by C J Klinger
“Major Donavan, good to see you again,” the colonel said as he returned Greg’s salute and then shook his hand. “I’m looking forward to meeting your men.”
“They’re looking forward to meeting you, Sir. Several of them served in your command in Iraq.”
This news surprised the colonel. “Really, who are they?”
Greg was embarrassed he had mentioned that. “I’m not at liberty to say, Sir. The Mecrats were declared dead by the military and they have elected to keep it that way for the sake of their families.”
Colonel Hoffman was not offended. He had lived with the concept of need-to-know for his entire military career. “Perhaps its best I don’t know,” he said.
On the drive to the hanger, Greg filled the colonel in on the Mecrats’ two, previous operations. The colonel had read the after action reports of the raids, but the clinical language used in such reports rarely conveyed the full impact of the battle action.
Greg concluded as they arrived, “You will have to witness them in action fully appreciate their capabilities.”
Colonel Hoffman nodded his head in understanding. “We’ll certainly get a chance to see that soon enough.”
When they entered the hanger, the Mecrats were gathered in a circle examining a newer version of their personal weapon of choice, a hand-held, semiautomatic grenade launcher with a six shot magazine made especially for the Mecrats by the Remington Arms Company. The Rats were so big and strong, they were able to wield them like pistols. The grenades were three inches in diameter and eight inches long and usually loaded with fragmentation ammunition. Their pet name for the gun was Thud Pucker, because, as 5Rat, Tony Boyer had declared, “If you hit somebody in the pucker, they’re thucked.”
When they saw Greg and a strange officer enter, they turned and stood expectantly. After becoming Mecrats, they had never resumed the military courtesy of saluting an officer and Greg had decided it was not necessary to do so when he had assumed command of them as a military unit. So far none of his superior officers had questioned his judgement.
Greg waved his hand in a sweeping motion and said. “Colonel Hoffman, meet the Mecrats, America’s finest fighting force.”
If the colonel was surprised at the size and apparent mobility of the Mecrats, he did a good job of hiding it. He stepped forward and said, “I understand from Major Donavan that some of you served in my command in Iraq. If that is so then you know what to expect. We will plan carefully, attack in force and then get the hell out of there as fast as possible.”
The Mecrats stamped their huge feet in approval. The sound startled the colonel for just a second before he figured out its meaning. In spite of his calm, military demeanor, he smiled broadly and made an impression when he said, “Rat Pack.”
“Rat Pack,” they echoed back loudly in their distinctly metallic sounding voice.
Greg smiled. The colonel had obviously received some inside information on the ‘Rats before he arrived at Groom Lake. From his experience, it never hurt to be a little bit of a politician when you assumed command of a new group. The colonel had just proved that.
“Show me what you’re planning, Major Donavan,” Colonel Hoffman said, effortlessly shifting gears to business.
The large ping-pong table served as a platform for training exercises. Greg had a variety of props built to simulate several urban situations, which seemed to be the logical place to use the close combat capabilities of the Mecrats. The ‘Rats would examine the set-up and discuss the best way to approach the situation. Some of their night time exercises were devoted to testing their theories. In the last ten months they had developed an incredibly effective coordinated attack system that utilized their size, speed and communication abilities.
Taped in the middle of the table was a blown up version of the high resolution photo of Mosul. The ‘Rats gathered around the table as Greg pointed out the location of the arena and possible routes in and out of the area. “We believe the enemy will be expecting us to come out of the north, The Kurdish held territory is only twenty miles away.”
Colonel Hoffman followed Greg’s pointer showing a logical route down the Tigris River basin. “Why do you believe they will think you’ll come down that way, Major?”
“Two reasons, Sir. The Kurds are angry that the Islamic fighters sent a raiding party into their territory to kidnap the Monks. The Islamic forces will expect them to try and get them back. The other reason is because the Kurds joined us in our last attack at Karemlesh, just fifty miles east of Mosul. The Kurds are close, they’re capable and they have proven to be willing to work with us.”
“Seems logical,” the colonel said. “How do you suggest we approach?”
Greg pointed to the north side of Mosul. “First, I believe we should do everything we can to reinforce their belief that we’re coming out of the north. I’ve been in contact with the Kurdish commander of their anti-terrorist group and he has agreed to create a diversion on their northern outpost at the time we’re attacking from here.” Greg pointed to the rail line leading from the southwest past the airport directly to the arena. “We can fly almost at track level and have a clear flyway all the way to the target.”
The colonel shifted his gaze to the arena. “What are these?” he asked pointed to the freshly turned piles of earth scattered systematically through the arena floor.
“Pressure plate mines,” Greg answered. “One of the ‘Rats recognized the pattern as being the signature work of a man named Al-Jabouri.”
Colonel Hoffman colored slightly. “That son-of-a-bitch, I owe him.”
“So do I,” one of the Mecrats said.
Colonel looked at the Mecrat who had spoken up, 8Rat according to the number on the breast plate. “How so, soldier?” he asked curiously.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, it’s Corporal Mary McKinsey. I used to be one of your battle field analysts.”
For the first time, the colonel lost his military calm. “My God, Corporal McKinsey. You’re alive. You can’t imagine how much we have missed you, Corporal, hell, how much I have missed your precise analysis of what had just happened to us.” He reached out and did a very unmilitary fist bump against the massive, twelve inch wide fist of 8Rat.
The colonel recovered his cool and said, “What can you tell me about these mines, Corporal?”
8Rat moved over next to the colonel and said, “It’s Master Sargent McKinsey now, Sir. I’ve been promoted.”
“Richly deserved, Master Sargent,” the colonel responded.
8Rat pointed at the arena. “It’s definitely Al-Jabouri’s finger print, Colonel, but what bothers me is the lack of effort to hide the location of the mines. He and his team are usually very careful to disguise their work.”
“They’re decoys, aren’t they.” the colonel stated with a tone of certainty.
“Yep,” 8Rat answered with her signature certainty. “The real ones are buried in between the fakes.”
The discussion continued for the next six hours until, the colonel, Captain Ashwell, the Special Forces unit commander, Greg and the Mecrats had worked out a plan to rescue the hostages and cut the head off the snake. Cathy joined Greg at the hanger before the colonel and his team caught the last shuttle to Las Vegas. The colonel could tell from the Mecrats reaction to the diminutive doctor just how important she was to the project’s success. Greg sealed her importance by telling the colonel it had been Cathy’s idea for them to use the train route in and out of Mosul.
The colonel shook her hand and said, “We’ll have to add tactician to your many credentials, Doctor Williamson.”
Cathy decided she liked him and was glad he would be at Greg’s side during the upcoming mission. “Please no, Colonel, I’m having enough trouble keeping my current credentials up to date.”
Greg and Cathy drove the three officers to the shuttle and watched as the plane took off to the south. They did not speak, but both of them were acutely aware of the looming dangers the colonel and his men represented.
Chapter 50
Dawn is a subtle event in the middle desert of Iraq. Well before the midnight blackness begins to lose its grip on the world, a faint, dark blue defines the horizon and warns the viewer that land and sky are not one and the same. It would be easy to miss it if an observer did not know where to look, or when. The gradual shift to lighter blue reveals a featureless landscape, devoid of mountains, trees and people. Dawn is still an hour away.
Colonel Hoffman’s voice crackled through the combat radio with the command, “Lift off.”
The armada of seven helicopters, five Black Hawks and two Cobras lifted off in rapid sequence and headed north toward Mosul, seventy-five miles away. They had arrived at their current departure point the previous night in total darkness. Yesterday evening they had left a base south of Bagdad and flown due west until they were clear of the cultivated lands around the ancient city. After an hour of flying in total darkness, the small armada had turned north and crossed the Euphrates River into Islamic State territory at an unpopulated point where a moderately deep gorge left no room for farmland on either bank.
Their passage had been disguised by a series of sonic booms provided by the American Air Force to confuse any random observers in the area. They had flown north for another hour and landed in the middle of the arid, largely unpopulated shrub lands south of Mosul. The Mecrats, with their enhanced vision had rotated on guard duty to make sure no wandering goat herder stumbled into their encampment.
Colonel Hoffman had timed his lift off in the predawn light so his armada would arrive at the edge of Mosul precisely at sun rise. Following the railroad track into Mosul from the southeast would leave any gunners intent on stopping them staring directly into the rising sun. Flying at close to two hundred miles an hour, they would be almost impossible to hit from the side as they passed by gunners blinded by the sun.
When the armada was fifty miles from Mosul and just out of detection range, another group of American helicopters took off from Kurdish controlled territory to the north of Mosul and started down the Tigris River basin toward the middle of Mosul. This event did not go unnoticed and within minutes their departure and direction of flight was reported to Abdullah and Al-Jabouri.
One of Abdullah’s lieutenants announced, “The Americans are on their way,”
“Which direction are they coming from?’ Abdullah asked sharply.
“They’re coming down the Tigris River from the north,” he answered without looking at Al-Jabouri, who had predicted this route.
Abdullah chose not to recognize the arrogant commander’s correct prediction. The enemy had not yet committed themselves to fly down the central highway from the Abu Tamman Bridge. Instead he turned his attention to the group of people in the center of the arena’s field. The six Christian monks and fifteen civilian refugees, a mixture of Christians and Shi’ites Muslim taken from the monastery were huddled in the middle of the field. Surrounding them were ten men dressed in the traditional black outfit and black ski masks favored by the Islamic warriors. Each man wielded the curved knife favored for beheading enemies of the revolution.
The monks and refugees had been drugged to make them docile. Al-Jabouri had decided he did not want one of them trying to escape and accidently set off one of the mines he had planted. Those mines were reserved for the American fighting machines.
The two men and their lieutenants were standing on the third floor of a warehouse located one hundred yards from the arena. They had a commanding view of the field and the immediate surrounding area. Abdullah noted that Al-Jabouri had stationed several machine guns trucks at either end of the arena and had to admit the commander from Kirkuk had planned his trap well.
To the southeast, the American squadron was flying as close to the rough terrain as possible. They had entered an area of washes and low ridges that were difficult to fly through at low altitude in the predawn light, but were perfect for cover. Greg estimated they were five miles from intersecting the railroad line that would lead them into the heart of the city and their target. He began to see a few lights off to the right and knew that was the village of Albu Sayf, just south of Mosul on the Tigris River. At that moment the rim of the sun moved above the horizon and bathed the higher points around them in a golden light. The ruins of the Del mer Ellia monastery flashed by on the left and Greg could see the broad expanse of the Mosul airport straight ahead of them.
Riding with him in one of the Black Hawk was 8Rat and 10Rat, Sargent Mary McKinsey and Randy Rucker. The Kurds had been unable to provide any better information as to the exact location where they expected the Islamic military leadership to witness the executions, so Greg had selected three of the most promising sites pinpointed by NSA. Greg accepted the possibility that this part of the mission could be a bust. Their target was the building to the north of the arena. The other two sites were being targeted by teams consisting of 1 and 3Rat and 4 and 5rat. The task of neutralizing any concentration of Islamic fighters defending the arena was given to 6 and 9Rat, along with a squad of Special Forces.
The remaining Special Forces were responsible for rescuing the hostages. Their plan was to avoid the mines by hovering above the hostages and take them on board while the circling Apache gunships provided cover. Special Forces snipers on board the Black Hawks were supposed to take care of any fighters guarding the hostages.
The lead Apache gunship rose slightly and banked toward the left. The rest followed in close formation. They were now directly above the railroad tracks. Long shadows of the advancing helicopters stretched out in front of them pointing the way to the stadium, three miles ahead.
Al-Jabouri said, “I can hear them coming. The machine gunners I have placed on the highway should be able to destroy some of the helicopters before they get here.”
They were standing at the corner window that overlooked the arena. At the sound of the distant helicopters, all four of them moved in unison to the west side window, which faced the expressway from the Abu Tamman Bridge in order to see the American helicopters get shot down by the 50 caliber Machine gun trucks parked along the expressway.
They were pressed up against the window to get a first glimpse of the helicopters flying down the expressway when a loud explosion came from the arena. They jumped in unison, surprised by the direction of the blast. At First Al-Jabouri thought one of the hostages must have tried to escape and had stepped on one of the hidden mines. They rushed back to the south side window in time to see a sinister looking helicopter fly by very close to their building. An evil looking gun mounted in a turret under the nose was spitting a torrent of flame at one of the machine gun trucks assigned to protect their building. Before any of them could say a word, the truck disintegrated into a pile of torn wreckage.
Al-Jabouri screamed into his radio, “Shoot, shoot, kill the hostages.” He could not see if his frantic orders were being carried out; a dense cloud of white smoke was enveloping the arena, obscuring their view.
The lead Black Hawk moved in over the east end of the field toward the huddled group of people in the middle of the field. The helicopter crew and Colonel Hoffman were wearing assisted-vision goggles to penetrate the dense cloud of smoke laid down by the Cobra gunships. Colonel Hoffman turned to the young crew member next to him in the doorway and said, “I hope to God Sargent McKinsey was right about those being pressure mines instead of cell phone activated, because if they start blowing them now, we’re toast.”
The corporal had no idea what the colonel was talking about, but military conditioning made him say, “Yes Sir.” His job was to take out anyone who tried to kill the hostages. He cradled his specially equipped AR15 expectantly.
“There,” the colonel pointed and said, with the first signs of excitement in his voice. “One of those bastards is getting ready to behead a hostage. Take him out.”
With practiced ease, the soldier lifted his rifle to his eyepiece and fired twice in rapid succession. He shifted his rifle and two more shots rang out. The downwash fr
om the Black hawk was clearing the center of the field of smoke and the assisted-vision goggles were no longer needed. The soldier and Colonel Hoffman flipped theirs off simultaneously. The corporal swept the area back and forth menacingly with his weapon. The remaining Islamic fighters guarding the hostages decided they were not that anxious to meet their allotted quota of virgins and laid down their weapons.
The Black hawk moved over the hostages and with great care, lowered to within a few feet above the crouching figures. An interpreter from Bagdad jumped off the ship and in rapid fire Arabic explained to the hostages they were to board the helicopter. He did not have to repeat his message. It would take two helicopters to carry all of them and as soon as the first one was full, it moved off to make room for another one.
In their third floor position, Abdullah and Al-Jabouri looked on helplessly, unable to see what was happening. Abdullah turned angrily to his rival and said, “Why haven’t any of your mines exploded?”
Al-Jabouri replied angrily, “Because, no one has stepped on one yet,” in a tone that suggested the question was ridiculous.
Their conversation was abruptly cut off by a thunderous explosion at the end of the room closest to the stairwell. A section of the ceiling collapsed and two giant figures dropped through the opening. Al-Jabouri froze at the sight of the apparitions and then screamed in disbelief. Abdullah hissed in anger and raised his weapon. A human sized figure behind the two mechanized monsters raised his weapon at the same time and fired a single shot that hit the military leader of the Islamic State in the left eye. He toppled backward against his lieutenant, who had quickly recovered from his shock and was preparing to fire. One of the monsters closed the gap in seconds and shoved the man backwards. He crashed through the window to the parking lot below. The brief terrified cry of a man falling to his death caused Al-Jabouri and his lieutenant to drop their weapons in submission.
8Rat clicked her shoulder com and said, “We have the package. Disengage other searches.”