With the parking brake set, and the aircraft just barely touching the deck, the pilot programmed the collective stick full down to set neutral pitch of the main rotor. As the crew chief stepped off the aircraft, two blue-shirted aircraft handlers raced out and attached chains between the aircraft and ship. A moment later, the two rocked and pitched with the waves as one.
The LSE motioned with one wand for the awaiting passengers to approach the aircraft. Three heavily armed men escorted litter bearers and an injured warrior to the helicopter. In two minutes, all passengers were aboard and the stretcher secured. The crew chief, reentering the aircraft, closed the sliding door.
On the LSE’s signal, the blue shirts broke down the chains, ran back to their stations, and hunkered down against the impending 100 mph rotor wash. The LSE looked right and left, twirled one wand to signal Ready for Flight, then brought both wands together over his head three times, as the pilot incrementally pulled up on his collective and centered the cyclic and the rudder pedals to keep the ball centered in the Turnand-Slip Indicator. He raised the aircraft straight and level.
As it broke contact with the flight deck, the LSE pointed his wands to his right for the helicopter to Depart that Direction. The aircrew put the TACAN needle on the nose, destination Navy Support Facility Diego Garcia.
American liberals screamed that the remote island was more than a little-known launching pad for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and Diego Garcia housed a top-secret CIA prison where terror suspects were interrogated and tortured. Rather than some version of Alcatraz or Devil’s Island, the facility supported flight and maritime operations in support of Operations Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and other coalition missions in the Indian Ocean.
An extension of their lease agreement with Great Britain, terrorists captured on the battlefield of Iraq and Afghanistan weren’t to be processed or transported to Diego Garcia. Detainees weren’t jailed or subjected to enhanced interrogation techniques but rather given nonstop rides to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, or other places. SOCOM and DEVGRU quietly maintained a SEAL team presence on the island for contingency operations. Some submarines operating from Diego Garcia were outfitted with SEAL delivery vehicles.
CHAPTER THIRTY
0630 June 11, 2011
New Haven, Connecticut
A white work van idled at the far end of the parking lot of the big blue box home-improvement store. Long metal ladders were lashed to the roof rack. The rear windows were obscured with cartons. Windscreens and side windows were covered with sun shades.
In the center of the cargo floor rested an Islamic green-and- silver mat fringed along top and bottom. The design was based on the village where it was woven, the Kaabah artistically woven at the top. A qubla finding compass, to indicate the direction of Mecca, specifically toward the Kaabah, was affixed above the center of the prayer mat to ensure proper facing for ritual prayers. The man waited for the Call the Prayer to play from his Azan alarm clock.
As the muezzin began his song, a tingle ran down the man's leg. “This is indeed one of the prettiest sounds on Earth,” he whispered to himself.
Once the call ended, the man said quietly “Allahu Akbar,” dropped to his knees, bowed, and recited three times, “Subhana rabbiyal adheem.” Once the ritual was complete, the man prepared himself and the vehicle for departure.
The rising sun was low on the horizon. He lowered his visor, pulled onto the interstate, and drove east. Traffic was light for that time of the morning. The van slid behind an 18-wheeler, and the two trucks cruised one mile under the posted speed limit. The windshield-mounted GPS display indicated fifty-four miles to Newport. ETA was fifty-eight minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
0700 June 11, 2011
Newport State Regional Airport Newport, Rhode Island
Hunter turned to line up on Runway 22, gear down, landing checklist complete. He reached over to touch the landing gear indicators. “Double-check 1-2-3 gear down. I do that, because Greg landed gear-up with his airplane a few years ago.” He concentrated on the landing area, windsock, and engine instruments.
“No shit?” McGee asked.
“I understand it was a good landing. It chewed up the centerline paint, and the airport billed him for that, too. One of these days, remind me to tell you the time I was doing carrier quals and had an unsafe nose wheel.”
Seconds later, Hunter flared the aircraft until it gently touched the runway. When he lowered the nose, he deployed thrust reversers and stepped on the brakes.
McGee was impressed. As they taxied from the runway onto the taxiway, he said, “I thought you carrier guys slammed down on the runway. I didn’t know we were on the ground until I watched the nose drop. I’d never be able to do that.”
“A lot of it is pilot technique, but the aircraft has great struts. Business execs don’t want to have their martinis dumped into their laps on touchdown, so they build in a lot of travel in those struts. It works well when there’s a little wind down the runway.”
Hunter shut down the port engine on the taxiway and taxied to the small general aviation terminal, where he stopped and set the brake.
“Showtime,” Hunter said, as he and McGee crawled out of the cockpit into the cabin.
McGee removed his shirt, and Hunter helped hang the OD-green plate to the man’s chest, then helped him get the shirt over his head and the plate. Hunter nodded and gave a thumbs-up, swung the big silver handle behind him, and unlocked the door.
Before lowering the door and stairs, he turned to McGee.
“Text me when you get home.”
“Yes, Dear.”
“Good luck, Bullfrog. We’ll be overhead in a couple hours.”
“It’s a good plan. We’ll get him.”
Hunter lowered the door, and the stairs folded out. He offered his hand, and the big SEAL took it and squeezed.
“Be safe.” He rapped the big man’s chest and heard a muffled thunk.
“I will. Again, thank you, Duncan.”
The aircraft rocked slightly, as McGee hurried down the stairs. Hunter monitored his progress to the small terminal building before raising and locking the door. He climbed back into the cockpit, started the number-one engine, and taxied to the runway for takeoff. As he waited for clearance, he felt they had a good plan, and he wondered how Nazy was doing.
*
Hunter and Lynche sat in rapt attention, listening how SEALs set up and practiced for Broken Lance and how a determined enemy could defeat a SEAL sniper team.
McGee stepped to the white board and barked at Hunter, “Do you remember your five-paragraph order, Marine?”
“You mean SMEAC—Situation, Mission, Execution, Admin and Logistics, and Command and Signal?”
“Correct. I’m impressed.” McGee quickly wrote on the board.
Situation Enemy: Unknown Sniper Team: DCI and friends Activity: SEALs KIA—CIA CO KIA Location: Den, Mem, Norfolk, KW, DC
Time Observed: Night Equipment: Terminators/300
Mag/NOGs Capability/LimFacs: Easy travel/ long-range targeting COA: Attack Bullfrog/Girlfriend/ H&L in order Mission Who: A Team; 3 Amigos What: Stop shooter/ID enemy, stop DCI 7 friends Where: Newport/DC When: ASAP
Why: Live long and prosper How: 007 & help Execution Exploitation Plan: Bait & Switch Desired Endstate: Kill shooter, stop DCI & friends CONOPS: Harden target/find shooter with 007/neutralize weapon/ shooter Maneuver: Bait with Bullfrog Fire Support Plan: Bullfrog TBD
Admin/Log: Body armor Comms Command: On my signal
“Do we want to kill him? Don’t we want to know who sent him?” Hunter’s question hung in the air like a blood-filled tick on a baby’s nose. The shooter had already killed six men who were patriots and friends. It was apparent that the DCI facilitated those deaths. During the Revolutionary War, thirteen-year-old Andrew Jackson saw patriots and friends killed by the enemy. Refusing to kowtow to a British officer brandishing a saber, he was slashed across the cheek. He carried that scar for the rest o
f his life and knew what to do with an enemy—you kill them. When you kill them was an option.
McGee saw patriots and friends killed by the enemy and had a pretty clear-cut idea what to do with the enemy, but he was professional enough to kill them only after they no longer served any purpose. The current enemy had some explaining to do first.
“Do you mean, can we make him talk?” Lynche asked.
McGee, lost in thought, erased the word kill after Desired Endstate and replaced it with interrogate. “I can make anyone talk,” he said emphatically. “SEALs put the special in special operations.”
That outburst affected Hunter and Lynche differently. Hunter was definitely in the government’s corner when it came to using “enhanced interrogation techniques,” as the press called them, which encouraged a terrorist or other related scumball to give up his secrets. How effective those techniques were was the subject of significant debate in political circles.
Lynche was on the other side, feeling that such techniques didn’t work, and it was immoral to use them. His thirty-five-year career with the Agency and access to Special Access programs gave him unusual insight into the process, particularly concerning what worked and what didn’t.
Hunter spoke with former prisoners of war and read their books about the effectiveness of a wide range of interrogation techniques. Alistair MacLean broke when his nails and teeth were removed by Japanese sadists. Ayman al-Zawahiri broke when his Egyptian captors used car batteries and battery cables on his testicles. Getting someone to talk was a matter of leverage. Slapping prisoners around or keeping them awake or exposed to hours of the Chipmunks singing was D league. Having someone’s nuts bolted to a DieHard or watching a friend’s head be lopped off, as the swordsman shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” was big league. SEALs were consummate professionals playing in the pro league. Hunter spoke to avoid a potential conflict or unauthorized disclosure. “I think we nab him first. Maybe he’ll flip and tell us what he knows and who sent him. I know you want this shithead dead, and so do I. I also want to know who sent him. I doubt it was the DCI directly.”
Lynche visibly relaxed.
McGee’s gaze softened and returned to the board. “Did I miss anything? Fire-support plan—to be determined. I’ll work on that when I get to the house.”
“We talked earlier about luring him into a firing position. How do we do that, Bill?” Hunter asked.
“He has to determine how he wants to set up the kill shot based on the available avenue of approach and set up a hide. It might be outside, which is very difficult to do in a metropolitan area for any length of time. Ideally, you fire from a building. I should say a team does better from a building in a combat zone. The team needs protection. They could use a vehicle. A van is most likely if he’s a less-sophisticated shooter. The DC sniper used a car and fired from a hole in the trunk while the lookout drove. If you have to be exposed, you have to be able to hide in plain sight.”
“I’d think it has to be big enough to hide a rifle and a shooter.”
“Correct. Most likely a pickup or a van. Anything would have to be modified, so the shooter can take one shot and disappear. Here’s the advantage we have. You have only a limited number of available hides when you determine the avenues of approach. If you’re able to shoot a back azimuth from the impact point location, then it’s really easy.”
“Back azimuth?” Lynche asked.
McGee drew a basic sight picture on the board. “If I wanted to kill you on your doorstep, I’d ideally go to your porch, turn around, and look for openings in trees and the terrain, any open avenue of approach to identify possible firing positions along that vector. If there are a lot of trees, there may be only one avenue of approach, maybe none. Then you have to monitor the target’s routine and determine where he goes and what he does to find a window or opportunity, shoot a back azimuth, find points of interest, and resolve a firing solution.”
“How does your house compute as a target?” Hunter asked.
“Front yard, I’m toast. Back yard, I’m OK.”
“How was it done? How will he do it? Do they all suggest the possibility of night-vision scopes and silencer?” Lynche appeared to be thinking of one thing for those questions. He seemed distracted.
“It’s possible. I’m thinking, what if the guy had access to Pop Stop?” McGee asked.
“What’s that?”
“A noise-canceling system you wear. It knocks down the sound of a silenced weapon to that of a fart. You can just about shoot a high-powered rifle from anywhere, and the double-silencing systems make it nearly impossible to hear unless you’re standing beside the shooter. If he had Pop Stop, he could operate anywhere, even in a neighborhood, and you’d never know your neighbor was shooting a .300 Winchester Magnum.”
“That sounds like amazing shit.” Lynche was impressed.
“His MO has been to use terminators. Maybe he has a new-fangled silencer that allows him to operate in urban areas. Regardless, I expect he’ll anticipate I’ll be in some kind of danger, and I’ll probably wear body armor. I expect him to use an armor-piercing round. The challenge is regular body armor and ceramics won’t stop a 7.62 AP.”
“That’s what worries me,” Lynche said. “It used to be the case an AP would cut right through Kevlar and barely slow down.” McGee sounded like a man walking down death row.
“Armor-piercing bullets are strengthened with special copper or nickel-alloy jackets that shred on impact to allow the hardened, penetrating slug to continue through to the targeted substance. It isn’t enough to just have an armor-piercing bullet. You need a modified barrel to take advantage of the bullet’s ability. This guy aims for the heart.”
Hunter looked at the two men, who seemed dejected and defeated. “What if I said we have some lightweight material that provides 7.62mm AP protection?”
“It doesn’t exist,” McGee said. “There’s nothing like that we can use.”
“Sir, no disrespect. The seats in 007 were upgraded to provide 7.62 mm AP protection as well as the floors and side panels. Special Access Program from the IED labs. It’s some kind of titanium-tantalum hybrid matrix weave using nanotechnology. Amazing shit. Bullets splatter like a snowball hitting concrete, and the stuff doesn’t deform under a 7.62 barrage. If it’s a .50 caliber AP, we might be in trouble, but if we can double the material, it would stop an elephant. We have enough left over that we can make a small vest.”
McGee brightened immediately. “Like Eastwood’s 'Man with No Name' in A Fistful of Dollars?”
Hunter nodded.
“Will it work?” Lynche asked.
“As long as he hits Bill in the chest.” He pointed at McGee. “You might get some broken ribs and be knocked down if we don’t get to him first. He's a good shot. One shot, one kill. Doesn't miss.”
“Show me this magic stuff,” said Bill McGee.
“Can do easy. There’s enough left over to cut a decent-sized piece to make a wearable vest. Saul wanted to put a couple pieces in the wings for the fuel cells, but there was only enough material for one tank. He couldn’t make it work and keep the wings balanced.”
“How come I’m always the last to know about this?” Lynche complained.
“You’re always sailing and keeping Connie happy. You leave the details to me.”
“What if we don’t get there in time, and he has a slight, uh, mis-hit?” Lynche asked seriously.
“I’ll never know,” McGee deadpanned. “My guts or brains will be blown out, just like Osama’s, when Team Six blew his brains out.”
Lynche didn’t like the finality of failure.
“Bill, we can do this. We can find and beat this fucker. I think we can protect you from above, but the airplane isn’t armed. I’m afraid we need someone else to respond once we locate the asshole.”
Hunter opened his mouth to reply, but McGee held up a finger. “I left off Fire Support Plan from mission planning. I had an idea what we could do. Now I know what we’re going to do.”
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Hunter gave a thumbs-up.
Lynche brightened and waited for the big man to explain.
“Here’s the plan,” McGee said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
0705 June 11, 2011
Newport State Regional Airport
The white, empty Toyota Tacoma’s engine kicked over, accelerated, and returned to idle. McGee stood inside the FBO terminal, starting his truck remotely while surveying the parking lot for anyone hiding or observing. When the car didn’t blow up on ignition, he knew the assassin preferred rifles over explosives.
He had to run the gauntlet from building to truck. When he felt there was no discernable threat, McGee bounded from the FBO terminal. It was nearly impossible to lead a quickly moving target at great distances to resolve a firing solution. As he ran, his head swiveled back and forth, looking for threats from any quadrant. He knew he looked frightened, as he pushed the unlock command on his fob.
The truck’s lights flashed the electrical equivalent of command received and doors unlocked. The metal plate on McGee’s chest swayed asynchronously to his thundering steps. His Nikes pounded the pavement, and a jet turbine spooled up in the distance, making him feel alone but not abandoned.
He knew Hunter would be back. All McGee had to do was stay alive and wait for reinforcements. First, the killer had to find him.
He dropped to the ground, checking the underside of the small pickup, including the wheel wells, truck bed, and hood. It was awkward being on the ground with forty pounds of bulletproof material strapped to his chest. Getting up with a sense of urgency was more difficult than anticipated. Normally, he could handle a forty-pound plate on his chest when doing sit ups. McGee felt exposed and so he hurried.
Rolling to his hands and knees, he pushed up from a tire. Wedging himself into the cabin, he slid the key into the ignition, threw the gearshift into Drive, and sped off before the door closed.
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