Assault On P-21: Operation TAKE-DOWN

     It had started.

     I checked the .45 cal. silenced Glock in my lap.

     We were driving down the highway in a 1995 Dodge utility van, painted to resemble a Smackenhovel Company vehicle. At about 2 miles away from the brightly lit buildings of P-21, Skiles slowed and turned the van down the access road leading to the main gate. I glanced over at Sgt. Major Skiles at the wheel, who, like myself and the remaining eight SOG team in the back of the van, were dressed in the black BDUs worn by the security company. Behind us, a similar van waited.

     "Groundstar One, this is Groundstar Forward," Ostwinkle's oddly disembodied voice spoke through my headset. "Good luck and Godspeed. Groundstar Forward, out."

     I tucked the headset into my shirt as we rolled up to the main gate. The Sgt. Major put the van in park, leaned out the window as one of the gate guards came out with a clipboard and a flashlight that he suspiciously shined into the cab.

     "'Mornin'," Skiles said.

     The Smackenhovel goon was a real stone-face, one of those black-clad blond Titans that I was very familiar with from Aerodyne. Dr. Stahl should feel right at home. I hoped he brought his olive oil.

     "ID" commanded the Bismarck statue.

     Obediently, we both handed over our ID's. The guard scanned them carefully, looking to compare our faces with the photos on the laminated cards.

     "You guys are new," he observed. "I haven't seen you before."

     "We just rotated in from S-4," I lied smoothly. It was my job, after all.

     After a moment, he reluctantly returned the cards, and waved us through. I casually put my right arm out the window, to signal the follow-up van.

     "Anything happening?" I asked.

     "Zilch," replied the guard. "Main Security says there's been trouble with the ground sensors. Probably stupid local kids again." He gave an evil grin. "If it is, it's just a couple more faces on milk cartons."

     I stifled the urge to cap him just as the second van began having its engine trouble right on cue.

     "Something wrong?" the gate guard moved closer, slinging his Uzi around. I opened the door.

     "Dunno," I said. "We got the damned thing from your motor pool." Tucking the Glock discreetly down to the back of my pants, I exited the van. Walking around the far side of the van, I non-hurriedly strolled back to the driver's window of the second van. I looked into where Fatso Judson sat at the steering wheel, Maggio next to him in the passenger seat.

     At my glance, Fatso nodded. "Crank her again," I said louder. Fatso turned the key. The engine gave a painful grind.

     By this time, the other two gate guards emerged from the guard shack.

     "Hey," one of them shouted. "What the fuck's goin' on? We're s'pposed to be off duty five minutes ago!"

     I lifted the hood, while Fatso opened the driver's door and stepped out. I leaned away from the van and motioned the commander of the guard detail to come over.

     "What the hell's goin' on?" he demanded.

     "Can't find nothin' under the hood," said Fatso, whom had been carefully scrutinizing the perfectly good engine with his own flashlight. The guard commander came over.

     "See if you can crank it," I asked. Obediently, he leaned inside and began to turn the key. I pointed my Glock to the base of his skull and pulled the trigger. He began falling, but I grabbed him, while Maggio keyed the engine to grind it some more.

     "If you wanna get outta here, give us a hand," Fatso yelled. The two remaining guards came jogging over. Just as they arrived, I fired twice, hitting the second guard above the bridge of the nose, the third guard above the left eye. They crumpled to the gravel road.

     "Okay, people, let's move!" I hissed. The two vans disgorged the sixteen men in the SOG team.

     "Milk cartons," I quietly spat with disgust as Mazio hoisted that first guard's body over his shoulder and took him away. The team hurriedly gathered up the other lifeless bodies and slung them into the vans.

     I loped to the guard shack, where Skiles had set up shop. He was moving normally, checking paperwork for the benefit of the video camera linking the main gate to security headquarters.

     Cadfael sauntered up. "Sensors are out," he whispered.

     At the guard shack, the video arrays were all operational. I nodded imperceptibly to Skiles. He reached down and activated a magnetic device that hung on his pistol belt. One of the screens suddenly came alive. Another Nordic face. It was security headquarters.

     "This is central to main gate. What's going on? Where's second shift?"

     "They split outta here about two minutes ago. They're headin' your way," Skiles responded, looking disgusted. "Somethin' about a poker game and beer."

     The face in the video monitor seemed to relax. I stuck my own kisser in the picture. The first magnetic interference began to appear on the screen.

     "Hey," I said. "You guys gettin' any interference on your end?"

     The face on the monitor, starting to go fuzzy, checked his own instruments. "Yeah. We're gettin' somethin' here . . . "

     "D'you have any heavy electromagnetic stuff goin' out tonight?"

     "Just the usual. Need me to send some techs down?"

     "Negative," I cut him off. "Give us ten. We'll see if we can fix it here. I'll send someone up if we can't find it on this end."

     Mr. Central faded completely into white noise.

     Now. It was now.

     "Groundstar Forward, this is Groundstar one," I said urgently into my concealed comlink mike. "We are in. Repeat, we are in."

     Ostwinkle's voice replied in my headset, "Roger that, Groundstar One."

     Above us, in the Pavehawk, Ostwinkle keyed the command freq. "Groundstar Forward to all Groundstars. We are go. Repeat, we are go."

     We had at least seven minutes before the pyro started. I stripped off the black Smackenhovel uniform which I wore over my US Army Cammo BDUs. The rest of the team, except for Skiles, did likewise.

     "Okay," I hissed. "Cadfael, Jakobi, Funston. Secure the area. The rest of you lugs, let's move it out."

     Now wearing K-Pots with comlinks, Alice gear and carrying our standard weapons, we began trotting toward Central Security HQ. Though in stealth mode, I could hear the first of the Pavehawk choppers overhead. Bull was right on time. Now if he was only on target. . .

     We reached Central eight seconds later, just one second behind the training schedule. Skiles went up to the main door while we flattened against the wall to either side. The Sgt. Major pressed the admittance buzzer.

     "Yeah?" came the voice over a speaker. "Face the camera, please."

     The Sgt. Major obediently turned to face the security camera.

     "We can't fix the audio or video at the Main Gate," he said irritably. "We need some fuckin' help, man."

     "Just a minute," the voice over the intercom. The door buzzed and swung open. When it did, the Sgt. Major stood facing the Smackenhovel guard with a drawn Sig Sauer, silencer attached. The guard gaped in surprise, going for his own sidearm. I swung out of the shadow and leveled my own CAR-15 at his head.

     Skiles and the two soldiers rushed into another room, whose occupants had already been alerted by the missile attack, automatic weapons fire, and flash-bang. Skiles still in his Smackenhovel uniform, stepped up to the door. The uniform saved him; the twelve men hesitated just long enough from grabbing their weapons. The Sgt. Major dropped one with his silenced Sig Sauer. Pruitt and Warden nailed two more with their '16s before the others surrendered. I followed. Skiles stood over the table, over the guard he had dropped.

     "Poker game," he said. He reached over to pick up the hand of cards that had been laid down by the man he had dropped.

     "Aces and eights?" I asked.

     "Fuck no," Skiles said with disgust. "Bastard was trying to draw to a pair of deuces. Fucker deserved it."

     I quickly reminded my team of our orders. If the Smackenhovel people surrendered, take them prisoner. If they resisted, grease 'em.

     The M-3 Bradleys had ripped through the chain link and razor wire fences, their 25mm chain guns working over the above-ground installations. From their innards, they disgorged their eight-man SOG teams, which fanned out to secure their primary objectives.

     A single Huey circled overhead, broadcasting a message:

     "ATTENTION! ATTENTION! ALL P-21 HUMAN PERSONNEL! THIS IS A LEGITIMATE INTERDICTION OPERATION! GROUND YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER TO THE NEAREST US ARMED FORCES PERSONNEL! YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED! REPEAT, . . . "

     While we moved toward the underground entrances, men in white lab coats and black BDUs trotted obediently from the burning rocketed buildings. Uniformed personnel dropped their weapons. All held their hands over their heads in surrender as SOG members converged to round them up.

     "Jesus, Colonel," Skiles said, shedding his Smackenhovel togs. "This is just like the Gulf. 'Cept these pukes ain't yellin' 'God Bless George Bush'."

     "Yeah," I said, "The best thing is CNN ain't here."

     "Fuckin' A," Skiles agreed.

     Two Pavehawks swooped in low, flared, and set down. Twenty men disembarked from the two choppers. Two men came toward us, one of them adjusting his camo ranger cap, the firelight tinging his graying mustache and close-cropped hair. It was the Bull.

     He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

     "Central Security secured!" I shouted against the rotor noises of the Pavehawks. "No casualties, Bull!"

     "Well done! But we're not finished!" He turned and gave a thumbs-up to the helicopters. Their rotor speed increased, and they lifted off, blowing dust and smoke. He motioned for three others to join us: Dr. Immelman Stahl, Dr. Franz 'Bubbi' Kusch, and another Aerodyne Tech. They carried what looked like oxygen tanks with valves attached.

     "Any Grays or Reptoids yet?" Ostwinkle asked in a normal tone-the noise of the Pavhawks finally fading.

     "No sir." I looked around at the burning debris of P-21. "If they're here, they're all downstairs."

     Ostwinkle nodded. He turned to Stahl, who looked out of place in his ill-fitting camos. "Okay, Doc. Looks like it's down to the basement."

     Stahl, already badly dressed, looked even more uncomfortable. "Your men know how to place the devices," he said. "I will direct from the surface . . . "

     Before he could protest further, Ostwinkle seized him by part of his BDU blouse and dragged him along. We followed. Before we could get much further, the ground rumbled. One of the smoldering ground structures which vaguely resembled the hatch of an ICBM silo blew open. Three triangular shaped craft shot from the extra-large opening. They were immediately engaged by the F-117s with AIM and AMRAM missiles.

     We watched in amazement, as the missiles closed on their targets only to be knocked down by bluish-green bolts from the triangular UFOs. The next thing we knew, two more triangles, using appropriate FAA recognition lights, raced out from behind the F-117s, firing a stream of green tracers knifing through the attacking UFO craft. One after another, bandits exploded in a shower of glowing fragments.

     "Hot diggity shit!" Ostwinkle howled. "Dorfmann and Joe Three are still shit-hot rocket aces. Okay, let's go, people!"

     The General trotted toward a building that was belching flame and smoke, Dr. Stahl still in tow.

     "The main entrance to the basement is in that building!" the Bull shouted over the explosions and gunfire. The first of the aliens emerged from the underground base, only to be cut down by SAWs and other automatic weapons fire. We barely noticed as we raced for the entrance of the building.

     The door was of course sealed. At my order, the Sgt.-Major, with Captain Todd Scheissvogel assisting, quickly placed two fat charges against the door. They set the timer and, like the rest of us, dove for cover. The blast removed the hardened door completely. When we had recovered from the concussion effect, we got to our feet, and very carefully made our insertion into the building.

     The interior looked more like a highschool janitor's office than hi-tech alien inner sanctum: all pipes and tubing and dankness. A door, much like the one we had just blasted open loomed at the far and likely it could only lead one way. Downstairs.

     Two more shape charges blew these open. In their smoking ruins, the Bull drew his M1911A1 Colt. "Let's go, people!" he shouted.

     I dashed by him, and almost fell headlong down another flight of steel-rung stairs. I steadied myself and stealthily climbed down. The second level was much as the same, with the exception of large machinery and several armed...

     "Watch it, Colonel!" Sgt. Major Skiles leveled his HK OICW at the nearest Reptoid and cut loose a three round burst of 5.56mm. The Reptoid's head dissolved in a mass of bone and red mist. After a short fire fight, we cleared the second level. Another sealed door barred our way to level three.

     Not wanting to waste time with plastique, Ostwinkle turned to Skiles, Scheissvogel, and the other SOG soldiers with grenade launchers.

     "Shane! Todd! Forty mike-mike the door!"

     The 40 millimeter grenades blew the door to shreds.

     "Move!" commanded Ostwinkle.

     We moved. I must say now, for the record, that I was beginning to feel somewhat superfluous, as I was supposed to be in command of the ground forces, and my friend, General Ostwinkle, had somewhat usurped me.

     Our descent into the third level was like a descent into Dante's third circle of Hell. We found ourselves surrounded by tanks full of . . . well, what used to be humans.

     "It's like Dulce," I managed to say.

     "We've had too many Dulces," the Bull shouted. "Burn it! Blow it all!"

     The SOGs began placing charges.

     "Skipper!" Skiles came toward me. "There's another door!"

     "We've gotta get into that level!" Ostwinkle's voice was firm but urgent.

     Once again, the 40 mm grenade launchers did their work. We dashed down to the 4th level of the Inferno. This time we were greeted by the blue-green flashes of Reptoid weapons.

     We took cover behind machinery, vats of disarticulated abductees, whatever was handy. Weapons fire of all kinds cracked and sizzled overhead, creating a decidedly unhealthy atmosphere.

     Not trusting the comlink security any longer, I sprinted from cover, dodging enemy fire, over to Ostwinkle.

     "We're gonna have to outflank 'em," Ostwinkle said. He reached around and grabbed at Stahl, who cowered behind him. "Stahl, get ready with that gas," he ordered. "Harry, take Skiles, Scheissvogel, Elron and Claude to the left. We'll take the right. Move as soon as you're in position. We've got to take that door. Go!"

     Another head-down sliding sprint got me back. "C'mon," I said to Skiles and the rest of the team, and slammed a fresh mag into my weapon. "Put on respirators. Bull's gonna use the ammonia and PAM. We gotta go left and secure that door."

     Our NBC masks in place and my team ready, Bull gave the go-code over the comlink. We moved quickly around odd, almost organic looking machinery, weapons fire intensified as we crept and dodged our way forward toward the door. Through the lenses of my mask I discerned a yellowish cloud creeping forward. I motioned for the squad to get up, as the door was in sight.

     A Gray or Reptoid stumbled back against the door, enveloped in the yellow ammonia cloud. Before our eyes, he dissolved, just like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark . So, the stuff did work.

     At a loud whooshing noise, the yellow cloud suddenly disappeared. The ventilation system was working. I signaled my team forward. Skiles took point. Suddenly, another Reptoid stepped from behind some debris.

     "Cover!" I shouted as the energy bolt sizzled out. It struck some machinery to our left. Before anyone could return fire, a heavy support stanchion toppled over, right on top of Sgt. Major Skiles.

     All thoughts of fire discipline vanished. I dropped into a crouch and sprayed the Reptoid, my CAR-15 on full rock 'n roll, cutting the Jurassic Park wannabe cleanly in half. Despite what my colleague Colonel Ardenti says, bullets do stop them. Quite nicely. I jumped forward to find Skiles' left leg was pinned beneath it at the knee. I pulled my mask off, and bent over the Sgt. Major.

     "You okay?" I asked.

     "Dammit, it's my good knee!" he shouted.

     "We'll get you outta there, bro. Hang tight." I signaled the others to start lifting the wreckage, then got on the comlink. "This is Groundstar One! We need medevac down here , and I mean right now!" Suddenly, more energy bolts sizzled overhead. More debris clattered from above, melted metal spattered onto my K-pot as the bolts burst overhead. I leapt over the wreckage, yelling and firing wildly at the source. From behind me, two loud bangs burst from an assault shotgun.

     Capt. Scheissvogel yelled, "Colonel! Get back here!"

     I turned and vaulted over the wreckage to encounter an astounding sight.

     Skiles had freed himself from the wreckage by blowing his pinned leg off just above the knee with Scheissvogel's Model 12 Winchester. He sat there, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, tying primercord above the stump as a tourniquet. We were all staring with a mixture of shock and awe at the Sgt. Major. He looked up at me, his eyes wild and brow furrowed, sweat trickling down his temple. He winked at me. Then he slapped a fistful of C-4 around the bloody stump and hauled himself up on his good leg. Speechless, I let him grab onto me by the straps of my web gear.

     "Colonel," he shouted. "We gotta get through that door! I'm a real weapon, now! You gotta throw me at that door! Set the timer for three seconds!"

     A sudden nearby explosion made me jump. Only then did I realize the Reptoid zap-guns had been knocked out of action.

     "Put it in your after-action report, Sarn't Major," I half-choked, still amazed. "And send it through the usual channels!" I added loudly, discipline taking hold again. I got on the comlink.

     "Bull!" I said, communications protocol forgotten. "Skiles is down!" I looked over and saw Scheissvogel and Claude administer morphine shots to the Sgt. Major.

     "How bad?" came the reply.

     "Lost a leg." Just as I had finished, three medics appeared, two of them with a stretcher. They bent over the Sgt. Major, who had slumped into a state of semiconsciousness. They removed the C-4 and applied standard field first aid to what remained of Skile's leg. He was babbling incoherent orders as they him took away.

     Ostwinkle and the other team members linked up with us. "Kinda sounds like you after Operation Dragoon Two in the 'Nam, " he said with grin.

     "Yeah," I agreed, not adding that I had better drugs back then.

     Suddenly, the hitherto sealed door burst open. Two Reptoids stood in the doorway, brandishing what looked like a large drainpipe.

     "Watch out, Harry!" Ostwinkle fairly screamed as we all dove for cover. I discerned a translucent beam sweep out from the device as Ostwinkle threw himself on top of me. Automatic weapons fire erupted, aimed at the aliens in the open doorway.

     "Clear!" I heard Elron shout when the shooting ended. I tried to get up, but found Ostwinkle on top of me. He rolled over as I stood over him.

     "You okay, Bull?" I asked. He sat up groggily.

     "I think so," he said. I helped him to his feet. Dr. Stahl looked into the General's eyes. He then gave me a worried glance.

     "Okay people!" I ordered. "We still gotta sweep that next level! Get another fire-team down here, Fatso!" I cautiously moved toward the two bodies in the open doorway.

     "Bull, they're Reptoids!" I exclaimed. "They don't negotiate!"

     "But have we really tried?" Ostwinkle insisted. "No! All we've done is shoot first, and usually ask no questions at all! Damn it! They're a friendly alien people! They have no wish to harm anyone!"

     I know that this was distasteful for the Herr Doktor to admit. But he was right. Ostwinkle continued to speak histrionically, much like Captain Kirk. I stepped in front of Ostwinkle.

     "General," I addressed him formally and with no small amount of discomfiture. "Under military regulations, I must reluctantly relieve you of command. Your injuries have made you..."

     He cut me off savagely. "What? What are you saying? You're under arrest for mutiny, Colonel Campbell! Place yourself under arrest and confine yourself to your quarters! I expect you to behave like an officer and a gentleman!"

     "General," I said gently. "You're sick, sir. I have to relieve you..."

     "Captain Scheissvogel! Place Colonel Campbell under arrest!"

     Scheissvogel remained motionless. So did everyone else."

     "Just as I thought!" Ostwinkle nodded, an odd, triumphant smirk on his face. "Just as I thought. You're all consistently disloyal. You'll all be court-martialed for this!"

     Before he could continue, Dr. Stahl jabbed a hypodermic into his arm. Ostwinkle jumped back, staring in disbelief.

     "What have you done?" he demanded. "This is wartime! You could all be shot for ..." His eyes glazed, and he slumped to the floor.

     "Get him topside," I ordered. A voice crackled over my comlink headset.

     "Groundstar Leader, this is Groundstar Six. We have been ordered to terminate the operation."

     I looked at the others in disbelief. I asked Six to repeat the message. He did.

     "Dump two of those ammonia canisters and three demolition charges down those vent shafts!" I ordered. "We're all going topside and find out what the hell's going on here!" This galvanized the rest. We began to withdraw as the ammonia and PAM canisters were thrown down the yawning ventilation conduits. Scheissvogel added a pair of satchel charges. We reached the top level by the time the charges detonated.

     Topside was controlled chaos. It still wasn't dawn yet. Three Sikorsky CH-47 helicopters hovered overhead. Three more Hueys had set down. Six black BDU-clad armed men approached us. I knew right away they weren't friendlies.

     "Where's Ostwinkle!?" their leader demanded.

     "'He's unconscious," I said evenly. "He was injured."

     "Who's in command?"

     "I am." This didn't bode well.

     "Who the hell are you?" demanded Mr. Leader Black.

     "In command," I replied, stepping closer.

     The leader examined me, an arrogant sneer on his face. "Well, Colonel, Mr. In Command. You are to terminate this illegal operation immediately, return to your base and await full disciplinary measures. Have you got that, Mr. Dumbjohn?"

     Now, I hadn't been called that since my plebe year at the Point. And that was a long time ago. "On whose orders?" I asked, stepping closer and swinging the muzzle of my CAR-15 around so it pointed in his general direction.

     "Need to know info, Colonel!" he snarled. His five companions brought their weapons up.

     I took another step forward, putting my face right in his. "Let's see you enforce those orders, Mr. First Classman Sir."

     He snapped his fingers with confidence. Their weapons came up. They were immediately surrounded by two of my fireteams. I stepped back a pace while my SOG troopers disarmed the interlopers.

     "Place 'em under arrest and take 'em back to HQ," I ordered. "Secure those choppers." I grabbed their blinking commander by the lapels on his BDUs. "Welcome back to Hell Week, Mr. Dumbjohn. You're gonna find out how a real Pointer turns you into an officer."

     I then butt-stroked him as hard as I could, right in the middle of that arrogant, sneering face. I know I broke his nose. I bawled orders to secure the area and watched as the medevac Huey lifted off, worried about Ostwinkle, not so much about the Sgt. Major.

     Then I wondered what the hell we'd gotten ourselves into this time.

     The prime certainty was that it wasn't good at all.