As sleep drifted back in, I pondered the possibilities. The fire had been moving west, the same direction as the second camp. The lifeline to my father that had seemed so strong in the earlier camp now seemed the thinnest of leads. Was that what the message had meant? And how far west? The possibility that I'd misunderstood his meaning, or even that Horace Greeley was the name of another man in the camp, ate at me.
I drifted back down into sleep without any answers. At the very edge of consciousness, I heard a sound that brought me bolt upright from my hard pallet on the rock floor.
Aircraft ― a helicopter to be specific. And not one of ours, not from the sound of it.
I rolled out of my pallet and went to Than, to wake him and tell him of the helicopter. Even though he had no guard mounted, he would want to know.
I should have been expecting it, but the night held one more surprise for me. The spot where I'd seen Than curl up under a coarse cotton blanket was empty.
I walked to the edge of the cave, stared out into the night, and wondered.
8
Admiral "Batman" Wayne
28 September
USS Jefferson
I could tell by the look on his face that Lab Rat had bad news. When it's good, he's practically bouncing as he stands at my door and waits for permission to come in. When it's bad, his already small form seems twenty pounds lighter. He shrinks into the door frame, slinks into the room, and his voice is barely above a mumble.
This was one of those times.
"It's still operational," Lab Rat said flatly. "The latest imagery shows aircraft moving in and out of the hangar. And they're already repairing the airfield. We knew that wouldn't take long, but it's going even faster than we predicted."
"What about the SAM sites?" I asked. I was convinced I could eventually knock a hole in the top of those nasty little revetments, but I had to be able to get my aircraft in to do it.
"They're mobile. Not fixed sites."
More bad news. We'd maintained meticulous plots on the electromagnetic transmissions from the anti-air sites, and I was hoping to take them all out the next time. "Can you tell where they're headed?" I asked.
Lab Rat shook his head. "They're moving under cover of the jungle canopy, Admiral. I get a few glimpses of them, some heat sources, but that's about it. We've looked at the terrain, the tactical disposition, and I've simply got no good predictions."
I leaned back in my chair and considered the matter. Intelligence was fine, but sometimes I needed ground troops. "Have you talked to the Marines? They might have some other ideas on where they'd put the SAMs if they were the bad guys."
Lab Rat nodded. "A few estimates, but they're not any more confident about it than we are."
I should have known he would have tried it. When it comes to intelligence estimates, Lab Rat is the least likely officer I know to invoke parochial interests. You've got something to say, something to make sense to him, then he'll listen. With ground weapons positions, of course he would have sought out the senior Marine on board and asked his opinion.
"So what do you suggest?" I asked finally. "We can send in another strike, but…"
Lab Rat sighed, then looked up at me. "It's time for Special Forces, sir. We could use them one of two ways. Send them in, send them after the SAM sites, or target the revetments." He grimaced, indicating that neither of those were particularly attractive alternatives. "Or we can just try what we've done before."
"And lose more aircraft probably," I said.
"Probably."
I stood up and started pacing the length of my office. It helps me to be moving while I'm trying to think. It would help even better if I were in the cockpit of an aircraft, but that's a luxury not often allowed to me as a flag officer. I barely make it out on the flight deck once a week just to get a whiff of fresh JP-5.
"What do the SEALs say?" I asked. We have a platoon on board, with a lieutenant commander in charge of them. Brandon Sykes was one of the smarter SEAL officers I'd met in my time, and he'd proved his tactical savvy to my satisfaction before. If he had an idea, I wanted to hear it.
"Lieutenant Commander Sykes wants to go for the mobile SAMs, but he thinks the revetments are the better targets," Lab Rat replied immediately. "He says you can always use the HARMS against the SAMs, but that the revetment is the real problem."
"He's right, of course," I answered. "Did you ask him when he could be ready to go?"
Lab Rat smiled. "He knew you'd ask that ― he told me so. And he said to tell you that they were ready to move out at your very earliest convenience."
"So what does that mean?"
Lab Rat thought for a moment, then said, "I think he'd like about twelve hours, Admiral, but I'm sure he could pull it off right now. If Brandon Sykes says he's ready, he's ready."
I nodded. "Twelve hours would put us into the nighttime ― he wants to go in with the RHIBs ― the Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats?"
"Or maybe helos ― he hasn't decided yet," Lab Rat said.
We'd rendezvoused with the underway replenishment ammunition ship earlier, and I'd on-loaded a ration of heavy-duty bombs designed to penetrate concrete bunkers. They'd worked well in Desert Storm and Desert Shield, and I thought that probably they'd do the job against the Vietnamese revetments as well. Still, I didn't have all that many of them ― it would make them a better target if I could have the SEALs soften them up a little beforehand.
"Tell Brandon to get ready," I decided. "I want to see him as soon as he's ready to talk."
They make bigger SEALS, they make stronger ones, but they don't make them any tougher than Brandon Sykes. He'd been pulling aviators' asses out of the fire his last twelve years in the Navy, along with conducting the other types of covert-insertion missions for which his community was justly famous. You look at him, you see a guy who looks like he's in pretty good shape. Not the bulging arms and forearms you get with Marines, but just a guy who works out a lot.
You'd be making a mistake. What's more, he's smart as he is tough. That makes Brandon Sykes a very deadly combination.
"Admiral, I'd like to go in by helo to the two-mile point, then drop and inflate RHIBs and proceed by boat. From what Commander Busby says about their surveillance assets in the area, I figure that gives us the best chance of getting in undetected." Brandon was soft-spoken and polite.
I started to ask some technical questions about the insertion, but looking at Lab Rat and Brandon, at the united front they were presenting, I knew there was not much point in it. We hire the best talent we can, then turn them loose. "You cleared this with CAG?" I asked.
Brandon nodded. "He's good to go with it, sir."
"When do you want to leave?" I asked.
Brandon looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "With your permission, I'd like to get underway about zero one hundred. That'll put us on the beach by two, and in the area of the revetments by three. A little while to sneak and peek, do some damage, then we haul ass out of there. We'll be using timed explosives ― a little bit risky, but I want to make sure we're clear of the area before they know they're fucked."
I nodded. "Let's make it happen, gentlemen. You go boom in the early hours, then I'll follow with an early morning air strike. How's that?"
Both men nodded. "Of course, we thought that might be what you wanted to do," Lab Rat added. "Strike's already signed off on it as well."
I grunted. "Not much point in having an admiral around, is there? Seems to me like between you two and Strike, you've got it all figured out."
Brandon stood, a slow and easy smile on his face. "Oh, there's plenty of reason to have an admiral around, sir. We can come up with the plans okay ― but you're the only one who can say yes."
I threw the two of them out of my office so they could get some work done, then turned back to the unending pile of paper that continually seeped into my in basket.
J-TARPS wasn't the only innovation in virtual reality that had entered the fleet. Even though I'd seen them dis
cussed in newspapers, and on television, I'd never actually worked with the new visual-link helmet that the SEAL community now owned. As Lab Rat switched on the monitors, I sat quiet and stunned.
Sykes had shown me the headset. It looked more like a helmet built out of steel than anything else. Mounted along his left temple was a very tiny pinpoint camera. The usual whisper communications giving satellite voice comms with units in the field had been improved to allow for an open-mike capability. Now, Brandon could leave it turned on and transmit everything he heard straight to me. He also had a control switch to prevent me from transmitting, so that he could be certain that no questions from higher authority would echo while he was in the field and give him away. I didn't intend to put him in danger that way.
We'd agreed that Brandon would not activate his headset until after the helicopter drop and when they were safely en route to the beach. Lab Rat had been keeping track of the time, and woke me from a quick nap when they were under way.
At first, all I could see on the monitor was black. Vague shapes and forms, shifting shadows, but that was it.
Then Sykes turned his head. I could see the other SEALs in the boat, a little bit fuzzy, but their faces clearly discernible. They were communicating in hand signals, even this far out from the shore. A good habit to be in when you're making a quick foray into enemy territory.
The small boat engine was a muffled puttering sound in the background, hardly even audible over the link. The silenced engine also cooled the exhaust, another small innovation courtesy of Stealth technology, so the boat itself produced no discernible heat signature. The men inside it were another matter ― even clad in wet suits, I knew they would soon be radiating visible signatures.
"Any sign they've been detected?" I asked Lab Rat.
He shook his head. "I just checked the TAO, and there's no indication of any unusual activity ashore. Not there, or on our other assets," he said, glancing back at the array of sophisticated electromagnetic listening equipment that terminated here. "Not a peep."
"Let's hope it stays that way." Watching the boat move in to the shore quickly became boring, unless you kept in mind what they were actually doing. It was like watching OJ drive down the freeway at thirty miles an hour in a white Bronco ― meaningless, unless you knew the context.
Brandon was looking forward now, and I could see the shore looming into view. It was a dark smudge against the blacker sky. It was slightly overcast tonight, with a new moon. That had been the deciding factor in the decision to go in at night, I suspected.
The boat ground onto the shore with a soft, sibilant sound. I caught glimpses of their activities as Brandon supervised the disembarking, and hiding the RHIBs in nearby cover. He left one man on guard, and the rest of them set out for the airfield.
"Is something wrong with the sound?" I asked Lab Rat.
He checked his instruments, then shook his head. "No. Why?"
"No reason." I wasn't about to explain that the SEALs were moving so silently through the dense jungle that I thought we had an equipment failure. I didn't want that getting back to Sykes, even as a backhanded compliment.
It took them an hour and a half to make it to the perimeter of the airfield and base. Once there, Brandon sat motionless for at least twenty minutes. I tapped my fingers impatiently, waiting for something to happen, then realized that it probably was. As the leader of the team, Brandon was hanging back and coordinating.
Then he moved, so silently and slowly that at first I missed it. It was a slow, careful slither through the underbrush, and from what I could see, not a branch around him moved. Without the pictures, I never would have believed just how invisible a SEAL can be in deep cover.
Then I saw what had attracted his attention. A two-man patrol, their voices now reaching the microphone at his lips. He'd heard them well before I had, and had moved into position. But for what?
I got my answer shortly. Brandon raised one hand and positioned it in front of the camera. There was a long, pale strip in his hand. It loomed at me now, filling the screen, wiggled, then held still.
"What the-?" I turned to Lab Rat. "We've lost the picture?"
"It was a stupid comment. Lab Rat didn't say anything, just stared at me.
Then I understood. Maybe Brandon had briefed him, but probably Lab Rat had just figured it out himself. There was something going on on the ground that Brandon didn't want me to see. Whether because he was protecting me or his men, it was important to him that my silent, watchful presence at the scene be eliminated.
Then the sound went dead. For about five seconds I was completely cut off from the SEAL team. Then I saw Brandon's hand appear, ripping away the covering over his camera, and I heard the small night noises of the jungle. I caught another glimpse of the thing that had obscured my vision earlier.
"A Band-Aid?" I asked. "Do they carry them all the time for just that purpose?"
Still, Lab Rat was silent.
And the guards were nowhere in sight.
Just exactly what had he done? Shot them? He must have, because there had not been time for him to approach them on foot and eliminate them. And I was certain that that was exactly what had occurred.
"He can't-" I began.
For the first time in our relationship, Lab Rat cut me off.
"You sent him in to do a job, Admiral. He let you come along for part of the ride, but only as long as it didn't interfere with his capabilities. Do you really want to see what just happened? Do you want to know and be forced into some action? Or will you settle for having things just the way they would have been before this newest toy?"
"Damn it, I'm responsible!" I stood and started pacing again, angry at more than just Brandon Sykes.
"Of course you are," Lab Rat said. "But do you really want to know what just happened?"
I considered the matter for a moment, cooling off as I did so. The truth ― no, I didn't want to know. No more than I wanted a bird's-eye view of the men and women who died following our bombing run, the tiny sparkles of flame that spurted briefly across the J-TARPS screen, then collapsed.
"They're in," I said, and took my seat again.
Indeed they were. What I at first took for shadows on the ground were two SEALS, now edging closer to the back end of the revetments. This thing was massive, extending back into the jungle and shaded by the trees. Each could have easily held thirty or forty aircraft, though why they would have concentrated all their assets in one area was a mystery to me.
They crept around the side of the revetments still in Brandon's view, barely discernible moving shapes against the night. They moved out of his field of vision, and I heard Brandon's breathing pick up speed. Had the microphone been any more sensitive, I was certain I would have heard his heart pounding away as well.
It was over fast, so fast. Five minutes later, they were creeping back out as carefully as they'd gone in. They joined on Brandon, then the three of them moved out, picking up the other two along the way. They moved more quickly through the underbrush now, it seemed to me.
I had just started to breathe again, when all hell broke loose. A loud, wailing siren went off and the jungle behind the SEALs lit up like daylight. Someone had evidently discovered the two missing guards on patrol, and the response was fast and deadly.
I couldn't see them yet, because Brandon was concentrating on his own path, but I could hear the screams and commands being shouted out behind him. All five men had abandoned their complete stealth mode for a quiet but much speedier exit from the area.
What had taken them an hour to cover quietly, they did in less than ten minutes hauling ass. Before any effective patrols had been sent out after them, they were back at the boats and hauling them out, and were already en route to the ship when the first patrols appeared on the beach. All I could see was the rubberized side of an RHIB ― Brandon was evidently crouched down low in the boat, making as small a target as possible for the spatter of gunfire now splatting in the water around the RHIB. There was
a heavy, consistent thud-thud-thud ― the bow of the RHIB slamming down against the waves as it hauled ass back out into deeper water.
"The helo is airborne, sir," Lab Rat reminded me. "All he has to do is make it to the five-mile point ― then the helo will rope them up and have them back on deck before the Vietnamese know what happened."
We'd established five miles as the safe point to keep the helo well out of the range of Stinger missiles as well as any other shoulder-portable weapons the Vietnamese might carry. The helo was going in low to avoid search radars, running a mere ten or fifteen feet over the tops of the waves to the intercept point.
"Shit!" I heard one of the electronic warfare technicians say. "Not now, damn it!"
Lab Rat turned and surveyed the numbers flickering by on the Signal Intercept equipment. Whatever he saw drained the blood out of his face.
"SAM sites, sir," he said, his voice low and level. "They're lighting up all over the coast."
"Have they got the helo?"
"No indication yet. They're still in search mode, but they're definitely alerted. He's going to have to fly low level all the way back."
Lab Rat knew what that meant just as well as I did. At night, without much ambient light, low-level-over-water operations were particularly dangerous.
But not as dangerous as being in a RHIB with people shooting at you.
"How much longer?" I asked.
"Another two miles," Lab Rat answered. "The helo's got a visual on them ― says they're doing well, evading all the fire. No indication there's been any casualties."
Those two minutes were some of the longest I've sat through, made particularly painful by the fact there was nothing I could do to help these men. Time has a way of stretching out when you're under fire, when seconds become minutes and minutes eternities. Your nervous system is so flooded with adrenaline that you're thinking faster, moving more quickly than you ever have before in your life. Survival depends on making the right decision, and making it seconds before you have to.
Chain of Command c-12 Page 15