Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  He edged closer to the crew chief, holding the starboard side overhead bar tightly with both hands. The cabin doors were wide open, and he didn’t want to exit the bird prematurely while the pilots maneuvered them into position.

  Daly glanced over his shoulder and saw Chief Petty Officer Warren Inderman take the same position on the port side. He couldn’t see Inderman’s face, but he knew the chief would be the first on the rope out of the door. He knew everything his men would do until they secured the armory. After that, it depended on how their situation developed. This was how they managed to work in complete darkness. By memory and instinct. As he moved toward the starboard side door, his feet and knees bumped up against the coiled fast-rope, which took up a considerable amount of the space in the already cramped troop compartment.

  Already attached to a cabin anchor bar that extended one foot beyond the door, the one-and-three-quarter-inch-thick, sixty-pound rope would be muscled through the hatch by Petty Officer Jake Ellison as soon as they settled over their designated insertion point. Daly would wait for the crew chief to confirm that the rope hit the ground before giving the order to deploy. The helicopter generated a significant static electricity charge in flight, and despite the fact that their ropes had been specifically designed as non-conducive, it remained standard procedure to let the rope hit first. Design variances in ropes had led to some unpleasant surprises in the past. Surprises that Lieutenant Commander Daly’s SEAL’s couldn’t afford tonight.

  He stared through the troop compartment into the cockpit and strained to make any sense of the view through the cockpit window. He thought he saw the dark field of pine trees change to a lighter view. Bright white sparkles resembling several simultaneous flashes caught his eye. From experience, he knew these were reflections off water, probably the river next to the LZ. He raised the AN/PVS-14 night vision from his face and prepared for the inevitable.

  “Stand by!” the crew chief screamed.

  He edged forward with the crew chief, leaving enough room for the coiled rope to be pushed out by Petty Officer Ellison. Three men competed for room in the ridiculously small space offered by the open cabin door. The GAU-17A took up half of the space, leaving barely enough room for one fully equipped SEAL to pass through. He was eager to get out of the bird, but knew the crew chief had a job to do. He backed off far enough for the crew chief to poke his head out of the door. The helicopter descended suddenly and flared its nose upward, settling into a stationary hover.

  “Deploy ropes!” the crew chief screamed, and Daly repeated the command into his own headset.

  He felt the massive rope coil slam forward, hitting his leg on the way out. Two seconds later, he heard the crew chief scream “Go!” There was no need to utter any commands. He reached out and jumped forward at the same time, gripping the rope solidly as he started to descend below the helicopter. The powerful rotor wash pushed him down the line, and he braked by squeezing his hands. He didn’t need to see the ground to know when he was close to reaching the bottom. He had practiced this fifty-foot descent so many times, he could literally do it blindfolded. He slid for a few seconds and braked a little more, slowing his descent. He was rewarded when his boots gently hit the soft valley floor.

  He quickly moved out of the way and hoisted his Mk18 Mod1 rifle, scanning the tree line for targets through the rifle’s sensitive AN/PVS-24 night vision scope. He heard a soft thud, followed by scrambling footsteps, and knew that Ellison was headed toward the armory twenty meters away. He didn’t need to look to know that Chief Petty Officer Inderman was crouched in a similar position to his left, also scanning the tree line. The rotor wash created a dirt storm around the SEAL commander, pelting his goggles with fine river rock and obscuring his view of the tree line. He felt comfortable knowing that Hellfire 1-1’s gunner was scanning the same area unhindered and could deliver a withering fusillade of 7.62mm projectiles if his SEALs came under fire.

  Several tense seconds passed before he felt a tap on his shoulder, which meant that the last of the eight SEALs had hit the ground. He ran forward to stay clear of the area underneath the helicopter. Both fast-rope lines would drop in a few seconds, and he didn’t want to get hit with sixty pounds of braided nylon rope. He never heard the ropes hit the ground over the scream of the helicopter’s twin turbo shaft engines, lifting their ride into the darkness above. The rotor wash intensified for a second and suddenly abated, leaving him feeling exposed.

  Watching the tree line through his rifle scope, he sidestepped toward the armory as Hellfire 1-2 and Hellfire 1-3 disgorged the rest of the support platoon onto a wide flat area between the river and the trees. The sixteen SEALs would rush to positions along the tree line and provide cover for the arrival of the main assault force. He reached the corner of the armory and lowered himself to one knee. He heard a small explosion behind him, followed by a report that the armory was secure and that most of the weapons appeared to be present. This was good news for his assault force. If the armory had been empty, he would have been extremely concerned about what awaited his men. He felt another tap on his shoulder.

  “I’ve got it from here,” Chief Petty Officer Inderman said, who nudged Daly out of his position along the wall and assumed watch over the area between the trees and the armory.

  Daly lowered his helmet-mounted NVGs and turned around to head toward the armory door. The armory sat at the northernmost point of the compound, at the end of a dirt road that paralleled the river. Situated on a slight rise, it overlooked the “inhabited” portion of the river valley. A light machine gun barrel protruded from the darkened doorway. As he approached the door, he saw four SEALs sprint across the road toward the compound’s garages closer to the river.

  “Renegade entering the armory,” he whispered into his headset seconds before stepping over the barrel.

  Through his night vision, he saw Petty Officer Sonny Abregon squatted down next to the doorway, monitoring Daly’s command net through combat headphones. Abregon scooted down the wall, giving him a position at the door to observe the entire operation. Daly was momentarily distracted by what he saw inside the spacious room. Along the back wall, beyond a few picnic tables that were likely used to sit and clean weapons, sat unlocked racks filled with automatic rifles, light machine guns, sniper rifles, shotguns and pistols. The only difference between General Sanderson’s armory and his own at SEAL Team Three was that Sanderson had a wider variety of foreign weaponry. Daly was impressed by what he saw and now he was even more relieved that most of the rack spaces were still occupied.

  “Renegade Two and Three deployed. Hellfire 1-2 and 1-3 outbound,” he heard through his own headset as the two helicopters ascended.

  Their rotor sounds were quickly drowned out by the ground-shaking power of the two CH-53 Super Stallions that descended to take their place. The powerful transport helicopters didn’t hover like the Rescue Hawks. Instead, they landed on the dirt road fifty meters apart, with their ramps down. Thirty marines from 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion poured out of the back of each helicopter and sprinted toward the tree line, forming into four separate teams of fifteen marines.

  The CH-53s lifted a cloud of debris and pebbles that obscured the entire LZ as the marines ran straight through the SEAL support positions toward their objectives within the woods. Two MH-60Hs flew into the valley from the south, following the river until they reached their assigned over watch positions in the valley behind the SEALs. They hovered, their gunners scanning for targets.

  “Green Machine 1-1 and 1-2 outbound. Hellfire over watch in place,” he heard from Lieutenant Dan Simons, his support team commander, who was mixed in with SEALs along the tree line.

  “Wild Eagle units formed and moving into breach positions,” he heard from the marine commander.

  Major Raymond Strout, the Marine Special Operations commander, would screen reports from his marine units under the call sign Wild Eagle and relay them to Lieutenant Commander Daly. Strout’s marines constituted the bulk of
the assault force that would systematically breach the compound’s structures, starting with Sanderson’s suspected headquarters. The first of the marine teams reached their positions alongside the closest structures. None of the units had reported any enemy activity, which suited him fine, but they needed to start the breach phase immediately.

  “Back Yard ready. Positive identification on all four rear structures.”

  He now had all of the strike force units in place for a coordinated strike on the buildings. The second SEAL platoon had fast-roped into a tiny forest clearing two hundred meters behind the compound and had moved into positions behind the structures furthest from the river.

  “All units. Breach targets. I say again. Breach targets!” Lieutenant Commander Daly yelled.

  **

  Staff Sergeant Peter Gibson crouched against the timber wall next to the door and watched his team leader closely. Captain Tony Polidoro pressed against the wall on the other side of the door, his M4A1 SOPMOD rifle pointed at the door. The captain turned his head and whispered something behind him. A marine carrying a sleek black shotgun materialized from the shadows of the porch. Captain Polidoro leaned in front of the screen door and grabbed the handle next to the staff sergeant’s face. As he pulled the screen door open, he whispered to Gibson, “Breach this fucker.”

  Gibson reached out to test the inner door handle, prepared to immediately yank his hand out of the way if it was locked. Sergeant Manuel Rodriguez had his M1014 Joint Service Combat Shotgun aimed at the handle, and Gibson didn’t want his hands anywhere near the business end of that gun. The shotgun was loaded with Lock Busters, which would impart all of their kinetic energy into the locking or hinge mechanism, instantly disintegrating it. If the door didn’t open cleanly after Rodriguez finished his job, Staff Sergeant Gibson would swing a small portable battering ram at the door. This combination of brute force rarely failed to open even the most stubborn doors. Strangely enough, the doorknob turned, and he was able to push the door slightly inward using just his hand. He barely got his hand off the door knob before Captain Polidoro charged through the door, followed swiftly by the five marines stacked along the wall behind him. Rodriguez and Gibson were the last two marines to enter Sanderson’s suspected headquarters.

  Gibson had mentally prepared himself to rush in against a hail of gunfire, but by the time he got through the door, he had already heard most of his team members pronounce their appointed cardinal sectors to be secure. Powerful beams of light rapidly swept the two-story room, exposing every potential hiding spot. Gibson directed his rifle-mounted LED light around the front of what appeared to be a comfortable wilderness lodge. Glowing embers in the fireplace were the only sign of recent activity in the entire building. His beam swept across a large wooden table and stopped. Another beam found what Gibson had just noticed.

  He moved quickly to the table and lowered his rifle, taking a smaller flashlight off of his tactical harness. The softer light brought everything into better focus. A glass of milk sat next to a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, along with a remote control placed above an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper. Further down the table, he saw what looked like a small teleconference device with wires extending over the edge of the table. A few spare wires lay coiled next to the machine. He could see writing on the top half of the note and leaned in to read it.

  “Fuck me. Captain, you need to see this right now,” he said, trying to remain calm.

  **

  Lieutenant Commander Scott Daly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had expected to hear multiple shotgun blasts as the marines and SEALs forcibly breached all of the structures. Instead, he watched marines disappear silently through all of the doorways, followed by a brilliant green light show as they searched the structures.

  “Renegade, this is Back Yard. It’s a bust. Nobody’s home.”

  “This is Renegade. Copy your last. Assume Back Yard over watch.”

  “This is Back Yard. Roger. Out.”

  Daly leaned against the armory’s door frame and scanned the visible structures with his rifle scope. Marines had started with the largest of the structures, which they had assumed would house the largest number of targets, and moved to the smaller ones. At this point, every structure had been breached, and there had been no report of resistance. He needed a status report from Major Strout.

  “Wild Eagle, this is Renegade. Have your teams found anything? Over,” he said into his headset.

  “This is Wild Eagle. Negative. I’m receiving reports from the last structures breached. They all report no personnel on site. Over,” Major Strout answered.

  “Understood. Assemble all Wild Eagle units for immediate extraction.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  “Back Yard, this is Renegade. Collapse toward extraction point and cover Wild Eagle. Over.”

  “This is Back Yard. Roger. Out.”

  He turned off his transmitter and pounded his fist on the wall inside the armory.

  “Mother fucker,” he muttered and turned to his radio operator.

  “Sonny, get the birds back in for extraction. Make sure they know we’re empty-handed. Send the abort code back to BOXER.”

  He’d personally seen thermal satellite imagery confirming targets on site just hours before the operation launched. How the fuck had they screwed this one up? He had to be careful with his verbal criticism since he was still on candid camera, though he’d be sure to deactivate his camera for the ride back to BOXER. He could control his own comments, but there was no way he’d be able to censor any of his SEALs. He was just thankful that he wouldn’t be riding with the marines. He could only imagine what they might have to say about this navy-sponsored operation.

  “Renegade, this is Wild Eagle. Marines in the suspected headquarters building found something you need to see immediately.”

  “This is Renegade. I’m on my way. Extract birds are inbound. Over.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  He grabbed Petty Officer Obregon, who was already packed up and ready to move and patted Petty Officer Ellison on the shoulder as he slipped through the doorway with Obregon.

  “You’re last out, Chief. See you at the bird!” he yelled to Inderman, who signaled his acknowledgement with a thumbs up.

  Daly arrived on the lodge’s porch and opened the screen door. Upon entry, he saw that most of the marines were dispersed tactically throughout the structure, guarding entrances. Captain Polidoro and Staff Sergeant Gibson stood in front of the table, flashlights aimed down its surface.

  “What do we have here, Captain?” he said, striding up to the table.

  “We’ve been made, sir.”

  Daly leaned in to read the note. He’d wanted to shake his head, but he was painfully aware of his long distance audience. Fuck them. This was their problem now. His only concern at this point was getting the strike force back to BOXER intact.

  Chapter 55

  1:33 AM

  White House Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  Frederick Shelby couldn’t believe this was happening. National Reconnaissance Office satellite imagery confirmed humans at the target at 10:30 PM local time and had supposedly watched the site right up until the landing. He just saw General Gordon examine a satellite image showing the damn helicopters at the site. How in hell could this be right? Did they check under the beds? He wanted to yell this question to the officers in the room, but knew the comment would land him squarely in Gerald Simmons’ camp.

  “Can you get Renegade to focus on the note?” General Gordon said into his headset.

  A few seconds later the helmet cam steadied on the note, which was illuminated by flashlights.

  Greetings warrior brethren,

  It’s an honor to have so many brave men and women pay us a visit. I am truly humbled by your presence. You have my word that you are in no danger from my organization at this site. Please use the remote control to activate the monitor on the wall above the table. I urgently n
eed to speak to the men and women watching from the White House and Pentagon about the situation developing in Europe.

  Your most humble servant,

  General Terrence Sanderson, USA (Ret)

  P.S. The cookies are delicious. I won’t tell if they go MIA.

  General Gordon turned to the president of the United States. “I recommend we get our people out of there immediately. If he wants to talk to us, he can fly up here and meet us in person,” Gordon said.

  “I concur with the general,” Shelby added.

  He knew from the depths of his soul that Sanderson was up to no good and that everyone in the room would regret the decision to turn on that monitor.

  “If he’s connected to the situation in Europe, we need to know how. I can’t see the harm in it. The helicopters have enough fuel to loiter for a few minutes,” the national security advisor said.

  “I’d feel more comfortable getting the marines and SEALs airborne. The longer those birds linger over the area, the more potential for trouble,” Brigadier General Nichols said.

  “Sir, we need to figure out how he’s connected,” Sarah Kestler insisted.

  “Sanderson is a slippery character. You don’t want to open Pandora’s Box,” Shelby added.

  “I’m not sure we have a choice. A situation has developed in Europe that took a messy turn thirty minutes ago. We’re looking at a very likely WMD deployment scenario in Europe and the United States. If Sanderson has any light to shed on the situation, I’d like to hear it. Tell Lieutenant Commander Daly to switch on the monitor. How will Sanderson hear us?” the president said.

  “We’ll take care of the patch, Mr. President. We’ll be talking in real time with the team in the room. The SEAL commander’s radio operator has a sophisticated communications rig and should be able to transfer the audio to that teleconference machine.”