Countdown: H Hour

by Tom Kratman

“Wilco.”

  Using the ship’s intercom, Pearson further ordered, “B Bird, get ready to launch.”

  “She’s up,” replied the chief of the flight deck.

  “Launch.”

  “Why the close timing?” Warrington asked.

  “Stealth, really,” the captain replied. Seeing that Warrington didn’t quite understand, he added, “Just imagine if someone, somehow, is tracking Jake. And Jake suddenly disappears off their screen. Imagine the horror. Imagine the frantic calls for rescue. Imagine the stupid looks on our faces when somebody investigates and discovers that the innocent-seeming merchie is actually an assault carrier. With captives aboard, no less. Imagine looking out from between prison bars for a very, very long time.

  “This way, if someone is tracking Jake, they see a plane. They lose a plane for a couple of seconds but, ‘no problem, there it is. Dumb-assed pilot must have been playing footsie with the merchie.’ ”

  “Ohhh.”

  “Oh.”

  Ayala Country Estate (Formerly Safe House Alpha),

  Hagonoy, Bulacan, Luzon, Republic of the Philippines

  Lox watched the small plane take off into the night. He didn’t know that particular pilot but, no sweat, Jake would be back for him. That penultimate flight carried Pedro and Mrs. Ayala. Aida and Pedro’s partner had gone before. Pedro had also advised Lox, “Tell them, if you can, not to try to take our guns. It could be ugly. Oh, and not Aida’s, either. She’s a bitch.”

  “Welch knows,” Lox had replied.

  Both of those prior flights had flown out with the smaller Filipinos seated in tandem in the one passenger seat. It was tight, to be sure, but way better than the cargo space. Besides, none of them were big or anything like fat.

  “It’s going to be at least a half hour before Jake returns for me. Still, might as well get it over with now.”

  With that, Lox walked back to the house and grabbed two cans of gasoline. He poured most of one into each of the two interrogation rooms. The rest went into the one holding cell.

  The police might someday investigate the events of the next two days. Good luck to them, Lox thought, as he flicked a lighter to life, finding anything bigger than a useless scorched chromosome if they do.

  Fortunately, the estate was isolated, and the local fire department, with a bare thirteen men and women, plus old and obsolete equipment, was grossly overtasked already.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I suppose every man is shocked when he hears

  how frequently soldiers are wishing for war.

  The wish is not always sincere; the greater part

  are content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an

  ardour which they do not feel; but those who desire it

  most are neither prompted by malevolence nor

  patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight

  in blood; but long to be delivered from the tyranny of

  idleness, and restored to the dignity of active beings.

  —Dr. Samuel Johnson

  MV Richard Bland, Sulu Sea, Basilan Province,

  Republic of the Philippines

  The Bland’s sole remote piloted vehicle, or RPV, didn’t need a deck to launch from. The entire thing, aircraft, launch rail, and control station, fitted neatly inside a single twenty foot container for storage and transport, with the rail going above the container for launch.

  Of course, a deck certainly made it easier to recover the thing. Still, not much was deck was needed. Pearson’s naval crew had laid enough Marsden Matting across already, as a first step in laying the entire deck for the CH-750’s. What they had down already was more than sufficient for the Searchers. Indeed, it was almost sufficient to launch the CH-750’s, if not quite enough when they were under full load. It was not enough to recover them.

  Israel, from whom the regiment had bought their RPVs, had quite a selection available, from little hand-held jobs to large, long endurance, high payload aircraft that were a match or near match for—and in some ways the superior to—those made in the United States. M Day had none of the largest class, and some of the smallest, but had settled in the main on Israel’s Searcher IIIN, in a clever little under the table deal with India coupled with a really big favor done on behalf of Israel. As both inside joke and memorial of the favor, the RPV had “Saint Rachel of IHOP” stenciled in small letters down both sides.

  A fair amount of the space in the container, when in transit, was taken up by the aircraft itself. The control station took up slightly more. The various recon packages—from signal gathering to air sniffing to thermal imaging—took up still more. Even with that, the bulk of the space was taken up with dunnage—packages, frames, wooden and plastic beams and braces—to hold everything in place while in transit. Fortunately, Guyana—home base—was a place to have some pretty solid custom cabinetry made. Fancy? Maybe not. Solid? Absolutely.

  The Searcher IIIN, N for “Navalized,” was smaller than its predecessors, even quieter—and they’d been very quiet—had slightly improved range, and a better AI to bring the thing home in the event of communication failure. That said, reports from the front in Guyana had suggested there were some problems, as several had simply disappeared without any obvious cause.

  Welch had asked for three or four RPV’s for the mission, back at regimental headquarters. The regiment had let him have one.

  Which was stupid as shit, Welch thought. If there’s any rule that ought to be tattooed on the foreheads of everyone in the military, everywhere, it’s that if you absolutely must have one of anything, at the objective, you must start with more than one. The one we have, therefore, had better fucking work.

  Both Welch and Lox stood over the RPV’s pilot, in the space vacated by the launch rail. But for the corrugated metal of the container walls, the baskets and the cabinets, and the fact that the whole assembly rocked with the ship, as far as either could tell they were in the cockpit of a rather sophisticated aircraft. The pilot had screens for everything, plus computers, controls that mimicked those found on manned planes, plus a truly bizarre looking virtual reality helmet, sitting on his dash, for when the TV screen might prove not quite enough.

  “And we’re . . . airborne,” the pilot announced over his shoulder.

  “Peter,” said Welch, “stay here. Match what Rachel finds against what we think we know. I’m going the bridge and then to bid Graft and Semmerlin good bye and good luck.”

  Emerging onto the darkened deck, right up against the port gunwale where the control station had been set, Welch guessed from the sound that the full flight deck was maybe half laid. Consulting his watch and thinking back to the navy’s operations order he’d listened to, he decided, Pretty good time, so far.

  The way to the superstructure led along the gunwale, and past the launch rail and its bipedal supports. In the darkness he almost missed it—indeed, he almost tripped over it—because that bipod was already down and the flight crew struggling with pins to disassemble the entire apparatus. It just wouldn’t do to have even fairly heavy metal objects lying around, once the flight deck became active.

  Just shy of the superstructure, at the edge of the ad hoc runway, two containers were opened. There was just enough non-suspicious light coming from the superstructure’s portholes for Terry to make them out, as well as the one CH-750 that sat fully out in front of one of them, with a part of the deck crew unfolding and locking down its wings under the supervision of Jake, Terry’s pilot for the evacuation from the safe house in Hagonoy. Welch couldn’t really see them very well, but there was also a line of rocket and machine guns pods sitting on the deck, waiting to be mounted.

  One of the things Terry found surprising was how quiet it all was. They must have rehearsed the shit out of all the crews. Kudos to Warrington and Pearson. Good damned thing, too. Even if I can’t see them for beans, there have got to be some small craft out there. If one of them happened to be working for the bad guys, and reported suspicious sounds, our job coul
d become a lot tougher.

  Everything had seemed fine on the bridge, with Pearson in total control of his part of the operation. By the time the ship was twenty miles west of Zamboanga City, the crew had lowered a floating platform over the starboard side and run a net from the gunwales down to the platform. Once the platform was down and confidently secured, three men crawled down the net, Welch, Semmerlin, and Graft. There, swaying with the wake-induced turbulence, they took control of the two SeaBobs as they were lowered, easing them down gently and accurately, then laid them out on the platform. The formerly bright yellow SeaBobs had been painted and then covered in dark tape, just to make sure. Two packages, containing arms, uniforms, ammunition, night vision, and radios came down next.

  “Good luck,” Welch said, just before the scuba-equipped Graft and Semmerlin eased themselves off the platform and into the water. He used a foot to push in the bundles of gear after them. Once the pair were well away, Terry climbed the cargo net back to the gunwale. There, the landing craft was uncovered, and hooked up to a crane.

  Quietly, the SeaBobs carried the pair to a spot several hundred meters to the ship’s starboard, where they waited until it was safe to head for their objective. After ten minutes’ wait, Graft, the senior, said, “Let’s go.”

  The ship veered north again, which course it would maintain until Graft reported he was at the objective. It would not launch the main force until he reported that the target was secured.

  Caban Island, Pilas Group, Basilan Province,

  Republic of the Philippines

  There was a cliff to the west and southwest quadrants of the island, perhaps eighty feet in height. It would not really suit to get an old and frail, quite likely also sick and weak, man down it to the sea. It could be done, but was a last option. Nor, for that matter, was it terribly suitable, which is to say it was completely unsuitable, for an assault. Thus, there was good reason to believe it was only lightly guarded. Graft and Semmerlin, staying underwater except twice when they surfaced to get their bearings, rounded the island and headed for the base of that cliff.

  MV Richard Bland, Sulu Sea, Basilan Province,

  Republic of the Philippines

  The numbers of people on the island counted by the Searcher’s thermal, about four hundred, wasn’t a surprise. In that particular the Philippine Army report provided by Aida had been accurate. Bunkers and other fortifications, identified by the late Mr. Kulat and Mr. Iqbal were pretty much as Lox had squeezed out of them.

  No real surprises, in any case, he thought.

  That information was passed to the bridge, where one of Pearson’s men duly annotated the map, changing the color codes for those items from “Suspected” to “Confirmed.”

  The heat signatures from the hut tentatively identified as the hostage’s, though, were problematic. There were two men outside, which was expected. But there were also two inside. One of them supine and the other one moving from one side of the hut to the other, with occasional stops at the supine one between the two.

  No idea what that one is, but I’d better pass it to the bridge and to Terry.

  The Rachel continued its overhead patrol, with the pilot being very careful to keep it out of any path that would place it directly between the island and the moon. The nav computer was absolutely crucial to that security measure.

  Little by little, Lox was gratified to see, and one by one, the dots that indicated standing or seated men narrowed and stretched out, even as the few fires died away. The Harrikat, barring only the guards around the shore, two of them near the west side cliff, and a few more, were going to sleep.

  Lox used the ship’s intercom, which had been hooked into the control station. “Bridge, Lox. When he pops up to check in, advise Graft that there are two guards walking the length of his cliff, which is about what we expected. If he needs, I can advise him when they’re at one extreme or the other.”

  “We’ll patch you through to him directly,” said the bridge.

  “Roger, that would be better.”

  Caban Island, Pilas Group, Basilan Province,

  Republic of the Philippines

  Graft and Semmerlin cut their motors when they were still about a hundred meters from shore. That was far enough that the sounds of the waves beating on the cliff’s base and the gravel and rocks in front of it should have covered any sound made by the sleds. Any closer? An unnecessary risk, they thought.

  The SeaBobs and the packages they carted arose to the surface, dragging the men along with them. Commercial SeaBobs were naturally buoyant; these had been modified to be flooded and sunk if desired. From there, it was flipper work, men pushing devices rather than devices dragging men.

  There was a different feel to the water, which feeling grew as the men neared shore. Eventually, Graft felt he could reach down and touch the gravel. He did; it was there. A wave picked him up, moved him, then set him down. Graft held in a curse as a barnacled rock scraped his knee, drawing blood.

  Graft, followed by Semmerlin, stopped paddling and assumed more of a crouch. They still kept as much of their bodies in the water as possible. The cliff’s base was perhaps fifty feet away, more heard than seen. At the base, they tied off their SeaBobs to a couple of rocks and sank them in place. It mattered little to the mission if the SeaBobs were lost, as they didn’t have enough power remaining to get anywhere useful. It did matter that they not drift out where they might be seen or, worse, might wash ashore.

  They’d recover them later, if they could.

  Already Semmerlin was stripping down and fitting up. On went his uniform, boots, and combat harness. On went the Kevlar kneepads. He slung a suppressed .510 caliber subsonic rifle across his back. It had a loaded magazine but no round in the chamber. The pistol that went into a shoulder rig, on the other hand, was loaded, previously loaded, in fact; the sound of a slide being worked being altogether too loud and distinctive. On his head went a set of headphones with mike, those being hooked in to the radio at his belt. Over that he put on a climber’s helmet modified to take a set of night vision goggles, with the goggles already mounted. He had a pair of thick leather gloves, but only put on one of them, hooking the other to a carabiner. For the other hand, he was likely to need fine sensing and control, groping his way up the cliff.

  Heart pounding, with excitement more than fear or exertion, huddled at the cliff’s base, with waves sometimes still washing around his ankles, Graft reported, “Pelican,” over the radio, in a tense, subdued whisper. It meant: We are safely ashore.

  The ship sent back, “Roger, be advised there are two guards along the cliff, but not directly above you. We’re patching Lox through from now on. He’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Roger,” Graft acknowledged.

  In the dank glow from the sliver of the moon, and even that mostly blocked by the cliff’s height, Graft and Semmerlin were barely shadows to each other’s eyes. The latter helped Graft on with his minimum required arms and equipment, that mostly being a helmet with NVG’s, knee pads, a small personal radio with earpiece and boom mike, the silenced pistol in a shoulder rig, a long rope, a smaller piece of rope, and a sling clustered with spring-loaded camming devices, or SLCD’s, and carabiners. Much of the rest would come up on Semmerlin’s back, after Graft had established a rope to the top of the cliff. The final load would be hauled up behind them, once the rope was set at the top.

  Even with that, and lightly laden, Graft looked up at the near vertical face of the cliff at the base of which they’d landed and whispered, “Shit. This is so going to suck.”

  “Hey, cheer up,” Semmerlin whispered back. “At least it’s not sheer. There are hand– and footholds, and you’ll find them.”

  “I’m over forty,” Graft muttered. “Closer to fifty, in fact. And you think a few handholds are going to cheer me. Besides, I’m lead climber, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. You’re a better free climber than I am. So, okay, fine. Now just imagine trying to get up that son of a bitch—s
ilently—if there weren’t any handholds.”

  “Point,” Graft agreed, putting on and buckling down a safety helmet. “Well . . . watch me, then.”

  Semmerlin nodded and slipped his night vision goggles over his face, waiting to turn the device on until it was well seated and none of the greenish glow from the amplification tubes could escape.

  Free climbing was not quite the same thing as free soloing, the latter being a deliberately risk-taking venture, done without a partner and, broadly speaking, without safety equipment. Instead, free climbing involved the use of a safety rope, the kinds of devices on the sling across Graft’s shoulder, and, most importantly, a belay man at the ground level to stop a fall, if required.

  Under the circumstances, taking an unnecessary risk would have been, in the first place, potentially disastrous to their mission; and there were seventy million dollars riding on the successful retrieval of Louis Ayala, after all, and quite a bit more for the elimination of the group that had taken him. Moreover, Ayala’s wife, Paloma, had offered that substantial bonus for inflicting some sheer frightfulness on his kidnappers.

  Those bonuses were secondary, of course, payable only if Welch’s crew could also return her husband to her. On the other hand, if it did turn out that Mr. Ayala was dead, or if he were killed in the rescue, Welch fully intended to make Mrs. Ayala an offer for revenge at the original price, anyway,

  But, in the second place, needless risk was just box-o-rocks stupid, mission or no.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The moral here is to never trust equipment, but oneself.