In the shadow of the eagle
Pilot Down

Bolling Air Force Base, Washington D.C

What was called the chamber was a communication centre and was located underground on the premises of the air base in the south of Washington D.C. It was within the Air Force District of Washington and one of the leading bases. To reach it had any visitor first gain access to a building that was guarded by military police and after a row of card sweeps, hand and eye scanners, could a visitor step into an elevator.
After a short trip down, would the doors slid open and a visitor could step out into a grey corridor that lead down to a heavy, pressured blast door that was guarded by an grim faced military police that sat behind a desk and would scrutinize a visitors ID before letting the visitor pass him.
A chamber that would be a protection from any nuclear or chemical attack, could the visitor reach the next checkpoint with another grim faced military police. He had a bank of camera monitors that had alerted him of the visit so soon the visitor had stepped into the building.
After signing for a pass and been assigned an escort, would a visitor be lead through a tinted sliding door which armored glass could withstand anything up to a grenade. A narrow corridor with sleeping quarters, mess, restrooms and even private room would be passed until a final door, guarded by a fourth check point and a military police, was reached. Then, after a check had done with an intercom, would the visitor be let in into the chamber. It was a room with tables arranged in a horseshoe shape that faced a desk. The walls had big screens and it looked like a command center, which it was.
General Harry Byars paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back. Each time he passed a map of Albania that hung on a wall, lingered his eyes on it. Even if the technology that was used made it look out of order, had a big map been pinned to a wall, next to a couple of more detailed maps.
Finally, he stopped, took a deep breath and looked out over the room, turned his head from side to side, surveying the audience.
Byars was a man in his late fifties with a round puffy face with a smile that raked success, marked of unhealthy fast food and too little movement. That was something his big waist and behind also told. His scalp was showing and he had a comb over which added to his overweight.
He walked over to the map and stood there and watched for a brief moment before he raised a hand and a thick finger fallowed the outline of its southern coast towards the southern coastal town of Vlorë. Then he went east and stopped at what the map showed an air base at the foot of a mountain chain, Kuçovë Air Force Base. To the west of the base with both an underground complex and an airfield, was the town of Urë Vajgurore.
On the table in front of the grim faced officers lay folders that had been flipped open a they could read that Kuçovë had also been an industrial city since the early 30's. The area was a closed military district and to the east and north of the base was the city that had been known as Qyteti Stalin which meant Stalin City.
There was according to their intelligence community now the Albanians answer on NORAD and the main purpose why they all had been scrambled here.
Byars tapped his index finger on the map. “Here gentlemen,” he said and clasped his hands on his back while he faced the audience. “Here do we have our goal and target. All decided by the top brass,” Byars said while he paced the room and followed the table behind the back of the men that looked over their shoulders to follow him. “Since 1997 has the Albanians spend a huge amount of money on this base and made it into a fortress. Improvement has been available through Moscow and Beijing. We are talking about a protection of rock and concrete besides high-tech surveillance.”
“So our friends in Moscow and Beijing just happily gave all those gadgets away, sir?” a major asked.
“Well, the Russian and Chinese loved the fact that they will have access to this kind of facility right in our backyard.”
The voice came from the only one in the room that was not in uniform and was one of the leading men in the mighty DIA. The slim built professor Edward Hale had a beard, wore a tweed blazer with worn arm patches. The dark hair that was in full retreat had a streak or two of gray, as his beard, at the temples.
“You heard it, gentlemen. Our fucking backyard,” Byars said and hammered his hand that was clenched into a fist against the map and looked at his audience. “Russian and China has aid them in the rebuilding and provided them with our technology, cheap knock-offs to be exact.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I will let major Lefebvre brief you even you have all the fact in the folders in front of you,” Byars said and stopped at an army officer with the intelligent branch patch. “Speak up,” he continued and padded the officer’s shoulder and motioned with a hand that the major should stand up.
The major, Liam Lefebvre, the health himself with broad shoulders and a close-cropped haircut, stood up. Lefebvre that was an army officer had his posting at the Defense Intelligence Analysis Center which was the largest of the Defense Intelligence Agency's facilities. That here at Bolling Air Force Base where his commander was general Byars.
“Thank you, sir,” Lefebvre started and let his eyes wandering over the collection of solemn faces that followed his every move. “Besides its function as an air base housed the complex a nationwide early warning radar network, not much unlike our own NORAD. The complex is designed and constructed to sustain the direct hit from a twenty Kiloton nuclear bomb, or equivalent to the Nagasaki atom bomb,” he said and tapped on a keyboard and with all the other, his face turned towards a screen.
The screen showed two close-up satellite photos of the base side by side. One photo had been taken a couple of years earlier and the other was taken just recent. It showed clearly an upgrade of the top side with air traffic control tower, runways, taxiways, and hardened aircraft shelters.
“What you can see,” he continued and pointed with a laser pen on the screen. “They have put lot of money and effort on this base. Besides the main purpose of a protected radar installation, a control center, secure communications, the air base contains underground tunnels for two complete squadrons with the underground tunnels protected by pressurized doors.”
“What do we know about maintenance of this base?” an officer asked with a worried face.
“There is access to an underground water source, power generators, crew quarters and other facilities which had the capacity to house over thousand men at once. They have enough food, fuel and arms reserves to survive thirty days.”
“Hell,” Byars chuckled. “There is even a hunting lodge used by the top leadership for an occasional leisure trip.”
“Sir,” an air force major said that Byars walked passed whom had until now sat in silent and like the rest, just made some notes. He had taken the risk to speak and had all the attention and more, when Byars stopped and turned.
The Air Force major Stanley “Stan” Wass was a slim built man in his forties. His hair was grayish and thin as it had retreated back and given a high forehead. His skin was graying and blotchy of a man that worked hard.
“Yes, major?” he said and smiled while he studied the officer. “Speak and let the rest of us hear what’s on your mind.”
“Sir, what I understand will they have the capacity to defend their base,” he said motion his hand that had a West Point graduation ring from the same class as Lefebvre.
“Major?”
“Sir,” Lefebvre said and nodded in agreement. “In the immediate vicinity of the base can we count for a numerous amounts of short range mobile tracking and targeting radar and missile equipped sites, mobile surface-to-air missile systems, motorized infantry bases and military police stations.”
“This, gentlemen,” Byars said and pointed a finger towards the ceiling while he started to pace the room again. “This is what we dealing with, so how will we do it?” he said and clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace the room again. “The possibility to send in any ground forces is out of the question, even a small unit of special forces.”
“Sir,” an officer said after he had looked at a satellite photo that showed a mountains area and for him would be perfect to launch a small tactical unit. “We have units ready in both Kosovo and Macedonia. We fly them in-”
“Access to the area is monitored by heavy surveillance both by technology and personnel and the area is filled with nasty surprises,” Lefebvre cut him off. “Their guards are authorized to open fire on anyone attempting to enter without authorization. There are also several of their own Special Forces based in the area.”
The officer that showed the Special Forces insignias on his crisply uniform shrugged. He was like Lefebvre the ideal model you would want for a recruiting poster.
“Ed?” Byars said when he stopped and looked on the professor.
“The best result to send a message is to let your flying boys deal with it,” Hale said.
The critical major Wass shook his head in disbelief. “We know that the underground facility is lined with semicircular concrete shields, arranged every ten meters, to cushion the impact of attacking munitions.”
Byars frowned. “Yes?”
“That is what your report says here, sir,” Wass said motioned a hand over the folder. “So how do you, sir, expect to make any serious damage and take it out?”
“This will give us the result we need when they have access to what they have when it come to terms with air defense,” Lefebvre said and sat down.
“We are not talking of blasting them away,” Byars chuckled as he turned to the map and watched it in silent for a moment before he faced the audience. “No, gentlemen,” he said and shook his head. “We are just letting them know who they are dealing with and giving them the message that we are here. We are letting them know that we have the capacity and know-how to deal with them, pure and simple.”


Washington D.C

Inside one of the numerous government buildings in the capital, had a small group of men gathered in a conference room. The tinted window three stories’ up offered a view over the White House, but that was not what one of the men looked at when he stood at the window.
With his hands jammed into his suit trousers front pockets, looked DIA official Bishop Rhees, stood he at the window and looked out on a couple on the sidewalk. Both had their arms around the waist on each other and seemed to have no problems in the world. They seemed just to have their eyes for each other.
Rhees, a tall, slim built man in his forties looked more than a successful business man than the government agent he was. He was clean shaved and had his dark hair parted in a CEO haircut. He had lighten his suit and hung his suit jacket over the back of the high-backed desk chair and jerked his tie knot lose and unbuttoned his collar.
“What do we know about him?” Rhees asked and walked over to the well polished conference table in mahogany.
Two other men plus the overweight general Byars sat at the table with the general like a strong contrast when the two other was slim built and in suits.
Byars studied the photo in the folder an Army sergeant from personal had brought him, before this meeting. “Marine pilot Colonel Zacharias Webber,” he read from the thick personal file folder that he had flipped open on the table. “Married to Sue, sir, former Chandler, whom he met at Pensacola,” he said with a knowledge that told Rhees that it was on personal level he know Webber.
Rhees nodded and he had done his homework. Before the meeting had he had another folder with information about the pilot. He know that Webber with the nickname Zack Attack, or just plainly Zack, grandfather had serve for the naval air and fought at Midway, Coral Sea, and many other places. The same was for the father who had fought over Korea that also had been among the last to fly out of Vietnam when America evacuated Saigon in 1975.
The Marine aviator had gone rapidly up in the ranks due to his history as a skilfully combat pilot. He had done missions both known and in the shadows in the Middle East and over Balkan. That he had got the nickname Zack Attack told clearly that he had made himself known with attack missions.
But there was several questions mark about him and one of them was the printout Rhees held in his hand and was a copy like in the others folders.
“I have a report here on your colonel from his squadron commander,” Rhees said and thumbed through the folders contents.
“Yes?”
“Behaving inappropriately towards a colleague in a social situation,” Rhees read from the printout.
“Sir, are you meaning his a…, fag?” one of the two suits said.
“It was a female officer,” Byars said with a crocked smile.
“And he was fucking her or just trying to fuck her?” Rhees said and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his neck.
“You are a man of good words, Bishop.”
“Any children?” one of the suits asked when he couldn’t see any details about that on the first or second pages and he just turned to the third when the answer came.
“One,” Byars said. “Well,” he sighed when bad memories hit him. “One kid who died just eight month old. Rodney was the name of the boy.”
“Tragic,” the suit said and shook his head.
“Yes,” Byars agreed and remembered when he and his wife had attended the funeral. Strange, he thought. All the funerals he had gone on during his years in the military. It was always the young ones that hit hardest.
“What happened?”
“Car accident. The wife was visiting friends when Zack was taking jet training in Nevada, and she was hit by a truck. She walked away without a scratch but the baby-boy suffered brain damage and went into coma.”
“Tragic,” the suit repeated and closed the folder. “Damn tragic.”
“Yes,” both Byars and Rhees agreed. “He died a month later,” Byars said and remembered well the funeral when he had stand at his old friends’ side at the casket.
“I see. I could see that the head doctor gave his okay after his investigation,” Rhees said and nodded towards the folder. “So, to the point. I want to know if you two think he is the right man for the job.”
The job was that the question was headed for Byars about, was to fly in over Albania and deliver a message to them. A message that they should be aware of the American present.
“I don’t mistrust Zack,” Byars said. “If someone can do it, well, then Zack is the man.”
“I agree, sir,” one of the suits said with a nod. “We put him through a lot of training, let get use of that.”
“That was what I wanted to hear,” Rhees said with a face who told that he was pleased. “Just let see what the head doctors said and if they give us a green light, we use him.”
All four men stood up at the same time and after some handshakes had they all left, all in a hurry to get to their offices to deal with the decision that just had been made.


Aviano Air Base, Italy

In the shadows of the Carnic Alps lay the American air base with its 31st Fighter Wing. It had been used frequently over the former Yugoslavia with its capable and deadly F-16 fighter.
Before dawn, with the nights darkness still intact stood Marine pilot colonel Zacharias Webber, a thirty-five years old fighter pilot in one of the changing rooms. Webber, or Zack, was a tall, medium built man with broad shoulders. He had a smile that could take out Tom Cruise any day and was considered one of the best with the naval Top Gun school for fighter aviators behind him, twice.
Recently arrived from the Naval Air Station Pensacola, the Cradle of Naval Aviation, in Florida, had Zack been attached to the second Marine Aircraft Wing. The second Marine Aircraft Wing, or 2nd MAW, was based at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point in North Carolina. They provide the aviation combat element for the II Marine Expeditionary Force.
As every navy aviator, had Zack started his career at Quantico, Virginia. A higher education for pilots had been given in Naval Aviator School, at Pensacola, Florida. A sixteen months long course produced a “Nugget”, a rookie aviator.
That was behind him and his thoughts were on other things than an impressing career that could assure him a bright future after the career in the Marines.
Helmets were filling the racks on one side and along the other hung survival vests, dry suits and oxygen masks. When there was woman present, a flimsy sheet would hang from the ceiling to give them privacy even if they often were less sensitive than people might believe. In fact, they were often worst when it come to behavior.
Zack wrestled himself into a Nomex dry-suit pilots was obligated to wear when the water temperature falls below 15 degrees Celsius, in the area he would fly over. The camouflage pattern suit would give him five more hours in the water, Zack finally thought when he zipped up his G-suit and survival vest and then left.
Before Zack left the changing room, he leaned forward as in a formal bow, to cinch up his parachute harness. This is an important thing to do in the case of being a male pilot. If the harness was loose in the crotch, he would find his testicles crushed if ejecting and the billowing parachute yanked them up.
A bright yellow jeep had been waiting for him and the young airman saluted crisply, when Zack came out from the building. Zack was not late to respond to the salute and was soon sitting in the front seat, next to the driver who slammed in a gauge and the jeep drove off. It was a journey under silence and it was for not more than two minutes.


The air reeked of a petrochemical smell, when Zack reached the reinforced hangar, where his F-16 fighter was. Zack’s F-16's maneuverability and combat radius exceed well above all potential threat fighter aircraft. It could locate targets in all weather conditions and detect low flying aircraft in radar ground clutter.
Zack had jumped out of the jeep and saluted the airman before hurrying into the hangar where two MP stood guard. There inside in the reinforced shelter was the jet’s which tanks were filled by two crewmen. They uncoupled the hose from the jet’s fuselage and dragged it away, while a fire crew was standing, ready if the worst would happen. But it never did.
Zack climbed into the cockpit and pulled out the safety pins from the ejection seat after he buckled up with help of his chief mechanic who leaned in the cockpit from his ladder. Zack connected the oxygen system along with the hose that would pressurize his G-suit in flight. Finally, he hooked his oxygen mask into the helmet and pushed closed the studs of his throat microphone. He then reached down and hooked the leg restraints that would held his legs from harm if he had to eject. The leg could flail out and be fractured if he was blasted out.
Zack started the engine and tested the instrument lights, who of course worked. It was American skillfully technology, he thought and smiled behind the mask.
Scores of electronic had to be checked before the turn came to check of stick and pedals. His eyes darted around the cockpit gauges and screens. RPM of the engine, the exhaust-gas temperature, fuel flow, oil pressure, hydraulics, you name it. Zack looked for warning lights and everything that could mean trouble, but didn’t find it, of course.
On the notepad strapped to his left knee had photocopies of charts he would need for the mission. He would trust the computer not to fly his beloved plane into any mountains, while his head was buried in the cockpit with calculations. But just in case, his right hand would be free to grab the stick, if needed.
The cockpit of his F-16 had practically every new navigation gizmo Zack could think of, but he didn’t have a simple calculator.
As Zack looked down as his chief mechanic had done his part to quickly send away him, he could see two mechanics in work. Their overalls ripped in the wind from the planes jet engines, as they tugged the chocks away from the wheels.
He powered up the throttle and pumped the rudder pedals with his feet’s to slowly turn the aircraft towards the taxi director, who signaled him.
The mighty F-16 turned into a taxiway, moving slowly alongside the endless taxiway, and crossed two runways. Finally Zack stopped the aircraft and asked for clearance to take off and it came within seconds. He got his aircraft in motion again and lined up on a runway.
As Zack had done hundreds and thousands of times before, he pushed the power level forward and the engines was heard winding up, ready to dash forward. Shortly after did he released the brakes and the fighter was moving with ever-increasing speed down the runway and shortly it gained its speed and lifted off. When Zack took off, the eyes focused on the engine gauges and the jet’s altimeter.
Almost immediately the powerful F-16 raised its nose so steeply that the fighter seemed to go in a 90 degrees angle straight up.
Finally, Zack kicked in the afterburner and the plane began to climb at an astonishing speed.


Kuçovë, Albania

North of the southern city of Berat in the Southern part of Albania and at the town of Kuçovë, was the Berat-Kuçovë Air Force Underground Base and Air Defense center. Its full capacity was not known for the West, as everything else when it came to air surveillances.
Deep below, protected by the mountain and concrete, was a chamber were the clatter of satellite communications transceivers printer chugging.
An Air Force officer walked along the row of operator as he suddenly stopped. His interest was one radar screen which he pointed at.
“Why is there a blip there?” the officer said as he nodded at the screen that showed the radar image over the southern part of Albania and a good part of the Adriatic Sea. “Pick that up,” he ordered.
“Yes, captain,” the operator said and tapped in commands that placed a 3D map on a screen next to the radar screen. “That just appeared, captain,” the operator claimed and marked it with his light pen before tapping on the keyboard. “I’d say that we just discovered something that shouldn’t be there, captain.”
“A ghost?” the officer suggested and got a nod.
“Seems like it, captain.”
“Get me the data,” the officer said and padded the operators shoulder.
The officer walked over to a row of printers and could retrieve two printouts that he eagled before he hurried away to an office where an officer sat, deepen in paperwork. The officers’ epaulette made him a colonel and he was like the captain athletic built, even if the colonel had gained some ten kilos of overweight. He looked up from the desk to face the captain.
“Yes, captain?”
“Colonel, I believe you better see this,” the captain said and walked over to the desk and handed over the printouts.
“What is this about, captain?” the colonel said as he corrected his glasses before he eagled the document.”
The captain didn’t need to answer the question as the colonel snatched up his phones receiver and with a sharp voice commanded the switchboard to connect him with the general headquarter in Tirana.


Ceraunian Mountains, Albania

The Ceraunian Mountains or Mal i Kanalit, was a coastal mountain range in southwestern Albania, that was closing in below Zack’s F-16. The range extended northwesterly from the Greek border along the coast. In some places the mountains fall directly into the sea, like where Zack had the first land contact below him.
Zack had reached his third Control Point at six thousand feet, or eighteen hundred meter and climbing, while below him was still friendly territory. He had flown this mission a dozen times in his mind and could mentally picture what he would see on the ground.
The calculations he had to perform kept his head pointed down inside the cockpit. Before that, however, he pounced in barometric altitude hold commands on the computer. He shoved the throttle forward to the speed he wanted, tilted the stick to the left, and then switched to autopilot. The computer would now keep his plane cruising at three thousand meter toward next Control Point.
It was a bit funny to see the stick between his legs moved on its own when the computer was in charge, he thought. The most embarrassing was that the computer flew the jet smoother than any pilot could.
Zack had begun to punching buttons to arrange the computer pages on his screens. The left showed him different targeting information on glass heads-up display. To the right, Zack saw the weapon option he had for his mission. The center screen between his legs had a moving map that with doted lines showed the flight path he should take for his mission.
What Zack didn’t know was that he had for a while been the big attention at a radar station. It’s highly sophisticated IFF system could, thanks to both Russian and Chinese technician, interrogating virtually any IFF transponder within a radius of almost four hundred kilometers. It could also thanks to new and highly secret technology tap into Zack’s F-16 JTIDS data system. It was another important electronic warfare system and stood for Joint Tactical Information Data System. To make a long story short, the radar station could with this system be allowed to tap into any aircraft equipped to an aerial local network, who allowed the sharing of information from a plane’s sensors and other systems with aircraft, ships, and ground units. What made the JTIDS unique was that it transmitted a full situational report, including radar contacts, aircraft position, altitude, and heading, and even fuel and armament status. The operator could with all that data even count gun, bomb and missile round onboard.


Kuçovë, Albania

In the control room, deep into the Tomori Mountain, an operator was watching a monitor and as he carefully looked at the screen, he plotted a marking with his light-pen. Using all various locations and trying to pinpoint the mark, he punched in a row of commands on a keyboard. He glanced on a different screen next to the main, while he was working and after repeated efforts who had failed, he apparently succeeded.
The operator stared on a third monitor with a track map with a digital 3D map where flight paths were marked by him with red and green lines, green for what it should be and red for the actually path.
At his side stood the officer that had followed what’s had developed on the screen. The captain scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What’s the closest location of any jet?”
“Here, captain,” the operator said, pointing his light-pen on a screen with a 3D map. “If that is the case,” the operator sighs. “They’ll reach safe grounds before we can intercept them.”
“And our closets SAM?”
On the same 3D map that the operator had marked the closets jet, he pointed out two positions.
“Here and here, captain.”
“This is what you do,” the captain said as he placed a hand on the operators shoulder. “Direct what we have on stand-by towards them and send what you have to both SAM sites. If not the jet can intercept, the SAM will take care of business,” he said and turned away to walk away both stopped and faced the operator again. ”Oh, also alert all ground units and send a report to headquarter.”
With a “yes, captain,” had the operator started to eagerly tapping his keyboard. Within seconds had the whole defense been placed on alert.
“Attention, attention all air defense units,” a voice called out on a special encrypted frequency. “This is Berat-Kuçovë control. Full air defense emergency restrictions are in effect for the Vlorë region. I’m repeating. Full air-defense emergency restrictions are now in effect. All aircraft in the Vlorë region, establish positive radio contact and identification immediately. All unidentified aircraft in the Vlorë region will be fired upon, without warning. All stations acknowledge.”
The broadcast over the emergency frequency was clear in its message.
The air force base above ground had been put on highest alert and ground staff had got the two MiG-29s on stand-by ready. The MiG-29 with its wide flattish fuselages, twin tails and clipped swept wings was called for the Kings Eagle - Shqiponjë e Artë and was a fighter aircraft designed for air superiority role.
The two MiG-29 fighters were moving with ever-increasing speed down the runway and as they had lifted off with a roar; their pilots almost immediately raised its nose steeply that the aircrafts seemed to climb in a 90 degrees angle. Then the pilots kicked in the afterburners and the plane began to climb with an astonishing speed.


Nemerçkë Mountain Ridge, Albania

As Zack’s F-16 descended over the Mal Nëmerçkë Mountain, southern Albania, had he activated the terrain-following radar system, and quickly flipped the switches for its transponder radar tracking system. Zack squeezed his eyes shut for an instant and concentrated as he descended riskily below radar coverage in less than a minute. Sweat poured down from his forehead and stung his eyes from the salt.
Okay, he thought to himself, sucking in a deep breath from the oxygen mask. He had also during the descend shut off all external lights completely as it disappeared into the mountain and it had completely disappeared from all radar screens.
He made a quickly calculation in his head and his fingers began dancing over the computer buttons and soon he had all the data he needed. The computer began churning out solutions for him. The moving map showed him the options and all he had to do, was to follow the line and he would be over the target. As the computer would bring him there, it would also bring him home.
Zack’s head twisted and turned when his experience told him to scrutinizing every sector of the sky regularly. Even if his beloved plane was equipped with the state-of-the art technology, he knew how to survive. That was for sure to never rest his eyes on one thing, more than a short moment.
Also, at this altitude was scattered mobile antiaircraft missile and artillery emplacement was indeed a threat to be counted for.
Zack went on high alert and his eyes sweeps over displays and gauges, checking all systems. Slow paced electronic warning tone of the threat detection system told him that he had just been highlighted by enemy radar.
“What the f-”
From nowhere had suddenly two MiG-29s showed up on the radar and that didn’t just surprise the Zack, it made him more than angry. That’s special when he had been told that they could expect older MiG-17 from the fifties or maybe MiG-19, fighters from a decade later.
The Russian made MiG-29 was a state of the art jet when upgraded that even that it had many years behind it, it was a capable plan and with high-tech, was it equal with the F-16.
The Albanians were eagerly buying and the Russians were willingly selling and not just the plane, but the weapons, the support equipment and instructors and technicians.
“American intruder,” a voice in broken English said sharply, in Zack’s ears. “American intruder, this is the Republic of Albanian Air Defense. You are in violation of sovereign Albanian airspace.”
Before Zack even could respond a second voice had came in, also with broken English.
“American aircraft at my twelve o’clock position. This is major Sadikaj of the Republic of Albania Air Force. You are in violation of Albanian sovereign airspace. I command you now to climb to eight thousand feet and prepare for intercept. Reduce speed now and lower your landing-gear wheels. Do you copy?”
The other problem that Zack faced was that the two MiG pilots know how to fly when they had used the mountain to close in and then just show up from nowhere.
The MiG-29 could reach a speed of Mach 2.3 and reach an altitude of almost fifty-six thousand feet and could reach fifteen kilometers with its internal fuel alone.
Zack’s F-16 could achieve a speed of Mach 2 and reach fifty thousand feet. While the MiG was superior in speed and altitude, its range was not even close to the F-16, which could reach almost four thousand kilometers.
The system warned Zack for the MiG’s who fast closed in on him as he reported his situation over the radio. In the next second had the radar-warning indicators blared a warning as enemy airborne radar had swept across him.


Combined Air Operations Centre-5, Poggio Renatico, Italy

Inside the Operation Centre was a plethora of high-cost secrets and state-of-the-art communications technology. Rows of big wall mounted flat screens in the eye of all operators and surrounded with screens and computers looked the NASA control centre.
At one of the seats had an operator reported, “Two incoming aircrafts, sir.”
On the 'pit floor' of the Air Operations Centre was the US Air Force major Ross McClure that was the officer on duty. He hesitated for a second before hurried over. He stopped at the operator that had been assigned to watch over the Marine pilot Webber.
Bold beside a “crown” of thin hair and a comb over, double chin and a growing waist that had forced him recently to visit the base tailor, was not major McClure the thin and well trained officer he had been, just three years earlier. He loves food and that was bad for him as he was in Italy. The major that was a career chaser had gladly accepted the posting over in Europe a year earlier, but had lately started to regret that deeply.
“Engage,” McClure commanded and the operator exchanged looks with an Italian Air Force captain that looked like a model from a uniform catalogue. “We’ve only get one chance so we better do it right from the start.”
The captain that took pride in his experience, frowned over the decision when the briefing about Webster’s mission had hardly been to engage in any air combat.
To engage meant to “hit the big drum” and to send of fighter to intercept and also to put SAM batteries in high alert. That also meant to direct the chased fighter to be the chaser and attack.
“This is not a god idea, sir,” the captain offered.
McClure’s eyes blazed when he with a whole hand pointed at the captain which had the nerve to comment his decision. “You obey my orders and you obey them as I see fit.”
Italian Air Force captain Radet couldn’t believe was he just had heard when the briefing where he had been assigned to assist the mission.
“Sir,” he tried. “We’re not supposed to engage, just to take the pilot and plane out of there in a situation like this.”
“I don’t recall any orders like that,” McClure said sharply as he hated to be questioned and he was well aware of the lack of respect he had here.
“Sir,” Radet tried again to no use.
“My orders are to act on any possible action that might be a threat to United States of America.”
“Is that an authorized order, sir?”
“Of course,” McClure said as he avoided Radet’s eyes. “We’re authorized to defend ourselves.”
“Sir, I must protest strongly. Our mission is not to engage, sir.”
“It’s not your place or in your pay-range to criticize me.”
“Sir. I must-”
“That will be all,” McClure interjected. “See yourself as relieved, captain,” he said with a growing dislike for the Italian officer and his stupid accent. It might get him laid; he thought and had now no interest to have him around.
“Sir.”
“You are excused, captain.”
“Sir,” Radet insisted that know he had been chosen for his knowledge about the Albanian and that he also spoke Albanian. “This mission is without sanctions. To engage-”
“Just do it!” McClure almost screamed out before pointing at the operator that whished the floor would open and swallow him. “You obey my orders, sergeant.”
“Sir,” Radet once more tried. “Are major suggesting that we launch this without proper authorization, sir?”
“I’m suggesting that we should deal with it rather than hide our heads in our asses and hope for the best,” he said and added “Captain,” with a tone filled with venom.
“Sir, I don’t recall any specific instruction beside-”
“That’s classified information,” McClure barked and took care of the business by himself. “I’m given discretion on how to deal with this kind of action as I see fit, and I’m doing just that,” McClure said and grabbed the microphone from the operator and held in the call button, after quickly tapping in commands on the keyboard.
“Sir,” the operator tried as he got up on his feet and couldn’t believe what was going on in front of him.
“Albania fighter at six o’clock from the American F-16,” McClure started as Radet and the operators around him shrugged or exchanged looks, and in some cases, both. “Do not, I repeat, do not fly any closer to the American plane, or you will be attacked. This is my only and final warning. Do you understand?”
“This was the worst idea major had for a long time,” the operator said to the captain as he shook his head.


Albanian Air Space

Zack banked left hard, as ordered from Major McClure. The pressure with its six Gs had hit him like a ton of bricks. The two Albanian pilots behind him immediately saw that Zack had turned left in a sharp angle. In response, they shoved their sticks back and to the left and their MiG’s responded, reversed the direction and break to the left in a circular turn.
Zack forced his jet to bank hard left to close in on the MiG’s. He wanted to tighten his turn and he hung skillfully on, and the hard bank paid off, as Zack swung around, he could see the two MiG’s just ahead.
He could see the markings on the MiG’s clear while he went into action and armed a missile. A red roundel with black boards and a red star in the center and the double headed eagle on the tail rudder.
The capable AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, commonly known as the Slammer, had locked into the target in front of Zack. With a “Fox Three” called out, left the missile the rail and after a few seconds, ploughed into the right MiG. It was a direct hit, blowing of the V-tail stabilizer and threw the MiG into a violent swerve that the fighter swapped nose for tail. It was sent into a violent, unrecoverable spin, ending into a cliff side, turned into a twisted and burning wreck that sends up a fire cloud straight up.
There had been no survivor, Zack could see as he was to close for a missile, so he decided to get the remaining MiG with his canons.
“You will get it now,” Zack said with a chuckle behind his oxygen mask and pressed the gun trigger on the stick.
Brdrdrdrdrdrdrd
But Zack missed and their nothing but empty space in front of him as his opponent had dogged the canon fire. The Albanian pilot had seen it coming and had just waited for this moment.
When Zack had pressed the fire trigger on his stick, had the Albanian pilot, major Sadikaj, yanked his stick back so his MiG-29 rocketed vertically into the sky. The result was that Zack passed him below, helplessly sliding ahead, and Sadikaj pitched the stick forward and a second later was the roles changed as he was behind Zack, Zack which had hoped for a second easy kill.
Sadikaj had pulled his stick back to ease out of the dive so his nose would be lined up on Zack’s tail, and as he succeeded the maneuver had he been clear for a shot.
To get out of the situation had Zack jerked the stick back, then to the right so his jet also rolled up to the right and finally flipped upside down into his own barrel roll. But Sadikaj behind was well trained and he knew his fighter well and he increased his distance before he fired a missile, which filled Zack’s cockpit with alarms from radar lock-on and an incoming missile.
Zack arm-wrestled with the stick and the jet turned sharply and it had to. Constantly making turns after releasing a cloud of chaffs, would hopefully elude the missile.
Zack tilted his jet left and dispensed decoys who luckily thrown off the heat-seeker in the missile. He jerked his head to the right to spot the missile behind him as it was closing in again. Didn’t he elude the missile?
Zack tried a new sharp turn and the pressure on his body became a crushing five and a half Gs. It felt like someone wrapped his arms around his neck and was hanging from it, when he turned his head. In a flash, the missile whizzed past Zack, lost its power when it had run out of fuel and dove down to earth.


Kuçovë, Albania

At the Albanian NORAD at the Tomori Mountain had the officer on duty, been called over to an operator, and as he leaned slightly forward with one hand on the table and the other on the chair, he could clearly see what’s was going on, on the screen. The tumult after the lost of a MiG had sent the whole base in work to revenge their great lost.
“We are detecting a turn and change of altitude, captain. Stand by,” the operator said as she pointed the light pen on the screen to get further information about the intruder.
“Tell me that you have them on our radar?” the captain said.
“I got them,” the operator said.
“Good girl,” the captain said, giving his female operator a shoulder rub as she had already tapped in the target information in the system. “Now direct the fighters after him as a backup.”
The operator started to tapping in new commands into the system, even before the officer had finished his sentence.


Nemerçkë mountain, Albania

Colonel “Zack” Webber smoothly pulled back the stick between his legs and the plane responded. The nose went up and banked west while he was dripping wet in his flight suit. He had been sweating from nerves any way, but the aircraft had now lost its air-conditioner during the shaking ordeal.
Zack grinned as he was in the clear. Only an act of God cold now screw up the rest of the flight, he thought and laughed. But the laugh transformed to a colorful bad word when three bogeys had now arrived on his radar screen.
The surviving MiG had got company Zack thought and made a hard U-turn, moved the throttles forward and his F-16 dived. The advanced systems of his F-16 told Zack that it was two F-7A fighters who had joined in. The F-7A was a Chinese export version of their J-7 that in turn was a copy of the Russian MiG-21. With its long, tubular fuselage body with a blunt nose and bubble canopy, mid-mounted delta wings and swept-back tail fin, was it without any doubt just that jet.
The F-16 dived and dropped down into a straight flight level, just above the ground. Zack had almost “hugged-the-ground” before he had planed out and was then aided by the navigation computers terrain database. That was guided by a satellite navigation system and by a pencil-thin beam of energy that measured the distance between the plane belly and the ground. He needed it when he had reached the
Nemerçkë Mountain, located in the south of Albania, not far from the Vjosë River. From the rocky summit would there be a wonderful view of Albanian mountains such as Tomorr and also Greek mountains. That had now been his possible goal, even if he send an encrypted message that he continued towards his goal.
If Zack remembered the story correct about the Tomorr Mountain, according to an Albanian legend, originally a giant. The giant had fought with another giant over a young woman. They killed each other and the girl drowned in her tears, which then became the Osum River.
The pine forests on the slopes of the towering Tomorr mountains, provided a backdrop to the Osumi river that had cut a over nine hundred meters deep gorge through the limestone rock and formed a natural fortress, around which the town of Berat was built on several river terraces. It was to the north of that town where his target was and he had nothing but to keep that mission.
The ground appeared to close and he had to watch that he didn’t plough straight into it. Even if Zack had the technology to stay low, he yanked the stick back, sending the nose of his jet up and he flew up into the sky.
As he couldn’t get any signal from any enemy plane, he was sure that he had succeeded to avoid the three MiG`s, and after a sharp turn, almost too sharp to continue to have full control over his jet, Zack dove down as he now banked to the left. As he turned left he radioed a message, which was snatched by the enemy.


Berat, Albania

In the protection of the dense pine forest of the slope of the huge hill on the left bank of Osum River, was a SA-13 SAM in hard work. Below the citadel of the town on its south side, known to Albanians as the City of a Thousand Windows, had the computer-guided missile battery been tracking Zack after his F-16 had reached their radars range. The result was that the radar warning indicators blared a warning for him that enemy radar had swept across him.
Abruptly, the shrill alarm tone squalled in the helmets earphones, and then had the radar-warning indicators blared a warning as enemy airborne radar had swept across him. Then, a second later, the radar-warning receiver indicated a radar lock.
As Zack pulled back the yoke and the jet started to climb, he thought out “Not again”. It had been followed by an operator that also could follow it as it banked.


Not many minutes flight in front of Zack had the mobile SAM battery of Russian made tracked SA-13 got theirs directive. Its commanding officer was overjoyed as he flung open the hatch in the armored command vehicle. He had jumped out and as he whistles to get attention, he had signaled with a hand over his head. Quickly had he reached the tracked armored launch vehicle that had already swung its rack of four missiles in the path of Zack that closed in.
Each of the 9M35 missiles carried a six kilo warhead and it could reach a top speed of Mach two. The deadly accurate missile had an engagement range between five hundred to five thousand meters and its engagement altitude was between ten meters up to almost four thousand meters. It was perfect for what now had been put on the lieutenant’s shoulders that had climbed up on the tracked vehicle and dropped himself down through the commander cupola. Closing the turrets hatch above him to enter an activity that his drilled crew showed its capability, he had been met with information. As the officer had jumped in to the seat next to his two operators, had the vehicle jerked as it had left its hiding in among the trees. It’s rolled out on a pasture, while the officer had put on a headset and got orders from the regiments headquarter.
“You have sanction to fire,” the officer said, turning his head towards the operator. “Note time,” he then said, reading the time and date for the operator that tapped that into the system.
“Missile away,” the operator confirmed what they could see, beside what they felt as the vehicle shook like a small car that was passed by an eighteen wheeler on the highway.
As on missile left the ramp on top of the vehicle like an arrow shot from a longbow, the operator tapped in new data into the system.
“Tracking,” the other operator said while the missile ran towards the target, letting its tracking system leads it. In the same second had missile number two locked on the same target, ready to launch.


A fast pitched warning sounded and red alert lights flashed. Missile launch, eleven o’clock, SAM battery, the system told Zack which acted and slammed the fighter into a hard left turn. He pulled the throttles to idle to keep the nose down. As the plane slowed down, it turned faster and he needed that. Oh, my God, what he needed that, he thought as the steep dive and steep turn had tumbled his senses. With these maneuvers, Zack also ejected chaffs and hopefully would the tinsel-like strips of metal foul the incoming missile. But no, a corkscrew of smoke came from the SAM, heading straight for him.
Zack head had twist and turned when he had yanked the throttles to idle, rolled the plane up onto its left wing and nosed it over into a deep dive. The negative Gs threatened to send up Zack’s stomach contents.
But the launch site had been to close and had given Zack too little time to respond on the threat, so he realized the fact as he had seen the missile behind him. In the next moment had the missiles sensors gone to high alert and a wall of fragments slammed into Zack’s jet’s tail.
The fragments had done its work, shredding the tail and took away all control over the rudder, before a firewall had reached the jet. It felt like Zack got a hit from a sledgehammer in the back and if it wasn’t that the harness holds him in the seat, he had been thrown forward. All he could do was to fight the G forces and pull the handles to shot his ejecting seat strait up in the sky. In the same second as Zack was transformed to a projectile, the jet was turned into a burning, trashed wreck that tumbled down, exploding on impact against the ground. As the jet smashed into the ground, it’s sending a fire cloud up into the air and debris all around the crater.
A fifty million dollar aircraft had turned into nothing more than a piece of metal junk.


Vlorë, Albania

In the office of the Vlorë Military District commander General Enver Vranishti, had the early morning got some activity from colonel Noni, his adjutant next door. Living just a few minutes away had he got to his office to deal with paperwork. He had a cheap, battered desk to do the paperwork on and a well-worn swivel chair whose stuffing was visible through the cracked vinyl on the seat, to seat on. A notice board on the wall between a bookshelf and battered file cabinets was crammed with announcements and memos. A blackboard was marked to show the districts military ability and there were dirty smudges when something had been clumsily erased and besides the colonel sat a lieutenant at a desk close to the door. The lieutenant had just ended a phone call that got colonel to frown as the young officer was pale as he had seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?” Noni said with a concerned voice as he killed the cigarette butt in an ashtray in the shape of a 20 mm grenade shell on his desk.
“Sir,” the young lieutenant said and swallowed hard. “We have a downed American pilot south of Berat.”
“Say again?”
The office door flung wide open and in rushed a sergeant that had to take a deep breath after he had dashed for Noni’s office.
“Colonel! An American fighter has been shot down south of Berat.”
“What is this?” Noni barked and got up so hastily that he shot his chair back. “American pilot?”
“In the District of Tepelenë,” the sergeant said and rushed for a wall size map that hung on the cracked wall, between two bookcases. “Around here, sir,” he said placing a yellow-stained finger in the area, south of Berat where “Zack” Webber had been shot down.
Noni mumbled something while he scratched his neck and watched the map for a moment and then walked over to the office window. Outside the window was the view in ordinary situations something Noni loved to watch with the Vlorë Bay and its clear blue water and white washed house there a mix of new buildings had been built.
To see the bay with its returning fishing boats was not anything he rested his eyes on now when he sighed heavily and rubbed his heavily lined and tired face with his hands.
“What do we have in the area?”


Nemerçkë Mountain, Albania

Zack’s training had kicked in when the Russian made missile had turned his F-16 to a multi-million dollar wreck. He reached for the eject handle to shot himself out of the cockpit, and with a speed of more than two hundred meter per second had he left the burning cockpit.
“I’m gonna bail out,” Zack reported and finally said “Start finding me boys”, before he pulled the handle for his catapult chair.
“Will do,” the operator answered.
The ejection was brutal on the body. The nylon straps, wrapped around his tights and ankles, jerked his legs back and his arms almost got broken when the seat was rocketed up. The wind that slammed into him almost knocked him out. One thought run through his head…, what if some strap was to lose? He could easily get killed.
And then, Whump! The shock when the canopy opened was enough to make Zack to grin and it felt through the spine.
Plumbing down towards the earth with a speed of 190 kilometers per hour, Zack knew that he was lucky to be alive. He was fully aware of that he was not out of danger. Down there, below him, was enemy territory. He’s behind enemy lines, for sure.
Around him was nothing but Albanian territory with its rugged mountains landscape in the Nemerçkë Mountains. Its jagged peaks had one that stood out most. Maja e Papingut was the highest point of Nemerçkë at almost two thousand five hundred meter above the sea. From the rocky summit would there be a wonderful view of Albanian mountains such as Tomorr and also Greek mountains. It was the last that was of Zack’s interest to reach.
Zack pulled the cord and his parachute worked which was a relief for him, when he was worried that it would have been damage. At a height of four thousand meter had the ejection seat dropped away with his survival kit. It would take him over ten minutes to land in a dense forest area, which was more than enough with time for a search team to scramble into the area.
As the ground closed in, Zack swung his weight to the left, trying to steer the chute away from the trees below and towards a stretch of grass. When he succeeded had he bent his knees and braced for the impact. It came hard and brutal and when his knees took the worst of the impact, had he hurt his back when he fell to his back. The chute tried to drag him across the field he landed on and he pulled out his knife and sawed at the shrouds and cut himself free, while he was dragged over the grass.


Combined Air Operations Centre-5, Poggio Renatico, Italy

The room was crowded with consoles holding keyboards and panels banked with switches and blinking lights. A dozen operators manned the consoles in the dimly lit room and were tapping their keyboards and talking into headsets.
On a big wall mounted monitor screen, as big as half of the wall, was a computer-generated map showing Europe and a bit more, high up enough for everybody to see. A small bundle of curved collared lines, showed orbital tracks for satellites. As an operator moved his data pad, a cursor moved on the map and when reaching a track, a tag appeared, naming the satellite and gave orbital and satellite data.
One of the tracks had a white “box” with a time in it, showing an on-route satellite and as one operator tapped his keyboard a window appeared, showing a map with possibility to focus down to a clear face. The boxcar-sized photoreconnaissance satellite, circling 257 km high above the earth, had been jogged into the orbital path to insure that right information would be given. The data flowing in from the overhead surveillance system confirmed and added the information gathered from the ground.
An operator adjusted a few controls on his console to get a positive identification and exact location and his face was lit up by the glow from the screens.
“We just lost the signal,” the operator reported and then, “Switching to manual tracker. Nothing,” he said, with concerned but not alarmed tone.
“That,” the on-duty officer said when he stopped behind the operator and tried to see through the clutter on the screens, “was the last we needed. What’s the present position?” he said as he slightly leaned forward to get a better view off the radar screen.
The operator consulted his screen before he glanced over his shoulder. “Nemerçkë Mountain, sir.”
“Have general Byars to call me ASAP. I want to go over things with him before all hell breaks out.”
“Yes, sir.”


Nemerçkë Mountain, Albania

Zack had buried the chute and helmet in a hole he had dug with his bare hands and had filled it quickly before he tromped it down and then set off.
As he looks around, all he can see is mountains with dense forests, looming in the distance and the landscape is filled with valleys and ravines.
From his vest takes Zack out his PRC-112 and controlled it. The PRC-112 was a pilot survival radio, and with it he could send and receive communication, but it also had a location beacon. With that could he be located..., of both sides. The battery would hold for up to fifteen hour.
The trouble Zack faces was not just that not only could the enemy locate him but the hilly area just bounced of the signals. That’s why that all he heard in his radio was static and he knew that he must reach higher grounds.
It could have been a pleasant walk up a gentle slope, surrounded by dense woods. But for Zack was it everything but a pleasant walk. It was wrong time, place and situation, to be a nice Sunday walk with his wife. While he was walking in quick pace, Zack glanced over his shoulder off and on and he had good reasons to be worried.
Soon had Zack reached a very rugged and dramatic craggy river gorge, where he could find a resting place for a while. The only buildings he had passed on his way over here were typically whitewashed houses and farmhouses and so far hadn’t Zack not notice any man-hunt for him…, yet.


The White House, Washington, D.C

Behind the layers of security was the White House Situation Room, or just plainly Sit Room in the basement of the White House. It consisted of a conference room surrounded on three sides by two small offices, multiple workstations, computers, and communications equipment. The conference room was soundproofed and well appointed but small and slightly cramped.
The Sit Room staffs were organized around five Watch Teams that provide 24-7 monitoring of international events. The ordinary Watch Team with its three Duty Officers, a communications assistant, and an intelligence analyst had been strengthening this morning.
Besides the Watch Team was the Sit Room staffed by a number of senior officers from various agencies in the intelligence community and from the military. Constantly monitoring world events and keeping senior White House staff apprised of significant events.
In addition to keep all up-to-date, the Watch Teams produced morning and evening summaries of highly selective material. These summaries, targeted on current interagency issues, were transmitted electronically to the NSC staff. The Situation Room staff also provides alerts on breaking events to NSC and White House personnel.
The day usually begun like they always did with the Watch Team's preparation of the Morning Book. The morning routine also includes the President's Daily Brief, which was prepared by CIA. It was hand-delivered, and briefed by a CIA officer to the President and other NSC principals.
The chairs around the long polished conference table in mahogany in the Sit Room were occupied by what was thought of as “the heavy brass”. The definition of heavy brass was generals of flag officers whose flashes three or more stars, NSC staff and into that was also a few civilians from the President’s staff included. If the present directors for CIA and NSA both should carry a rank, it would be lieutenant general. The “light brass” was in the background, prepared to rush to the aid if their “masters” wanted something.
When it comes to high-tech had the Sit Room a bank of flat panel display televisions for secure videoconferencing capability. There were computer terminals that could be fed both classified and unclassified data from around the country and the world" for the watch officers. The cramped room was also equipped with a wide array of electronic devices including microphones tactical placed so that even a sound of a dropped pen would be detected. Sometimes during meetings, the room was recorded and like others like this, not. In any case, the red light above the door began to flash and a sign “Do not enter”, lit up when the last participator arrived. For him, stood everybody up and like one voice, declared a “Good morning, Mr. President.”
A written "Sit Room Note" had been prepared, summarized the event with up-to-the-minute reports from other centers. This morning had it included photos, diagrams, and maps.
With the Morning Book already in the armored Black Lincoln Town Car when the National Security Adviser was picked up for work, Silver had been hard at work. The Morning Book contained a copy of the National Intelligence Daily, the State Department's Morning Summary, and diplomatic cables and intelligence reports.
Nick Silver was a tall man with some overweight around his waist and that had rounded his face. He was dressed in a dark suit with a red tie and white shirt, complete with the well polished shoes.
The President scanned a printout before he placed it down on the table and as his smile faded away to be replaced with an expression of anger, he leaned over the table, supported by his hands against the table. “I want to know what’s going on out there and I want to know it now.”
A man in a charcoal suit stood up and with a “Mr. President,” had he picked up remote control that he pointed on a screen. “Early this morning, at midnight our time had we a situation where one F-16 was lost, sir.” On the screen was Webber’s flight path shown in green and the green line showed its planned rout on a digital map. Then, after some tapping on a keyboard, a red line was shown, with its real path.
The President sunk down in his chair and leaned back with a “Christ”.
“Sir,” the man said whom was one of Silver’s staff members and a part of the Watch Shift that had been forced to deal with the situation. “We have a satellite on flight shortly, sir.”
A new series of typing on the keyboard and a voice could be heard over the speaker system. “Stand by, we’re directing the photo to you,” the voice said.
Silver watched the big monitor on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. An image of the wreck, taken from high above, filled the screen and the photo slowly increased in detail.
“It’s a real-time shot,” the voice reported. “Sir, you are looking at the shot down F-16.”
Silver gave instructions to the satellite technician without taken away his eyes from the screen for a second, to get a closer picture.
“We’re redirecting,” the voice reported. Hold on, sir.”
While waited, he glanced at the President who nodded.
The photo that came up on the screen showed the wreck and the area with all its debris with better details and they could all se army personnel moving around it and they could see that the pilot had shot himself out as the catapult chair was gone.
“Arrange photos and analyze the situation,” the President demanded.
“Will do,” the voice said.
“I believe we will need to beat up the situation when it comes to our readiness, don’t you?” the President said to a general, called that was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
General Philmore was a bald, broad shouldered Afro-American with his crisply uniform wear with spit-and-polish. His well decorated chest and athletic shape told everyone that he was a military that know his things.
Both the President and Philmore knew each other from the past when the President had served in the 3rd Marines back in the late sixties. He had served in hard battles in Khe Sanh, a Vietnamese hilltop base. It had been a seventy-seven days siege of the Combat Base with endless of comparison to the French lost at Dien bien Phu over ten years earlier.
Philmore’s Special Forces unit had come to the President’s rescue and the rumors said it was thanks to that event that Philmore had gone so far.
“I’ll flash the go-head to CINCPAC, sir,” Philmore said and gave a nod to his aide, who moved to the side of the room and picked up a phone.
“And what else?” the President said.
“I have anticipated that we’ll need to go to DEFCON 4, sir. I recommend DEFCON 3 for the units in the region, or bordering it.”
“Go ahead, do that,” the President ordered.
DEFCON numbers represent sates of military alertness and there were five of them. Peace was number five and everything was just fine and there was nothing serious to worry about. At four it starts to be a bit nervous and at three, forces go on increased alert, like now. At two, the threats look imminent and when one was a fact, you better start to pray for survival of the human species.
It was totally clear, the Albanian army had secured the crash-site and piece by piece, the wreck of the aircraft, had been transported to the Berat-Kuçovë Air Force Base in the Tomori Mountain. There could they without any interfere investigate the wreck.
“Tell me what we have on this so far,” the President sighed heavily.
An air force colonel excused himself in the background when he took a step forward and pointed a control towards a big screen that showed a 3D map for the group of gloomy looking men. A couple of seconds later and they could see a series of satellite photos that showed the wreck in different stages of dismantling.
“Sir. We can clearly see how they are dismantling the crash site and what we know are they bringing it to their base at Berat-Kuçovë. It’s well protected and its build inside the mountain which mean that they can work with the wreck undisturbed.”
The President was furious about the fact that a plane was shoot down and that the pilot was what it looked like without any possibility to be rescued, didn’t do anything better for his bad mood.
“Tell me what this means,” the President said and held out the transcription of the captured transmitting between Albanian units, involved in the manhunt. “Why is their army unit been given order to withdraw?”
“Sir,” Silver started and picked up his own copy of the transmission and glanced through it. “It can just be for one reason, sir.”
“And that is what?”
“They letting their Para-military unit do the search, sir.”
“Damn!” the President barked out a mad fist of his hands so the knuckles went white. “Damn!” he repeated when he was fully aware of what that meant.
When the pilot was captured he could be killed and then showed up of the army who then went in and “rescued” the body, or worst. The pilot just “disappeared”.
“Sir,” a Marine general with a bulldog face said and looked on Silver next to the President, shortly, before he looked at the President who loosened his tie. “If the Air Force hadn’t made this to a secret operation without our allied, we had been given the possibility to act, but now…,” he trailed off.
The Marine general went quiet and shook his head. Even if he had a sad face, he was overjoyed on the inside. He had placed the air force in a situation that just meant that the President went against them.
“Mr. President,” Silver started. If we had been given correct information from the beginning, we had never had this talk right now.”
“If we had received the correct background about this operation from the beginning,” the general responded and that got the President to raise a hand to stop the argument.
“It’s enough. We must find a solution on this mess instead of finding someone to point the finger on,” he sighed. “For now,” he then added. “What about the pilot?” the President asked irritated.
“Nothing yet, sir. The reason is the terrain, sir. Mountain,” the colonel said and pressed a button on the control and a map showed the area that had dense wooden mountain. “Any signal from the radio will be hard to retrieve. It will just bounce off the mountain and he need to reach higher grounds, sir.”
“And he know it, Mr. President,” the general said. “We know that they had pointed that out in their broadcastings.”
“If this gets out,” the President sighed and shook sadly on his head before tapping a finger on the table with a thoughtfully face. “We are going to get question from the media,” he said and leaned back behind his desk. “I don’t want to deal with them before we are on top on everything, but have a statement for them drafted by morning.”
“It will be done, sir,” a man in suit said and left the room.
“Sure it will,” the President said and looked around. “Unless there’s anything else?”
Silence.
“Bill,” the President said, turning towards the CIA Director Sobocinski. “Please stay back.”
With a “Yes, Mr. President,” had the seen how the clear signal had got him to sit while all other, Silver included, stood up and left with a “Mr. President.”
“Bill,” the President said and shook Sobocinski’s hand warmly. “It’s been a while now since we had a chat solo.”
“Three months, sir,” he said.
They both had occasions with personally meetings before, as organizers of found-rising. A high-class of begging, the President thought.
“Let me say something to you, Bill,” the President said when the two men were left by them self. “I heard of shooting yourself in the foot and crap like that…, done it myself more than I want to admit,” he said with a smile over his own wit. “But this goes a little too far. Don’t you agree?”
“What you say in the meeting, Mr. President, make sense,” Sobocinski shrugged. “I wouldn’t venture to try to explain events until I had a lot more facts than we now have.”
“Wise as always,” the President said and took some seconds to think through the situation. “So let’s get some facts.” The President was cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. “I know you Bill,” he smiled. “Tell me, what do you brought for me?” he asked, after putting the glasses back on his nose.
“This mission was a distasteful one,” the CIA director said and shook his head when he glanced through the hasty written rapport.
“It was of what I have read,” the President said, nodding towards the folder. “But I guess that’s nothing new for you. You have done your part in your countries distasteful missions.”
Sobocinski nodded.
“So than, you understand what I need from you?”
“I suppose I do, sir,” he emitted with half a smile. “Unfortunately, I don’t have enough resources to go through such a mission.”
“I understand,” the President said and shook his head. “What resources do you require?”
“We are talking about NEO’s.”
“Non-Combatant Evacuation Operation’s,” he said with a nod. “You want our marines into it?”
“Partial, sir. It’s the most common operations that the Marine MEU has been called upon to execute.”
“So you think they are up to this then?”
“Absolutely.”
“And on what part of this will you involve your people?”
“Oh, we will be there,” he smiled.
“Do you think that it’s possible?”
“Uh-huh,” Sobocinski nodded. “Yes, sir, if it’s kept very low-key.”
“So, who will you send?”
“I have some work to do but I have a general idea.’
“Whoever it might be, Bill,” the President said almost whispering and leaned forward. “Tell him to pack his bags.”


District of Kolonjë, Albania

At the foot of Mount Gramoz or Mali i Gramozit in the southern part of Albanian, had Zack woke up. Hidden in the dense forest had he kept low and it wasn’t far from the Greek border.
He didn’t know what aroused him from his light sleep and looked around and could then hear it. Not far from the town of Korçë. It had turned to daylight and Zack had decided to wait for the dark before he moved on south.
The air was rich with birdsong and the hum of insects and over him, unseen somewhere, a jet rumbled passed. Zack looked up and wondered if it was someone looking for him. He crawled slowly through the undergrowth. He crouched upright for a second, and then dropped down into cover, when he heard something nearby.
Nothing.
From his vest took Zack out his PRC-112 survival radio and controlled it. The battery would hold for up to fifteen hour so he had been careful to switch it off. He hoped its beacon would help his rescuer to find him even if the risk was that it would attract other too. He tried to make contact and was about to try a third time to reach friendly units when something got his alert to flag him.
Zack throw himself flat on the ground and was quick to switch the radio off. He had drawn his pistol in the process and cocked it. The M9 pistol, a copy of the Italian Beretta 92, was a deadly effective short-recoil-operated, locked-breech weapon. A clip with fifteen rounds and with an aluminum frame which lightweight was just slightly less than 100 grams, the M9 had been the choice of weapon. It was easy to hold and to slip inside a jacket and even easier to draw out.
What got his attention was an older, open GAZ-69 army jeep painted in green with the Albanian black two-headed eagle, crowned by the red star, on the front doors. Its hard working engine and creaking brakes had given Zack all warning he needed.
Zack could see that three soldiers was in the jeep, all looking in his direction while they chattering with each other. It looked as if they were not sure of what their next step would be, but they jump out off the jeep.
In one of the soldiers hand was something that looked like a clumsy radio and Zack understood what it was when the soldier looked up from its display and pointed in his direction. He had it totally clear that was a detector when Zack switched of his radio and the soldier looked confused down on its display.
The soldier shrouded and tossed the detector back into the jeep and then pointed into Zack’s direction. The Albanian soldiers in their typical field caps with peak and earflaps buttoned on the top and woodland camouflage, closed in. Armed with the Albanian version of the famous Russian Kalashnikov AK-47 with its folded spike bayonet was they prepared. It was a short argument about who would go first. Their body language told Zack that they had doubt of what they should do as they reached his hide out.
He curled his fingers around the M9 pistols grip, thumbed off the safety catch, raised his hand and lined the target in the sights before he squeezed the trigger.
Suddenly as Zack waited for the soldiers to reach him, he detected a movement and glanced over his shoulder in the corner of his eyes. There, almost behind him, stood a fourth soldier.
Zack rolled over on his back and raised his hand with the weapon, aiming straight at the soldier’s chest. The soldier that first hadn’t seen Zack raised to get up his weapon first and his eyes widened of the fact that he had a pistol aimed for his chest. A second later had he thumbed off the safety catch, and a bullet was fired and smacked into the soldier’s chest and straight through his heart, trashing everything in its way, before it took with it, a big chunk of flesh, on its way out in his back.
The soldier fell down on his knees with his eyes still wide opened of shock, and focused on Zack that rolled back on his stomach to face the three other. Then, after he tried to say something, he fell on his side with a heavy “thump” and rolled over on his back. At that moment had the other reacted and charged Zack.
Zack brought up his pistol and he curled his fingers around the grip and lined the target in the sights before he squeezed the trigger.
The soldiers had seen Zack and tried to bring up his rifle first, but even if he managed to fire had that been to the ground. The distance and the fact that Zack was a prized shooter had he taking a four burst into his chest and face. He twirled around and fell to the ground.
The second soldier in front of Zack had got trouble with his Kalashnikov and got down on one knee when he replaced the Kalashnikov’s clip and worked with the bolt. There was he thrown back as two bullets slammed into his chest like he had been hit by a freight train. The last soldier was not an easy target when he had kneeled and had got up his Kalashnikov to the shoulder. Bullets ripped through the branches around Zack and he pressed his face into the ground, sure on that he will be shoot.
Then had a shout from behind Zack got the soldier to stop shooting and instead darted for him, while shouting a war cry. Rough hands a second later yanked Zack to his feet and a gun barrel against his chest got him to raise his hands. He dropped the pistol that was quickly scooped up from the ground.
The soldier that had showed up from behind frowned and glanced over his shoulder towards the one that had rushed over the field. He said something which got the soldier to answer that got the other soldier to laugh loudly and they backslapped each other.
The soldier that had came from behind looked down on the dead comrade that had was first to die, showed the butt of his rifle into Zack’s stomach, driving him back and got him down on his knees, gasping for air.
The soldier bound his hands behind his back and a muzzle prodded his back. “Walk!”
They pushed through a grove of evergreens and the wet branches slapped Zack and soaked through his flight suit. With his hands tied behind his back, Zack had trouble walking straight but the muzzle kept poking his back to make him to move on as he had stumbled in attempt to keep up with the soldiers.


The White House, Washington D.C

The President had entered the Oval Office to see Silver there. He stood at the ego wall, watching the photo on the wall were the President two years earlier stood with one hand on Abraham Lincoln’s Bible, and swore the oath as the new President.
“Good morning, Nick,” the President said and took his seat at his desk, and got a “Mr. President” back.
The ornate wooden Presidential desk, known as the Resolute desk, stood in the Oval Office on orders of the Queen of England. It had been crafted from timbers taken from the retired HMS Resolute and then in 1880, given by Her Majesty Queen Victoria to then US President Rutherford Hayes.
Besides the National Security Adviser where there a group of waiting men there. All had quickly got up on their feet when the President swung the door open. The men looked all overtired and like they had been dragged out of bed, which was the fact in some cases. Only one of the military advisors looked like he had enough with sleep, and that told the President something about the military discipline.
His eyes wandering around the men at the table that exchanges looks as the President folds his arms over his chest and watches the gathered men that look like they want to disappear from the earth.
“Mr. President.” Heads turned like in a tennis match when Silver spoke. “My advice is that we need to get further confirmation before taking action,” he said. “It will be a serious embarrassment for us if we send in troops and then…,” he said and went quiet.
“Then what?” the President said.
Nothing happened.
“I’m not waiting for a new crisis will appear,” the President said. All he wanted was to get the control of the situation.
“I agree, sir. On principle,” Silver said as the President had expected. “But my concern is that we would not gain any support from our allied or nations in the region.”
“I don’t agree,” the President said.
Silver shrugged. “Mr. President?”
The President glanced at Philmore, his Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff, gesturing with a hand for him to speak.
“Sir. We can’t admit our part in the operation.”
“Why not?”
“Sir. Can you imagine the political, diplomatic and not to forget the military embarrassment that will be resulted of this?”
“I believe so,” the President sighed.
“Besides, we will have a nightmare over us if we go in.”
“I might have been born a night, but not last night,” the President said and waved away the comments.
“Sir,” the chairman for the Air Force said and got the complete attention from the group of gloomy looking men. “With your permission, sir.”
The President gestured with a hand that the general would continue.
“We should send in a listening post to the area and gain access to their radio traffic, sir.”
“Is that also your suggestion, general?”
Heads turned again as the President had talked to the Philmore.
“Sir, I must admit that could be the first step,” he agreed before looking at Silver. “I must also suggest that our intelligence community put all their best efforts in and find what really going on.”
“That sound as the best way,” the President said and glanced on Silver. “Right, Nick?”
At that moment had the Air Force general almost threw himself over a phone he had snatched up to his ear and as he was giving order, the President looked on a bundle with printouts, maps and charts. The look Silver had got told him that the whole operation had gone down the toilet.
The President pulled up his sleeve to check his wristwatch, a gift from his time as Governor for a North-East State, “I have the Albanian ambassador here so if there is nothing else for now will I say that we continue with this meeting after lunch.”
The sound of chairs been pulled out stopped when the President pointed a hand on Silver.
“And you will join me.”


The Diplomatic Reception Room had been an entrance to the South Lawn but had been turned into a reception room for foreign ambassadors to present their credentials on the ground floor. The room was the point of entry to the White House for a visiting head of state following the State Arrival Ceremony on the South Lawn. It was also one of three oval rooms in the residence of the White House.
It was in the room that the President found the Albanian two-man delegation, a small delegation with the Albanian ambassador and an aid.
The ambassador stood and admired the sweeping panorama on the walls when the President entered. The Zuber wallpaper, titled Scenes of North America, was printed from multiple woodblocks and features historic scenes. In 1962, with advice from an antiques expert, had the First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy the room papered with antique French scenic wallpaper produced by Jean Zuber.
Other thing in the room was the fireplace. In 1935 had Franklin Roosevelt a chimney opened so he could conduct his famous "fireside chats."
Ambassador Vangjush Agaj was a man of average height, with heavily lined and wrinkled face, framed by sideburns that went in black as his close cropped hair. He was dressed in a brownish-greenish suit with a green shirt without any an orange tie.
Agaj had got his given name after the Albanian painter Vangjush Mio, an Albanian impressionist painter that was born in 1891 and died 1957. After years of studying, working and painting, he achieved fame and also the title of People's Artist in Albania. What the President had been informed had Mio mostly painted Albanian landscapes and portraits. He had also made scenes for the local theatre and was the topic of a dozen exhibitions both in Albania and abroad. The story that had amused the President was that Mio had been forced to stop painting nudes in Albania. That when the communist regime was not very eager to allow young ladies pose very easily.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the President said with a toothy smile and a firm handshake. “But the work keeps me busy,” he continued and motioned a hand towards a suite of lancet arched side chairs and a pair of sofas with splayed legs upholstered in a yellow silk damask.
Soon had Agaj found out that the coffee which a mess steward had and poured into exquisite China with gold trim and the Presidential logo, was excellent.
“I will cut the chase and go directly to the reason why I asked you to meet me,” the President said like it was possibly to say no if the President asks for a meeting.
Agaj frowned. “Mr. President?” he said and placed back his cup and it rattled on the saucer when he did so.
“We are just attempting to defuse a volatile situation,” the President said to the man in front of him that didn’t believe one word of what was said. “And,” the President continued with a smile. “The United States intends to closely watch the situation and will continue to uphold the principle of freedoms, as we have done for over two hundred years.”
“Pretty words from a nation who drops bombs on kids and their allies’ friend,” Agaj said bitterly.
“The United States has a global responsibility as we like it or not, but that’s the reality. This goes far beyond maintaining freedom and supporting our allies in times of crises. Whether we like it or not, most of the world’s nations look upon us as a leader and they see us as the world’s policemen.”
Agaj smiled, shook his head and leaned toward his aid and whispered something, which got the aid to nod.
“Have I missed something?” the President asked.
“What I know, Mr. Policemen,” he said with a hard time to hide his dislike, “is that over the last half century and more, you’re poorly conceived and ill executed foreign policy has evicted you from something like 75 percent of your bases, yes?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but-”
“We are done here, Mr. President,” Agaj said and was followed by his aid when he got up on his feet. “Be sure, Mr. President, that I will bring your points back home. I thank you for your time, Mr. President.”
“That didn’t go well, sir,” Silver said when the door closed behind the Albanian delegation. While his head had started too spun of possibility to through further, had after a deep sight, the President walked over to a table where he scooped up a newspaper. He held up Washington Post with the front cover that showed the wreckage of the downed F-16. “They are out with the news,” he said and handed Silver the paper. “You haven’t seen it?”
“Mr. President,” Silver said but trailed off when he picked up the newspaper. Headline story, sidebar and a bad photograph. All was about the F-16 that had been successfully shot down by a SAM in Albania.
“You better get your guy in there and get the pilot out. I am damn sure we can explain the plane but if they capture the pilot and get him to talk, we will be deep into it.”
“Sir. I will deal with it.”
“Better than the other I hope,” he said and was on his way towards the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room when he stopped at the door where a suited Secret Service agent stood. “By the way, I want a word with general Byars. Arrange that, will you, Nick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy,” the President said as he took the lead towards the gathered press. Now he had, as the President of United States, to explain for the American people what brought them to this stage.
After the make-up artist done her thing, the President took his seat in front of a camera team. The lights were already set up and a technician put a microphone on the table in front of the President, and there came the reporter.
The President took a deep breath. This was it…

The end...

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.04.2010

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