Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  “That will be perfect.”

  FORTY MILES OFF THE COAST OF FRENCH GUIANA

  Crowe kept his height just ten feet above the green-tinted waves at a comfortable 150 knots. He watched the KC-95 tanker disappear in the night to his north as it headed back to Howard. He eyed the fuel gauges and estimated he had roughly two hours of flying time. Just enough to go in, pick up his load, and get back to Blue Ridge before all hell broke loose.

  He frowned. Not only was he wired out of his mind from the several cups of coffee he’d had before leaving, bus his Sea Stallion was essentially unarmed. His helicopter was strictly a rescue craft, not a light infantry division air-support aircraft like the Sikorsky UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter or so many other support machines. All he had to protect his helo were the two armed Marines in the back. They could use their M-60 machine guns to give the ground troops some level of cover during extraction. Besides that his bird was vulnerable. Crowe was relying on the night and his proficient flying and combat experience to get him and the ground troops out of this one alive.

  He eyed the radar altimeter and noticed it inching upward a bit. He couldn’t afford to go above fifty feet or risk being spotted. Although it was nighttime, the NVG provided Crowe with a clear image of the ocean’s surface. He lowered the collective and applied forward cyclic pressure. The Stallion dropped back down to a radar-safe altitude.

  He looked to his starboard, to Stallion Two, also flying a few feet over the waves. A couple of good sticks, he reflected. Inexperienced but good.

  The coastal lights became visible. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to rendezvous time. Right on time.

  KOUROU, FRENCH GUIANA

  Ortiz was the first to spot the ten-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the compound. He noticed that most of the compound appeared to have been created by filling in the swamp.

  The edge of the swamp ended roughly fifty feet from the fence. Ortiz could not have been more relieved than he was the moment he stepped out of the muddy waters onto solid ground. He dropped to the ground and hid behind several palm trees, obviously brought there from the coast to isolate the compound from the stark surroundings. Zimmer crawled next to him. Both removed their night goggles.

  “What do you think, Tito?” he barely whispered.

  Ortiz pointed to his right. Zimmer looked in that direction and slowly nodded. Ortiz then pointed to the left. Same thing.

  Zimmer looked at Ortiz, who held up his hand holding out two fingers. Zimmer nodded once more and then slowly rolled to the left, Ortiz to the right. They allowed a twenty-foot gap before stopping and rising to a crouch. There were two sentries, also spaced by twenty feet. They stood guard on the outside of the fence facing Ortiz’s direction. Less than thirty feet from where Ortiz was hidden in the trees, the guard was brilliantly backlit by the powerful halogens that bathed the large rocket a few hundred feet away on the other side of the fence. The lights gave Ortiz an advantage. Ortiz could see the guard but the guard couldn’t see him.

  Crawling on his knees and elbows over the sandy terrain, Ortiz twisted his body as he sneaked through the trees. He stopped every few feet and remained still for a minute. The guard gave no sign of alert. Fifteen feet. Ortiz removed the hunting knife from the sheath and held it by the blade between his right thumb and index fingers, preparing to execute another often-practiced Special Forces technique.

  Ten feet.

  Ortiz slowly rose to a crouch, hiding behind the light undergrowth at the edge of the gravel road that surrounded the compound. He shifted is gaze to Zimmer, who was already waiting for him. Ortiz clicked his radio once, twice, thrice, giving the signal. He raised the knife above his head and threw it with all his might. The knife left the darkness and briefly reflected the halogen lights as it streaked across the air and plunged itself into the guard’s chest.

  Ortiz lunged, closing the gap in a few seconds. The guard looked down in disbelief. He was about to scream for help when Ortiz jammed his left hand over the guard’s mouth and drove his right knee into the guard’s groin. His right-hand palm struck the knife’s handle, driving it deeper into the sentry’s chest. The knife stopped on something. A rib maybe. Ortiz struck it again. This time the knife went all the way in.

  His gaze locked with the sentry’s eyes until Ortiz saw there was no life left in them. He yanked the knife out and jumped to the side as blood jetted from the wound and the body fell to the ground face-first. Ortiz dragged the corpse back to the jungle and hid it in the undergrowth. Zimmer did the same with the body of the other guard.

  Ortiz reached for the radio. They had achieved a “beach-head.”

  * * *

  Vanderhoff turned his swivel chair and looked at the Athena V rocket. The restraining tower slowly moved to the side. T minus five minutes. Just a little while longer, he thought.

  * * *

  Ortiz and Zimmer helped get the raft past the palm trees and through the light undergrowth as the rest of Mambo took defensive positions near the fence. Siegel deployed his men efficiently—three teams with five men each. Siegel, Ortiz, Zimmer, and two others would remain with the Javelins. They would be Mambo One. Mambo Two would take a defensive position fifty feet up the gravel road. Mambo Three was fifty feet in the other direction. As a backup, Siegel had selected a spot near the landing zone as their emergency fallback position in case things went sour.

  “All right, Tito. It’s your show now,” Siegel said.

  Ortiz nodded and leaned over the raft. “Say, Tommy. Gimme a hand, would ya?”

  Zimmer walked next to him.

  “Help me take the plastic off these missiles.”

  The weapon of choice was the British-made Javelin instead of the commonly used Stinger for the simple reason that the Stinger was a heat-seeker, which meant there was a possibility of the missile going for the wrong target during launch, since the hottest point of the rocket’s exhaust lay several feet below the nozzle. The Javelin, on the other hand, could be manually guided to the target.

  Ortiz took the shoulder-launched aiming unit and removed the protective plastic. He then grabbed the first missile-canister combination and clipped it on to the aiming unit. “There. I’m ready anytime.”

  Zimmer gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? That’s it?”

  “Yep. That’s all there is to it.”

  Siegel approached them. “You guys about—”

  His words were cut short by the fast rattle of several automatic weapons. Ortiz jumped back when three bullets erupted from Siegel’s chest, propelling him against Zimmer. Both landed on the ground. Siegel lay convulsing.

  “Jesus Christ, man! They hit Siegel. Siegel’s been hit!” Zimmer screamed as he tried to drag Siegel to safety.

  Ortiz grabbed Zimmer by the shoulder, pulled him away from the raft, and glanced back at Siegel, who lay still on his side, facing them. His wide-open eyes told Ortiz all he needed to know. There was nothing they could do for him. As platoon sergeant, second in command, Ortiz was now in charge.

  The entire world appeared to erupt around them as bullets showered the gravel road and sandy terrain. Ortiz went into a roll. He rolled as hard as he possibly could. The sky and sand changed places as he gained momentum with every roll. He had to reach the safety of the palm trees. He continued rolling. He would know when to stop. Soon, he thought, estimating he covered three or four feet with every roll. Rocks and other ground debris bruised him. He slammed hard against the wide trunk of a palm tree. It hurt but was expected. Ortiz knew what to do next.

  As the ear-piercing whine of near-misses rang in his ears, he swiftly twisted his body around the palm tree and cautiously rose to a deep crouch on the other side. He rested his back against the tree and quickly shifted his gaze to the right. Zimmer was there. Ortiz looked to his left, saw no one there. Puzzled, he looked back at Zimmer, who shook his head slowly and pointed toward the light und
ergrowth. Ortiz understood. Three had died in their team, including Siegel. Ortiz reached for the radio.

  “This is Mambo One! Situation report!” Ortiz screamed as loud as he could.

  “Mambo Two. We’ve taken three casualties. Someone’s sneaked up on us. Can’t tell where the fire’s coming from. Must be using flash suppressors. The bastards got us pinned down. Can’t leave the cover of the trees!”

  “Keep cover ‘n’ fire only if you got a clear target. Save your ammo. Repeat, save your ammo! Mambo Three, are you there, over? Mambo Three? Mambo Two, any word from Mambo Three?”

  “Ah, negative, Mambo One.”

  Ortiz clenched his jaw in rage, frustration, and sheer disbelief. Mambo had lost at least six soldiers during the first twenty seconds of fighting without inflicting any damage on the enemy, not counting losses from Mambo Three. Not a very impressive record. He checked his watch. Launch was due any second now. He eyed the Javelin missile launcher assembly. It lay next to the now-deflated raft, roughly thirty feet away.

  “Dammit, Tommy, can you see where the fire’s comin’ from?”

  “Shit, no! Can’t even show my nose without getting’ it blown off.”

  We’re in the shit now, thought Ortiz.

  * * *

  Vanderhoff picked up the phone. “Yes” What is all the commotion about?”

  “Gunfire, sir. We spotted intruders in Section A on the other side of the fence. We have over twenty men engaged at the moment.”

  “Keep it under control. The launch must go on as planned. Keep them pinned down. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Vanderhoff hung up the phone and checked his watch. Less than a minute to go.

  * * *

  Ortiz couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be now or never. “I’m goin’ back, Tommy!”

  “What? You’re crazy, man!”

  “That’s our mission, hermano. That’s what Siegel and the others died for! I gotta do it.” Ortiz dropped to the ground and began to crawl toward the raft. Then he heard the powerful roar. The earth trembled and night became day as a huge ball of orange flames erupted from the launchpad. Ortiz didn’t glance in that direction, although he did notice that the shooting had at least temporarily subsided. He kicked his legs harder and harder, gaining foot after agonizing foot of terrain, closing the gap. The raft was now a mere ten feet away. He had to reach it. He was the only one, besides Siegel, who could operate the British-made surface-to-air weapon.

  Five feet. Still no fire. He dragged his body through the last few feet, and smiled when his hands came in contact with the cold aluminum canister of the Javelin system. He sat up, rested the weapon on his shoulder, and armed it. The self-contained system came to life. Ortiz quickly acquired the target in the monocular sights. The rocket was beginning to leave the ground. The cloud of smoke and debris seemed small in comparison to the space shuttle launch Ortiz had witnessed several years back, but by no means was it a minor launch.

  The enemy found him. The earth exploded as rounds impacted just short. Ortiz didn’t sway. His concentration focused on the departing rocket several hundred feet away, he squeezed the trigger and felt the missile come alive and exit the aiming unit. He waited. The flares to the missile went off and were automatically detected by a sensor in the arming unit in order to gather the missile to the center of Ortiz’s field of view.

  The twenty-six-pound missile reached Mach 1.8 in a matter of seconds as it made its way toward the rocket. Ortiz kept the target centered in his sights. The semi-automatic line-of-sight guidance system generated signals that were sent to the Javelin missile’s control surfaces via a radio link.

  A bullet struck the side of the aiming unit. Ortiz staggered back, jerking the aiming unit toward the sky. The Javelin responded and drifted upward.

  Mierda!

  He recovered quickly. He glanced toward the launchpad. The rocket was roughly ten feet in the air and quickly gaining altitude and speed. Ortiz remembered Marie telling them that the best time to destroy the rocket after lift-off was during the first fifteen seconds, before the rocket shot up at great speed.

  Ortiz discarded the used canister, jumped to the raft, grabbed the second missile unit, and quickly clipped it on to the aiming unit.

  * * *

  Even flying at treetop level, Crowe saw the initial blast as the rocket began its launch. It was visible from miles around, creating enough light that his night goggles’ automatic gain control decreased sensitivity to the point of being ineffective. He spoke into his voice-activated radio.

  “Mambo, this is Stallion One, over.”

  No response.

  “Mambo, Stallion One here. Over.”

  “Jesus, Stallion One, Mambo here. Hurry! The bastards found us. There’s at least six dead. Repeat, at least six dead. Currently tryin’ to complete mission. Can you read our signal on radar, over?”

  “Affirmative, Mambo. Heading your way right now.”

  * * *

  This time it was different. Ortiz rested his head on a rock and kept the tip of the rocket lined up with his sights. The Javelin’s tail of smoke went straight for the target. He saw a small explosion near the rocket’s cone.

  * * *

  Crowe noticed something wrong. The large rocket had been slowly ascending in what appeared to be a smooth climb, but that had changed a second ago, when something had struck it. He now understood the mission of the ground team, and silently cursed his superior officers for not giving him the entire story. The Stallions were too close.

  “Break left, Stallion Two! My God! Break hard left!”

  Too late. The huge rocket stumbled out of control. It turned on its side and quickly accelerated toward the perimeter of the complex, straight toward them.

  Crowe threw the cyclic left, forcing his helo into a wickedly tight turn. He could feel the branches tearing at the Stallion’s underside. He ignored it and kept the turn at the same level. The large rocket hit the ground at great speed. Tens of thousands of pounds of volatile chemicals went off at once less than five hundred feet from their position.

  “We’ve been hit, Stallion One! Mayday. Mayday. This is Stallion Two. We’re going down!”

  “Keep the pressure on the cyclic, Stallion Two! Keep the pressure!”

  Instinctively, Crowe put both hands on the cyclic and pulled it back in anticipation of the downward shock wave. It came, forcing the heavy rescue helo down, but the back pressure kept the Stallion’s nose above the horizon.

  Stallion One, we can’t control it. Can’t control—”

  Crowe caught a bright flash to his right. It was quickly followed by a thundering roar.

  * * *

  “Madre de Dios, Tommy! Run for your life, hermano! One of the rescue helos just blew up!”

  “I’m runnin’, man. I’m runnin’!”

  Ortiz raced back toward the swamp. The blast has ignited most of the palm trees around that section of the chain-link fence, or actually where the fence had been. The heat intensified. Ortiz himself had been lifted off the ground and thrown ten feet by the powerful explosion. He had landed a few feet from Zimmer, who had remained behind a palm tree.

  Now they both ran as fast as they possibly could. The area was in flames and Ortiz was certain there would be hell to pay for this. The owners of that rocket would not be pleased to see it destroyed in front of their noses.

  “What are we gonna do, man? What the fuck?”

  “We move inland. Back to where we came from. Back to the—look, man, the second evac helo!”

  * * *

  “Mambo, Stallion One here. Do you copy?”

  Static.

  “Mambo, this is Stallion One, over.”

  Nothing.

  Crowe’s fears were being confirmed. The explosion had occurred very close to Mambo’s last tracked position. H
e exhaled.

  “Stallion One, Blue Ridge here. What in the hell is going on over there?” It was Davenport’s voice crackling through his headphones.

  “We lost Stallion Two, sir. That’s what in the hell is going on. It caught debris from the rocket and exploded the moment it hit the ground. Nobody could survive that. Jesus, sir! Why weren’t we told about the rocket? We could have avoided the crash. Damn!”

  “What about the ground team?”

  “Got something on radar, but nobody answers my calls.”

  “Radio trouble?”

  “Could be. I’ll hang around for a few more minutes, sir. Maybe I can spot them.”

  “What’s your fuel situation, Stallion One?”

  “Less than a thousand pounds, sir, but there’s always air-to-air refueling.”

  “Stand by, Stallion One.”

  Crowe pushed the cyclic forward and flew at less than five feet over the swamp with his landing lights on. They have to be around here somewhere, he thought as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the radar screen and the horizon.

  He hit the intercom switch. “You guys see anything back there? he asked the two Marines.

  “Ah, no, sir. Not a thing yet…wait…wait. I got something! I see a few men running away from the fence and into the swamp.”

  “Which way?” Crowe pulled back the cyclic and stopped in a cold hover. He added right rudder and did a three-sixty scan. There! He spotted them. About three hundred feet to the right.

  “Stallion One, Blue Ridge. Standing order is to return immediately. Repeat, return immediately!”

  “Sir, I got soldiers in plain view. They look like our men, sir.”

  “Have you made contact with them?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Listen up, Stallion One. This order comes straight from the top. Get your ass back here. You’re low on fuel and we have no authorization to get a tanker back this way. Come home. Repeat, come home now!”

  Crowe tightened his grip on the cyclic. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Those men were so close. If he could only take a closer look, perhaps he—