by Jack Shane
In fact, he was astonished at how clearly he could see the inner SAM ring surrounding the place. Even flying as fast and as low as he could, the missile emplacements were very visible; many were bathed in powerful searchlights. But again, that was the whole point: The Venezuelans had purposely put the SAM sites in well-lit highly visible positions to deter an attack, not to actually fend one off.
But Mungo didn’t know that, and that’s why he was so baffled. He’d expected a SAM or two to come up at him when he was still two miles out from the place. But nothing came. One mile in—still nothing. Just as quickly, the refinery was in front of him. Lit up by tens of thousands of halogen bulbs, it looked as bright as daytime inside. Half a mile away—hell, he figured he would have been blown out of the sky by this time. Yet he was still in one piece.
One thousand feet out. Then five hundred. Then two fifty…
Still, no one was shooting at him.
Why?
He suddenly found himself amongst the towers of the refinery. In a strange way it looked like an amusement park. The waves of halogen light, as viewed through his night-vision goggles, gave everything a ghostly burn. Anytime Mungo would sweep by a bank of the bright yellow lights, it blurred itself right onto his eyeballs. After passing a few of these, Mungo’s equilibrium became distorted. He was traveling at 160 mph, yet it seemed like everything was in slow motion, like he was flying through water. It was a very curious sensation.
He had exactly twenty-two cannon shells left in the Killer Egg’s nose cannon. Part of his act would be to fire these off to make a lot of noise but not try to hit anything important. But this too was an order that sounded easier said than done. This strange world of Nightvision and halogen light distorted everything to the point where it all looked the same. In conditions like these, how could he shoot at a target that wouldn’t send the whole place up in flames?
And why wasn’t anyone shooting at him?
DOWN IN THE CENTRAL CONTROL STATION FOR THE air defense ring, the SAM CO was having a heated phone conversation with a low-ranking political officer at the Presidential Palace, about forty miles away.
The SAM CO was trying to explain to the PO that there was an American attack helicopter flying over the CaracCo oil refinery, probably one of the same machines that had been attacking military facilities all over Venezuela in the past day or so. This was an emergency of the highest order. They needed the OK to fire their SAM weapons.
Yet the political officer kept putting the SAM CO on hold, telling him to wait, that the president was busy, and couldn’t come to the phone. The SAM CO was furious. He would scream at the political officer whenever the man would come back on the line, telling him that his soldiers were not only equipped with large SAMs but also handheld Stingerlike missiles. They could blast this one copter out of the sky and would probably incur relatively little damage to the facility. But once again, he was put on hold.
It was at that moment that the copter went screaming past his command hut’s only window. The SAM CO saw the cannon on the front of the copter come alive, firing at something on the edge of the big facility.
He yelled into the phone: “The intruder is attacking! He’s firing as we speak!”
“Please—hold on…”
The SAM CO was ready to go right through the phone—but then he heard a click on the other end of the line. And then the political officer came back on.
“Do not fire your weapons at him,” the PO told him.
“Why not?” the SAM CO raged back.
“Because our interceptors are just arriving over your location,” he said. “And they will deal with the American…”
Area 14
They came out of the night silently, as they always did. Over the trees, over the crushed-rock road that separated the launch platforms from the jungle palace. If anyone on the ground was paying attention, the six copters might have seemed like night-flying beasts, something that lived in the haunted jungle not too far from here.
Making no more noise than a light breeze, they emerged from the murk and lined up in two staggered rows a hundred yards from the missile site, hovering more like giant insects now than mythical-winged dragons. It was a moonless night with lots of stars. Under the camouflaged net covering the six missile launchers, the hasty refueling operation was nearing an end. The two dozen SBI missile techs had no idea what was about to happen.
There were two ways that U.S. helicopter forces trained to conduct aerial assaults: The Marines used their copters to swoop in on a target, much the way a fighter jet would. The Army preferred to array their gunships in a standing hover, like an aerial firing squad, and have them let loose from a stationary position.
It was a quality versus quantity thing. A Marine copter swooping in on its target might put its ordnance on the money the first time—or maybe the second, or the third. On the other hand, a lineup of Army birds could let loose all at once and chances were good that nothing would be left of the target. Of course, remaining stationary in a combat situation was dangerous. Standing still in the air while firing made you a perfect target for someone firing back at you.
The five Black Hawks and one Chinook tasked with taking out the missile site were going to do it the Army way. They’d all engaged in swoop-and-bomb tactics before; they could be out there all night, swooping and bombing the hidden missile platforms and not hit a thing, still incurring the wrath of the VAF. This was not a time to attempt precision bombing, not with so few missiles to play with. As it was, the dozen Hellfires were probably not enough to do the job. So, they had to take the blunderbuss approach and hope their short-lived barrage would hit something big, something important, that would blow up and do the most of the work for them.
And if that something was a nuclear warhead?
Well, then at least XBat’s last mission would be a successful one.
THEY TOOK UP THEIR AERIAL POSITIONS ABOUT THREE hundred feet out from the covered-over missile base. A flurry of radio calls made sure everyone was in the right spot. Then, with little fanfare, they opened up.
The initial fusillade was frightening. The combined copter force had twelve Hellfires plus several dozen smaller, 2.75 rockets at its disposal. The smaller rockets went first; the combined effect of shooting all of them at once was blinding. The ordnance hit the camouflage netting like a wave of fire, perforating the top layer in an instant. SBI guards and technicians could be seen below, stunned at first but then fleeing in full panic as the copters poured it on. There was no return fire—not at first anyway.
With a hole opened in the camo cover, the copters began unleashing their second barrage, firing all the Hellfires and the rest of their unguided munitions. In a flash, this ordnance started finding targets of real value. Translation: Things started blowing up.
One SS-71 missile was cut in half immediately; it fell onto its platform and obliterated itself. Its fuel tanks were not full, though, so the blast was not large enough to take out anything else around it. Another missile took a direct hit from a Hellfire, its nose cone catching on fire—this caused the copter pilots to just hold on and wait for the nuclear blast. But it didn’t happen. The missile stayed upright and simply burned itself to death. A third and fourth missile were also perforated on the spot. They actually fell into each other, producing a bright red fireball—but not a mushroom cloud. And not the sizable explosion the copter men were hoping for.
More Hellfires, mixed in with nose-cannon fire, slammed into the fifth missile. A lot of flames and smoke engulfed the SS-71, and it even appeared to be melting. But still there was no megablast…and twenty seconds into the attack, everything just stopped.
The copters had run out of ammunition.
The resulting silence was unnerving. Many parts of the missile complex were on fire, and much damage had been done. But the place had not been destroyed—and that had been the mission.
Just as the people in the helicopters were coming to grips with this, their troubles suddenly increased by a facto
r of a hundred or so. There was one SS-71 missile still standing. Suddenly, flames began shooting out of its bottom. Flames, yes—but this thing was not on fire. It was in one piece, as was its launch-support systems. The flames spewing out of it were coming from its own engines.
It wasn’t blowing up.
It was taking off.
AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME THE SIX COPTERS WERE gathering to attack the missile platforms, Autry was a quarter mile from Area 14, approaching the palace support building from the west. Chinook 2 was right behind him. Both copters had their rear ramps open.
Like Autry’s copter, Chinook 2 also was carrying XBat’s version of a mini-MOAB bomb—four fuel tanks, filled with aviation fuel, strapped together with rope and wire. The pair of big copters was coming in so low, the tops of the trees were breaking off beneath their stationary wheels. They were flying without lights, and almost without sound.
The initial attack on the missile platforms had already commenced when the jungle palace loomed in front of the Chinooks. Autry’s mind went two places at the same time: the drug king’s mansion they’d blown up in Colombia just a few days ago—and the time he crashed during his first combat mission. It happened over Grenada, and his crash site was a very ornate, colonial building that looked like Buckingham Palace; he came down in the parking lot.
So now here he was again, bearing down on yet another tropical castle. And if there was one thing XBat had gotten good at, it was attacking expensive real estate in the middle of the jungle.
ABOUT FIVE HUNDRED FEET OUT FROM THE STRUCTURE, Autry yanked up on the Chinook’s controls and brought its speed down to a crawl. The aircraft’s mighty engines shook from the violent maneuver, vibrating throughout the entire copter. Autry kept the big ship moving straight ahead, though.
Tucked behind Autry’s copter, Chinook 2 had slowed down too. At four hundred feet out, Autry brought his copter down even lower—not fifty feet above the ground. He took a quick look behind him. The guys in his cargo bay were holding onto the mini-MOAB with all their strength. They would let go only when he told them to. A moment later, they were directly over the rear quarter of the palace.
And it really was a palace—when viewed through the camo netting, up close via NightVision. Whitewashed stone walls. Hundreds of windows, dozens of entrances. Expensive crushed stone everywhere. The roof boasted many satellite dishes, rivers of cable wires and even a few ancient-looking antennae. On top of it all, the unmistakable red-and-yellow SBI flag. At this point, it might as well have been a bulls-eye.
It was strange: just about every light in the mansion was turned on. Autry could see soldiers and people in civilian clothes, crowded at the windows, looking west to where the missile platforms were just now being attacked. They were so distracted they had no idea two more copters were coming up on them.
“A complete surprise,” Autry thought out loud.
Poor bastards…
He counted down to three and then gave a mighty yell: “Drop it!”
His men let go of the straps and then held on for their lives as the huge improvised bomb went out the back of the copter. The four connected fuel tanks started tumbling immediately. Autry put the Chinook in a hard left bank. He craned his neck just in time to see the bomb slam into the roof of the mansion.
It didn’t explode for two seconds. Then it went off with a tremendous blast. In a flash, all the windows on the top floor of the palace were blown out by a storm of huge red sparks. Millions of them. It was like a fireworks display inside a house.
Autry went deep into a 180-degree turn now, this as the sparks were shooting into the air and coming down everywhere, including on top of his helicopter. He was already flying through the smoke the fuel bomb had created. It took a few seconds—very long seconds—but finally Autry saw what he longed to see. The entire top floor of the palace was gone and flames were spurting up from within. He couldn’t believe it. The damn bomb actually worked!
The pilot of Chinook 2 saw the same thing. He was soon over the mansion, now covered with smoke. On his call, his crew rolled the second gas-packed fuel bomb out the back of his aircraft. It went right through the newly created hole in the roof, tumbling into the middle of the conflagration. This improvised weapon hit with a combined bang-bang! igniting it right away. A geyser of flame erupted from beneath the roof.
Autry turned to go around again. He still had a hundred gallons of fuel, contained in ten metal water cans. At one point they’d discussed whether throwing all the gas onto the palace at once would work. The truth was they didn’t know and they didn’t have the luxury of time to find out. So this rotating bombing formation was dreamed up. And Autry was responsible for the third run.
He had the big Chinook practically on its side now, as he fought to turn the 180 into a complete 360. He was over the top of the house sooner than he would have liked, the big copter was still nearly on its side—but his crew threw five of the cans down into the fire, opening their spouts before tossing them out.
They hit with another double-bang, and on his turnout, Autry saw another stream of flame burst out of the palace’s second floor. It was coming right at them. For a long terrifying moment, the flames sought to engulf the big copter, coming right up into the cargo bay’s open door. It stayed but a micro-second and was gone again, but still scaring the crap out of everybody. Autry fought to put some distance between them and the flames.
He turned just in time to see another huge explosion rock the palace. The flash of light was so intense, Autry had to look away. When he was able to adjust his eyes again, he saw that the huge fire had now engulfed the top two floors of the mansion and was growing even larger. Their plan had worked. The fire had turned into an inferno.
Chinook 2 began its second run. About two hundred feet away, there was a huge explosion somewhere in the middle of the palace—its shock wave was so powerful that it literally threw Chinook 2 more than a hundred feet into the air.
Still their fuel canisters came tumbling out. Bang! Bang! They all went through the roof, passed through the top three floors and exploded somewhere down near ground level. This time it seemed like the entire structure rose a foot off the ground. The last canisters from Chinook 2 had hit something very volatile. The result was the mother of all secondary explosions.
But had the fire reached the basement, where they believed any warheads would be stored? This was something unknowable. And that meant that they were to continue with the plan. Autry tipped the Chinook on its rotors again. He was going to take his third run.
He turned level and went in clean. But a hundred feet away, he too was hit by a shock wave—not from an explosion, but from the tremendous amount of heat coming up from the burning structure.
Autry knew this was a sign to climb—heat could fry some very important things on the outside of the souped-up copter. He went up quickly—but the heat followed him up. He climbed more, lowering his speed. Still, the hell wind rose with him. Suddenly he was right over the burning structure itself and was thrown up another two hundred feet. Outside the cockpit window, Autry saw not just flames and smoke, but also pieces of the house itself streaming by them. Broken doors, shattered window frames, even furniture—flaming debris rising quickly, as it if were on its way to heaven.
That’s when Autry knew they’d completed their mission: The inferno had now reached its extreme.
XBat had created a firestorm.
Autry immediately turned off, putting the Chinook into a steep left-hand turn.
Dropping any more fuel on this fire would be like adding a teacup of water to the ocean. What was once a huge jungle palace was now simply one large sheet of flame. Their work here was done.
Autry’s new heading put him nose-on to the simultaneous attack on the launch platforms. And it was at that moment that he saw what the attacking force saw—all of the missiles had been destroyed except one, and it was in the process of blasting off.
Autry stared at the missile as it hung in the air, just a few
feet from clearing the launch platform. The flame coming from the other destroyed sites was bathing this one workable missile in a bright yellow light. Its nose cone was gleaming.
What the hell is inside that thing? he wondered now. A nuke? Obviously nothing big had detonated over the missile site, at least not yet. Could the warhead be filled with germs? Or anthrax, to be exploded over a wide area? Or was it stuffed with radiological waste—a missile-delivered dirty bomb?
There was no way to know.
But where was it going? Toward the United States, of that Autry was sure. Exactly where, really didn’t make any difference. It was on its way, and there was nothing XBat could do about it.
So they had failed…
Right?
Wrong.
Because at that moment, Autry realized he was looking at something even more astonishing than this missile rising on its trajectory to wherever.
Every copter in the site attack force had turned as one, and started flying toward the rising missile—their guns blazing. And just like that, Autry started chasing it too. They all rose together, tracers lighting up the star-filled night, vying with the glow of the flames below for dominence.
The problem was the missile was rising faster than any of the copters could hope to. It would be out of their range in microseconds.
What if this thing is heading to Atlanta? To where his wife was?
That thought went through Autry’s mind like a knife. But then, just when it seemed stopping the missile would be impossible, one of the tracers found its mark. Who fired the magic bullet? They would never know. But the luminescent round went through the missile’s skin, slammed into its rocket motor, severing its fuel lines, igniting them…and blowing the missile to smithereens.