Free Riding the Red Horse by Jerry Pournelle, Christopher Nuttall, Rolf Nelson, Chris Kennedy, Brad Torgersen, Thomas Mays, James F. Dunnigan, William S. Lind
of enemy action, you find it hard to believe. Now, perhaps there are some elements of coincidence in play here, but the FBI, with the assistance of both CID and NCIS, is investigating each of the 25 cases and will do its best to either confirm or reject the apparent connection between the militants' videos and the deaths of the base personnel.”
James was wracking his brain to see if he could recall any deaths among the service personnel at Horsham. One staff sergeant had been in a fairly serious car accident, but it wasn't a fatal one. And he certainly hadn't lost any pilots or operators, they were woefully understaffed and losing one would have not only forced him to reschedule the flight roster, but cut down on the number of missions they were flying. No, he concluded, his command was not among the twelve that had been—may have been—targeted.
Even so, it was a frightening thought. As a consequence of viewing hundreds of hours of camera footage filmed over cities from Accra to London, he knew much better than most how the militants moved invisibly through the innocent crowds at will. And while it might be a little harder to infiltrate a predominantly white suburban community like Willow Grove than the banlieues of Paris, Willow Grove was only twenty miles away from Philadelphia and neighborhoods where an African jihadist would attract considerably less attention from the average resident than James himself.
The rest of the conclave consisted of a brainstorming session concerning how they could beef up security for their personnel, how much information could reasonably be released to both personnel and public without causing unnecessary panic, and an idea for an interservice line of communications for reporting any incidents that might indicate militant activity was outlined. But they all knew they were doing little more than whistling through the graveyard. As the shootings at Fort Hood, Quantico, and the Navy Yard proved, it was impossible to eliminate the dangers posed by a determined killer.
Two hours later, James was offered a ride back to his plane by General Norstad, who had his own plane on standby.
“You kept your thoughts to yourself in there, Ron,” the general observed.”
“It's not that I'm not grateful for the warning, General. I'm just dubious that we'll be able to do much more than pick up the pieces afterward.”
“You're right. In fact, several members of my staff were very strongly of the opinion that we should simply leave you all in the dark. But my thinking is that if there is a solution to be found, the sort of men who were in that room are the men most likely to find it.” He met James's eyes and nodded. “I asked you to ride along for a reason. First, to tell you to call me Bill. I think we're going to be working together more often in the future and you may as well get used to it. Second, I want to ask you if you think you're ready to keep more than 35 birds in the air.”
“Sir?”
“Jim Cooper will be on the next general's list. He's moving on from Creech to a command in Europe six weeks from now. That means the 432nd Wing is in need of a commander.”
James blinked, astonished. The 432nd was the Air Force's premier UAV wing, with five times more drones than the 111th and nearly 500 aircrew members. It wasn't so much a step up as a great leap forward. “You want to give me the 432nd?”
“I think you're the man for it, Ron. However, there's just one catch.”
Of course there was. “What's that?”
“I want you to head up that interservice communication system we discussed. Nothing official, you understand. If we try to make it formal then it will wind up having to go through the Joint Chiefs and it will be two years before anyone can tell anyone else what he had for breakfast. But a regular flow of scuttlebutt between base commanders about any car accidents or steel-jacketed lead overdoses, with someone keeping notes, might be extremely useful if our friends at
James was wracking his brain to see if he could recall any deaths among the service personnel at Horsham. One staff sergeant had been in a fairly serious car accident, but it wasn't a fatal one. And he certainly hadn't lost any pilots or operators, they were woefully understaffed and losing one would have not only forced him to reschedule the flight roster, but cut down on the number of missions they were flying. No, he concluded, his command was not among the twelve that had been—may have been—targeted.
Even so, it was a frightening thought. As a consequence of viewing hundreds of hours of camera footage filmed over cities from Accra to London, he knew much better than most how the militants moved invisibly through the innocent crowds at will. And while it might be a little harder to infiltrate a predominantly white suburban community like Willow Grove than the banlieues of Paris, Willow Grove was only twenty miles away from Philadelphia and neighborhoods where an African jihadist would attract considerably less attention from the average resident than James himself.
The rest of the conclave consisted of a brainstorming session concerning how they could beef up security for their personnel, how much information could reasonably be released to both personnel and public without causing unnecessary panic, and an idea for an interservice line of communications for reporting any incidents that might indicate militant activity was outlined. But they all knew they were doing little more than whistling through the graveyard. As the shootings at Fort Hood, Quantico, and the Navy Yard proved, it was impossible to eliminate the dangers posed by a determined killer.
Two hours later, James was offered a ride back to his plane by General Norstad, who had his own plane on standby.
“You kept your thoughts to yourself in there, Ron,” the general observed.”
“It's not that I'm not grateful for the warning, General. I'm just dubious that we'll be able to do much more than pick up the pieces afterward.”
“You're right. In fact, several members of my staff were very strongly of the opinion that we should simply leave you all in the dark. But my thinking is that if there is a solution to be found, the sort of men who were in that room are the men most likely to find it.” He met James's eyes and nodded. “I asked you to ride along for a reason. First, to tell you to call me Bill. I think we're going to be working together more often in the future and you may as well get used to it. Second, I want to ask you if you think you're ready to keep more than 35 birds in the air.”
“Sir?”
“Jim Cooper will be on the next general's list. He's moving on from Creech to a command in Europe six weeks from now. That means the 432nd Wing is in need of a commander.”
James blinked, astonished. The 432nd was the Air Force's premier UAV wing, with five times more drones than the 111th and nearly 500 aircrew members. It wasn't so much a step up as a great leap forward. “You want to give me the 432nd?”
“I think you're the man for it, Ron. However, there's just one catch.”
Of course there was. “What's that?”
“I want you to head up that interservice communication system we discussed. Nothing official, you understand. If we try to make it formal then it will wind up having to go through the Joint Chiefs and it will be two years before anyone can tell anyone else what he had for breakfast. But a regular flow of scuttlebutt between base commanders about any car accidents or steel-jacketed lead overdoses, with someone keeping notes, might be extremely useful if our friends at
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