them quietly scurrying around in D.C.
After a few minutes of hearing muted yelling from the other office, he was invited into that room.
Behind the desk, a Navy Full Commander sat in Navy tans. Buck didn't have to think long before recognizing the black man. The last time he had seen him, he had been dressed in Army Green, aboard the U.S.S. Kennedy, way out in the middle of the Mediterranean. At that time it was the second service uniform the man had been in. This was the third. Immediately he realized that he had been right all along about Colonel Justice Jackson.
The man was an Intelligence hack. It really didn't matter which service he was in nor did it matter if he was even from a military operations group. For all Buck cared, the man could be NSA, FBI, CIA or any of the Intelligence Directorate's other arms. The point was that he could and would wear any uniform it pleased him to.
"Hello Mr. Dayton. Seems you are learning some bad habits" the tall black man said, his anger obviously still clear in his face. "I have a mind to lock you up."
"Right. All I've done so far is follow a couple of military types to a fast food place. Obviously treason. Guess I'll get ten years for this."
"Don't get cute. Just sit there and shut up. I've gotta' think what we're gonna do about you."
"Don't fret it. As I said, I've done nothing that even someone in Intelligence...now there's a fine bit of irony...can do about it."
"In case you've forgotten, Mr. Dayton, you are on a military base. And right now, I control who comes on and who goes off this base. You may very well be visiting us for a long time."
Buck shut up at that, noting he had been right, he had been lured in to a kind of trap. Once on "their" turf, he had to follow the rules. It was that or get blacklisted from press pools forever. His last opportunity in that role in the Mediterranean had payed off so well, that he was pretty reluctant to give up his "in". So he sat their quietly as Jackson doodled on his blotter. Finally the man seemed to cheer up a little and picked up the phone.
"Get me Ace Leader" was all he said and hung up. In a few minutes, the phone rang and Jackson picked it up again saying, "Commander Guard here. I've got someone here you might want to meet. In fact, I think we ought to bring him into this. Yes, the pressman. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yep, that's the way I figured it. Okay? Right. I'll send him over in a few. You bet. Yes, Sir. I'll take care of it. Yes Sir."
"Okay, Mr. Dayton. I will have a form for you to sign. As of 10:00 this morning, you have been part of a one man press pool operation. You will not communicate about anything you see or hear, under the information and security act of 1981. If you wish to speak with anyone, it will have to wait until after this operation is over. Any breach will be a breach of National Security." Then as an orderly came in with a sheave of papers, he continued,
"The paper you are about to sign is a re- affirmation of your National Security Oath, with the normal press waiver dealing with securing information and prior-approval...you've seen this before. You will be instructed which material you can and cannot discuss. But essentially you will not speak of any conversations you initiate or overhear without prior permission of the Public Relations Officer. Your interviews will be edited in your presence, and the the only material released will be that which is deemed as not dangerous to American Military Operational Security or National Security until this operation is over, or within the next thirty days. Is all this clear? Good. Sign here, press hard, three copies."
Jud Tyler looked over the expanse of Great America, looking for places someone could hide. From this viewpoint it was at least fifty percent of the park which was hidden by the cool covering of the trees. The overly hot Spring day was a record breaker, and the crowds tended to avoid the areas of heat between the trees. Looking to his left, he could see the edges of the parking lot near the Redwood Grove, an amphitheater that promised a crowd tonight at 7:30 with a rock band wailing until 11:00 pm. Directly below him he watched as the crowd in front of the gates wound a path either to the left or to the right. Going toward New Orleans place, the thickest part of the crowd wound left, and he could just make out portions of it as the people went under the overpass of the small Great America railroad.
It really was an ideal place to hide, this theme park. Unlike Disneyland or other huge parks, this one was compact and tree covered. From the one hundred feet in the air it looked much like a forest.
"Just wait here please" the young soldier said, and Buck fidgeted as he obeyed. It was unusual, he knew, and as such he didn't want to make waves. He was sure, just by the precautions that he could note in this foyer, that few civilians ever made it this far into the Blue Cube.
The elevator shaft not withstanding, he felt an awe at the obvious arenas for observation. A mirror here, a wide shutter there. Cameras? Yes, no less than three. In fact, he noted with some apprehension that one of the cameras was a little large and had a very strange lense on it. Could it be an XRAY machine scanning him for weapons. Not a nice thought to a virile man still able to father children.
He shrugged to himself, and vowed silently to skip this years chest xray. He was certain he had received his share of radiation this year.
In a seemingly interminable short while, the green light came on above the door and he stepped forward to pull on the handle with some trepidation. But fortunately no gun stuck its nose out of one of the gunports, no laser beam shot at his eyes. The door opened silently toward him, and he noted it was a double catch setup...that is, you entered a holding cell, with a glass door on one side. From here, the guards ingoing and outgoing could make the decision to let you pass, but each controlled a door. Once inside the little cell which, he thought parenthetically, would only hold four people crammed uncomfortably, one would be trapped until the other guard released the far door. With a slight hum, the little light above the second door flashed green as the door behind him clicked shut. He entered into the somehow sacrosanct halls of Ground Floor Blue Cube.
Jud grimaced as the large circle began to circle again, and he was reminded that he had stolen a few minutes of an otherwise busy ride at Great America. The Sky Tower now began to sink as the circular motion continued. The idea had been a wash, and he realized that his mission was in essence a failure as well. There was simply no way to watch over Great America from above. They would have to rely upon strategic placement of men and women in the park itself. Granted a radio up here could be of help, but the view was far too much the macro...too much to see and not enough detail.
Of course say ten souls with binoculars could be scanning around...well at least it might be worth the effort. He wondered how the park committee would receive the idea of losing the Sky Tower this Summer. Probably not well. The park operated on short profit as it was, and closing a ride could be dangerous, or so he had heard when the Turn of the Century roller had closed a few years ago when the Marriot Hotel Chain had still operated the park.
He sighed to himself again, as Carlisle stretched next to him. The pair had been inseparable since the HP shootout, and Jud wondered if it was the man's own sense of protectionism or if Carlisle's boss had put him up to him. He suspected the latter, but a part of him wished it was the former. At least it would be nice to think he had acquired a kind of a partner, especially after six years as an officer in a police department. One missed a regular working partner after awhile, and Ray Carlisle seemed to fit Jud like a glove. The man had an instinct, one that kept him at a distance when necessary, and a comfort at the other times. Recently he had even began to beat Jud's stomach to a place to eat lunch. That was no mean feat considering no one in Jud's life could predict when his lack of breakfast would yield to an insane desire for a quick lunch. No one.
He smiled at Carlisle, and the man nodded absent- mindedly, perhaps considering his own thoughts on his partner. More likely, though, Ray was chewing over the uselessness of their trip to Great America.
No one could predict where the terrorists would strike next, and so they had begun to try anything that could end in a happy accident. Since Jud had unerringly found it possible to be at the right place at the right time, Carlisle had suggested, again perhaps at the prompting of his boss, had suggested that they just cruise around at Jud's whim. But so far it had been kind of useless. After the El Torrito Massacre or so it had been monikered by the press, it would hard to believe the terrorists would strike so close to a previous target. El Torrito's was just a half mile away, on the other side of highway 101. Just a few minutes really, and Jud knew it would be a waste of time. But the hunch had knawwed on him for over an hour as he turned into every high tech center a two mile radius around the park.
Even after Ray had remarked how they were avoiding the park, Jud had continued to give directions to everywhere but Great America.
But now the feeling was slowly dissipating, now that he was here. He led Ray out through the rails toward the exit of the Sky Tower, and they both sauntered through the crowd toward the huge two story carrousel. Then as they headed for the exit to the park, they both veered towards the bathrooms before buying yet another cold Coca Cola.
Then while driving away from the park, Ray kept looking at Jud, as he once again became irritable and nervous. Obviously, Jud noted, as far as Carlisle was concerned it was another one of Jud's special feelings, a dead-on target. Maybe there were just a little early. But how far could you go, how much stock could take on premonition alone? Could you risk pre- positioning on intuition when there were perhaps thousands of lives at stake?