by Dale Brown
“They took him upstairs. He got shot in the leg.”
“How about you?”
“Head hurts like shit,” said Gunny he pointed to the scrape on his scalp where he’d been nicked by a bullet. “Otherwise only thing that smarts is my pride.”
Gunny told Smith how Jackson got hit and went down right after they were spotted. Gunny toss a smoke grenade and went to get him. Somewhere around there another grenade went off, tossed by Jackson or the Somalians, he wasn’t sure. Either it was a concussion grenade or a dud; in any event, all it had done was slam the sergeant to the ground. When he tried to get up he found half a dozen Somalians in his face.
“I guess I got shot somewhere along the way,” added Gunny. “Lucky for me it hit my head and bounced off. Hit me anywhere else and it would have gone right through.”
“Let me see it.”
Melfi bent down and let Smith examine the wound, even thought Jackson had already said the bullet had only grazed him. The major agreed, describing it as a the sort of red singe a barber’s razor might make.
“What happens next, you figure?” Gunny asked.
“Take us to where the trial is.”
“If we done get rescued first,” said the sergeant. “Or bust out first.”
Smith gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, we’ll just have to bust out.”
“I got a knife in my buckle,” whispered Gunny.
The major didn’t understand at first. Finally he nodded. “My radio,” he told Gunny. “Somebody should have got the signal.”
“They’ll come for us,” said Melfi. “Don’t worry, Major. Hell, Jackson and me are expendable. But you’re a fuckin’ officer. You bet your ass they’re going to come and get you back.”
Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.
Mack fought to keep his eyes open. The basement smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.
A medical attendant – the man clearly had not been a doctor – had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few time upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.
Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or planning what they would and wouldn’t say with the Marine sergeant. But the pain and his fatigue and the stench were overwhelming. Thoughts flew in and out of his head like dreams. He saw himself running at the two men near the stairs with their guns, saw their bullets tearing him apart. It might be a relief.
The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.
The fourth man was dumped on the ground.
It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.
“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”
“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.
“There’s another pilot,” said Jackson. “They’re going to move us soon. Tonight.”
“That’ll be our chance,” said Gunny. “We’ll break out then.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll kill them all,” said Mack, feeling his head slip back as darkness fell over him.
Naples. Italy
22 October, 1405 local
To Jed Barclay’s untrained eye, the plane looked like a 707. And in fact, the JSTARS E-8C was indeed a former commercial airliner that had been almost completely rebuilt. It had extensive command and control equipment, not to mention heavy security. The NSC staffer had been issued special code-word clearance just to board the craft.
Which impressed the Army major standing and barring his way at the entrance not a whit.
“But I’m Cascade,” Jed repeated.
“Good for you,” said the major. “You’re also too young to shave.”
“I get a lot of that,” said Jed. “If you just let me take the retina scan –”
“What makes you think there’s a retina scanner aboard?” said the major.
Two Navy officers trotted up the steps. The major nodded at them and let them pass into the interior of the plane.
“You didn’t even ask for their creds,” said Jed.
“This is a Navy operation,” said the major. “I’m only providing tactical assistance. Besides, they beat the pants off me in a poke game last night.”
“Actually, this isn’t a Navy operation at all,” Jed told him, momentarily wondering if he might get further by suggesting he player Poker as well. “We’re still working with Madcap Magician.”
Jed was fudging – overall command of the operation was due to shift to the Navy as soon as the command staff could arrive, which wouldn’t be for a few hours.
“And you think that’s going to make a difference?” said the Army officer.
“To be honest, it makes no difference,” said Jed. “Listen, Major, no offense, but I spent several hours this morning talking to the ambassadors of Egypt and Saudi Arabia about their refusal to allow U.S. planes to use their bases. Then I had to listen to an Iranian cleric, obviously a madman, denounce me for a half hour. Even more frustrating was talking to the State Department’s Middle Eastern desk, trying to explain to them why quick military action and not diplomacy was required. To be honest with you, I’m really in a pissy mood.”
The major frowned at him, but finally moved back from the door. There was no retina scan – in fact, there was no security device at all.
“You don’t want my NSC card at least?” Jed asked him.
“I’ll throw you in the ocean if you don’t check out,” said the major, pushing him into the operations area. “Don’t touch anything. These monitors here –”
“Are slaved to different part of the SAR, which gives you approximately a sixty-degree view of a selected battlefield area. Smearing of the image is countered through interferometry calibration, as well as the Litton LR-85A Inertial Measurement System. There are a total of eighteen consoles aboard this craft, which is an upgrade from the original twelve and the seventeen powered stations in the first production models, though of course one could argue that there are never enough. Frankly, the main concern with JSTARS is not the physical operation of the battlefield view and coordination system, which demonstrated its potential in the Gulf War, but rather the temptation to use the craft to micromanage the battlefield, robbing individual officers, ground- and air-based, of their decision-making role. The same concern was raised – and to some degree remains valid – with AWACS operations. And I’d be up for any poker games you do manage to organize. I assume we’re not taking off for hours, right?”
The major frowned, but said. “You’ll do,” before turning and walking away.
Northern Ethiopia
22 October 1996, 2000 local
“We’re not stopping.”
“I know that,” Bree snapped, working to hold the Megafortress on the rain-slicked tarmac. Flaps, brakes, reverse thrust, and a hurried Hail Mary seemed to have little effect as the big plane hurtled rapidly toward the end of the runway. Shapes loomed left and right, light streaming with the rain. Breanna’a arm locked as the Megafortress’s nose bounced harshly across the poorly maintained concrete. A jumble of low buildings lay ahead; the Megafortress threatened to slide into them sideways, her left side trying to jerk forward.
Finally, the plane’s forward momentum eased, the breaks or maybe the prayer catching. Breanna eased the big plane back to the center of the runway, managing a full stop three yards from a large puddle that marked the end of the concrete.
“That wasn’t four thousand feet,” said Chris. “Let alone six. And I thought it never rained in Ethiopia before January.”
Breanna edged her throttle carefully, turning the EB-52 toward the side access ramp on her right. As she did, a Hummer with its lights on approached f
rom the right, driving along the apron. She guessed that it had been sent to show them where to go. Rolling slowly, her heart returning to normal, she turned the Megafortress onto the path. The truck pulled a 180 and began speeding away toward a hangar area.
The runway had minimal lighting, and this access ramp had none; Fort Two’s light provided a narrow cocoon for her to steer through. Breanna saw another plane standing at the far end of the ramp – a parked MC-130 Hercules.
“Must be the place,” said Chris, spotting the military transport. “We’re going to have a hell of a time taking off in this rain,” he added.
“We’ll round up some volunteers to push,” she told him, watching their guide truck disappear to the right. Breanna leaned back in her seat, the exhaustion of the long flight finally taking its toll. They had pushed Fort Two about as fast as it had ever gone for much longer than it had ever flown. While she and Chris had switched on and off – and the computer autopilot had helped considerably – Bree’s brain was crispy and her legs and arms felt as if they had been run over by a steamroller. She hadn’t slept now in more than twenty-four hours, and had needed three caffeine pills – she didn’t like anything stronger – en route.
Four large Pave Lows and a civilian DC-8 airliner were parked at the far end of a group of buildings that looked more like warehouses than hangars. The Hummer spun off and blinked its lights; Bree began to swing the plane around into the designated parking area. Two Marines with M-16-and-grenade-launcher combos appeared from one of the buildings, sauntering up as if they landed Megafortresses here all the time.”
“Gee, where’s the brass band?” asked Chris.
Captain Freah waited impatiently as the bomber trundled toward its parking area. He’d been able to sleep only a few hours, but felt a burst of energy and excitement as the big plane stopped. Undoing his restraints, he bolted up from the uncomfortable jump seat and grabbed his gear. Squeezing into the hatch area, he pulled down the handle to open and lower the access ladder. It sounded like a bus tire puncturing as it burst open; Danny took it two steps at a time, ducking his head and scooting out from beneath the plane. A pair of rain-soaked Marines waved him toward a nearby pickup. After the cramped quarters of the Megafortress navigational bay, even the warm but heavy rain felt good. Danny stood out on the tarmac getting soaked while the rest of his team disembarked. Leaving Hernandez behind to wrestle with their gear in the storage bay, they hopped into the rear of the pickup. The rain surged as the truck started, but it seemed to be a final burst, for by the time they reached the low-slung building at the far end of the base it had slowed to a drizzle.
Freah jumped over the side of the truck, walking double-time inside. Hal Briggs greeted him in the hallway.
“Look what the car dragged in,” said Briggs, slamming Danny with a shoulder chuck. “Damn, I thought the ETA you gave was a typo.”
“You didn’t think I’d let you have fun without me, did you?” asked Freah. His men filed in behind him; Danny introduced them.
“Grub’s that way,” said Briggs, pointing down the hall. “You’ll find a cafeteria, whole nine yards. You have a half hour,” added Briggs, glancing at his watch.
“Just a half hour?”
“Ospreys should be here by then.”
“Ospreys?”
“Since you busted your hump to get here, we’ll give you something real to do,” said Briggs. “Come on. Let me fill you in over at the terminal building. It’s our command bunker.”
“What is this place?” Danny asked.
“Russkies built it as a commercial strip place back in the seventies, then abandoned it when they realized the area was too rugged to support any sort of industry. Thank God for Commies with money, or at least bulldozers and cement, huh?”
Freah followed the major back outside. They walked around the side of the building to a Humvee. Briggs got in and Danny followed; they drive back toward the area where the Megafortress had parked.
“Shit. you came in a Megafortress?” said Briggs as they pass the plane.
“How do you think we got here so fast?”
“They had room to land?”
“I guess.”
Briggs turned right between the last and next-to-last buildings, then made a sharp right onto a long access road. They followed it as it circled around a row of small hangars; they looked more like sheds.
Three F-117 Nighthawks and three F-16 Vipers were parked beyond the sheds, guarded by a dozen air commandos. Briggs slowed just enough to let the guards know it was him, then sped on toward a large terminal building. Even in the dark it was obvious the building had been abandoned for some time. Lights shone eerily inside, and shadows seemed to leak from the broken windows. Two more Air Force Special Ops guards with M-16’s met them as Briggs pulled to a stop. Danny recognized one of the men, but barely had a chance to nod as Hal walked briskly inside.
A group of men clustered inside the empty reception hall, examining a series of maps spread over a trio of tables. The maps spilled over the sides; there were clutches of satellite pictures and a few rough sketches arrange around them.
“This is Danny Freah,” said Briggs, introducing him around. Quickly, Briggs filled him in on the situation. A Marine assault team supported by four F-16’s had attempted to take out several batteries of SAM missiles and a Silkworm base on the Somalian coast, while a flight of four F-117’s went after a pair of Silkworm bases a few miles to the northwest. Both of these bases were more extensive and better defended than had been though, and the team came under heavy fire. an F-16 and one of the F-117 stealth fighters were downed. The F-117 was apparently lost to an SA-2; the long-wave radar was able to detect the vortices caused by the plane, and it was especially vulnerable while launching its missiles.
“We don’t jam the radars – or should I say we didn’t – since that costs us the element of surprise. Our targets were destroyed,” Briggs added. “Frankly, the SAM had only about a one-in-a-hundred chance of getting the plane. It was an acceptable risk.” He jabbed his finger at the map, pinpointing a spot on the hilly plains just south of the coast. “We have a strong suspicion that the pilot was alive because we have radio intercepts from an Iranian MiG about a parachute in this area. His name’s Stephen Howland. Captain. Twenty-six. From Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.”
Danny nodded.
“Our intelligence is limited,” admitted Briggs, “but we think the Somalians have already recovered at least the plane. CIA has a source saying he saw an airplane on a flatbed truck out on this road. It’s not really a highway; more like a dirt road with pretensions that runs through these mountains and hills. Anyway, it would make sense, because this road goes right to Bosaso, on the northern coast, which is within five miles of where we think the plane went down. From Bosaso they might go down to Mogadishu. Or maybe they’ll try for Libya, heading west on this highway here. It’s been improved recently; we think the Iranians have helped widen and repave it. It hooks up with Burao. From there they would have a highway, a real highway, through Ethiopia, the Sudan, Libya, where they want to go.”
“Why Libya?”
“Libya signed up for the Greater Islamic League,” said Hal. “So bringing the prisoners there might be one way of guaranteeing that their partner is involved. The Iranians may also figure that with the Presidential election coming up, pounding Tehran will be an enormously popular thing to do.”
“Would it?” asked Danny.
“I don’t know about the Politics,” said Hal. He quickly went on. “They also know we’re sending ships up from the Indian Ocean. They also suspect that we could base forces in Kenya. So the Iranians it might seem safer to go by ground. They might not think we are watching.”
Briggs slid one of the satellite pictures around and pointed at it. It covered an area near the northeastern coast of Somalia. “One of our satellites is being repaired by the shuttle, and the remaining birds aren’t positioned very well for coverage. We’re also having a hell of a lot of trouble because
of the weather and the clouds,” said Briggs. “This image is several hours old. We’re trying to arrange an overflight in the morning. We have a Delta Force team ready to go in as soon as we have a target. But we’re talking several hundred miles from here. We’d like to get the stealth fighter back, or at least blow up the wreckage. As soon as it’s located, we go. Same thing on the pilot.”
“What about the F-16?” asked Danny.
“You may know him – Mack Smith. He was at Dreamland. Tall guy. Typical pilot ego.”
“Sure.”
“He went out over here, a few miles away. Mack seems to have stayed around to help the Marines. The Marines credit him with saving their necks, because their helicopter was under fire. Two members of the assault team apparently saw it get hit and left their helicopter to help Smith.