Free Assault on Alpha Base by Doug Beason

ready to blast off.”
    McGriffin leaned forward in his seat. “Sorry about the short notice. I’m trying to hit most of the units on base while I still have some free time.”
    “S’all right. Have you been up yet?”
    “Not here. I have a private pilot’s license, but haven’t gotten a chance to check out a plane. In fact, that sounds like a good idea. I’d appreciate you showing me around the whole base.”
    “Good. We’ll give you the VIP tour then. Just sit back and enjoy.”
    A young lieutenant climbed on board, interrupting Manny. Manny shot a glance over his shoulder. “You ready, Bill?” Manny didn’t wait for McGriffin’s answer. Flicking on his mike, he gave a thumbs-up to the master sergeant in the rear of the craft. The flight engineer flipped on the helicopter’s auxiliary power unit; a whine split the air. Manny turned; he had a twinkle in his eye. “Let me know if you get airsick.”
    McGriffin snorted. Me? Airsick in a helicopter? He was going to like this guy.
    Friday, 10 June, 0925 local
    Baja, Mexico
    The ocean was two miles away, but Harding could hear the deep sound of waves crashing against the craggy coastline. Humidity permeated the air. The dirt landing strip ran past the Cessna, stretching out until it ended in a jumble of boulders. The sky was cloudless, and the blueness was so deep it reminded Harding of the flight down here when he looked out the window and saw the Sea of Cortez stretching out below. Miles above any pollution, when he looked up he had felt as if he could see the stars.
    It was a wild jumble of sunshine, desert rocks, shimmering heat, and ocean. Baja was an untamed paradise.
    Harding stood by the single-engine airplane that had flown him from Orange County’s John Wayne Airport. A helicopter and two small planes were secured at the opposite end of the runway. A large four-engine plane, painted solid black, sat fifty yards away. It was a military transport, but it bore no identifying markings. Harding couldn’t place the model, but it looked like a C-130.
    To his left stood a mock-up of an Alpha Base storage bunker. Tin siding substituted for concrete walls, but the effect was the same: it presented a monolithic fortress to conquer.
    A set of four fences ran on the other side of the bunker. The facility was not to scale, but it gave the terrorists something to practice with.
    They were alone, the nearest people tens of miles away. Do’brainese guards ensured their privacy, driving back approaching fishermen and enterprising four-wheelers coming down from the north.
    Standing in front of Harding, General Ashtah looked resplendent in his Do’brainese uniform: gold piping, flashy ribbons, jaunty cap. Harding snorted; the general also looked like a tin soldier. Old and wheezing, the officer acted as if he were in the midst of his last hurrah.
    A group of fifty men lounged behind the general, eating assorted fruits and laughing quietly among themselves. They sprawled over rusting jeeps. A few managed to find some shade under the aircraft’s wing. For the most part they seemed content to rest instead of work. A few pointed comments drifted from the group.
    One man stood apart from the others. Erect and impeccably dressed in a creased khaki uniform, the man appeared to be the real leader of the group; he carried himself differently from the Do’brainese general who now had Harding’s attention.
    Harding recalled the Do’brai connection that had brought him here: in a daring attempt to kidnap the President of the U.S. and force America’s hand for supporting Third World demands, Do’brai had lost face when the kidnapping had failed. And failed spectacularly. An American rescue mission had not only brought back the President, but had also brought back the Do’brainese general responsible for planning the coup.
    No wonder these guys want revenge, Harding thought. And they couldn’t have picked anyone better than me to pull this together.
    Harding smiled and said,