Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Beret Series)

by Bob Mayer

  Linders felt a little put off by that answer. "I understand, Mike. I assume the chairman is on top of things?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right. Out here."

  Linders put down the phone and leaned back in the chair. The trend in Special Operations over the past decade had been for fewer and fewer people to be informed and involved in actual operations. The after action report on the debacle at Desert One had shown glaring faults in the number of people who were actively involved in the decision-making process, from the president on down. The military had pushed for less outside involvement and more autonomy for the leader on the ground.

  Linders himself agreed with this: He believed that the military should get mission statements and then be left alone by the civilians to do the job. But right now he was wondering if that streamlining and canalization of operational information wasn't working against him. Something didn't seem right with this whole operation. In reality, Linders realized, he had only Pike's word that this operation was legitimate. Not that he had any problem with that. Pike did have a letter of authorization from the chairman. It was just that someday, Linders was afraid someone with enough knowledge might be able to circumvent the system. He decided to have one of his staff officers write a staff study examining whether or not that could really happen.

  Linders glanced at his watch. He had to attend a formal reception over at Fort Myers this evening. He needed to head on home now if he was going to make it on time. Turning off the light, he left his office.

  KNOLL 8548

  6:00 P.M.

  Tremont was still up in the tree. He hadn't been inactive. With Riley's help, he'd constructed a brace for his rifle, using broken branches and 550 cord he had carried in. The muzzle of his weapon now rested securely in front of him and he could scan the entire compound with ease.

  Riley and Westland were on the ground, providing local security around Thompson as he made his 1800 contact. He was on the air quite a while. Riley had an instinctive distrust of staying on a radio a long time even though he knew his fears were groundless. The Colombians certainly had nothing that could intercept signals from a SATCOM radio. Still, old habits died hard. He gave a sigh of relief as Thompson shut down the radio.

  Thompson gestured for Tremont to come down out of the tree. He left the rifle in its cradle and shimmied down. The four gathered in tight as Thompson outlined the plan for the evening. Riley had to admit it was a bit better than the one he had come up with earlier in the morning.

  HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE, PANAMA

  7:45 P.M.

  "Hammer Base, this is Eagle Leader. Over." Lieutenant Colonel Edberg released the transmit button on the radio and waited.

  The radio crackled. "This is Hammer Base. Over."

  "This is Eagle Leader. I'm calling for final mission authorization. Authenticate please. Over."

  Edberg released the send and licked his lips nervously. This was when they would find out whether the mission was a practice dry run or the real thing. Since Edberg had taken command of B Troop, Delta Force, a little over a year ago, his troop had participated in eleven deployments. Six had been in response to real-world alerts but had not progressed further than deployment and planning, because the crises had been resolved in other ways or because the politicians had decided not to commit Delta Force. On the other five deployments, they had been given, just like this one, what looked like a real mission and had forward deployed to a staging area. After completing the planning and being ready to go, these deployments had ended when final authorization was not given; an evaluation team from Delta headquarters then came in and evaluated the plans and preparations. Not knowing if a deployment was real or not kept the men honed to a sharp edge of performance but was also extremely stressful.

  The radio hissed. "I authenticate Bold Gambit. I say again, I authenticate Bold Gambit. Over."

  Edberg stared at the radio in surprise, then looked at the members of his assault force. It was the real thing.

  "Roger, Hammer Base. I copy Bold Gambit. Over."

  "Hammer Base, out."

  Edberg keyed the mike again. "Tiger Leader, this is Eagle Leader. Did you copy Hammer Base? Over."

  From two hundred fifty kilometers to the south the reply came back. "Roger that. I'll get it cranking. Over."

  "Good luck. Out."

  FOUR KILOMETERS NORTH OF THE

  PANAMA-COLOMBIA BORDER

  7:48 P.M.

  Sergeant Major Ed Rabitowski signaled for Griffin to pack up the SATCOM. He looked at the pilot. "Crank her up, Cullen. We lift on time."

  The pilot, a rated aviator from Delta, nodded and went over to start his helicopter. The aircraft was an OH-58, the military version of the Bell Jet Ranger. The twin-bladed helicopter could hold only the pilot and the three men of Tiger element.

  The four men were dressed similarly, all in black, including black balaclavas pulled over their lower faces. Night-vision goggles hung around their necks, and each man wore a headset for communication among the team and with the other elements. They wore combat vests with the various tools of their trade hanging on them.

  The single turbine engine started to whine as Cullen began his startup procedures. Rabitowski glanced at his watch just before getting in and taking the left front seat, next to the pilot. Since the OH-58 was the slowest aircraft involved in the operation, it would leave first, even though it was two hundred fifty kilometers closer to the target than the Eagle element up at Howard Air Force Base. This whole mission depended on split-second timing from the various elements involved.

  As soon as Cullen had sufficient engine speed, the blades started turning and the aircraft began rocking. Rabitowski looked over his shoulder at the two men seated in the back. Jacobs and Griffin both gave him a thumbs-up. Their RPG rocket launchers were between their knees, muzzles pointing down.

  Rabitowski nodded calmly. This was going to be a bit hairy and a lot of things could go wrong. But Rabitowski prided himself on not worrying about things he couldn't control. Twenty-nine years in the army had taught him that. He pulled his cut-down SAW machine gun closer to his side. The comforting feel of the weapon's cold metal was what he believed in. The SAW was something he could control.

  Rabitowski would be retiring in one month, and Colonel Edberg had been against his going on this mission. Sergeant Major Rabitowski had been adamant. He wanted to go in his assigned place with his troop. He wanted one last live mission after twenty-nine years.

  He pulled out the acetated map with their flight route on it. Written in grease pencil along the route were the time hacks for the various checkpoints on the way in. A stopwatch was taped to the map. Rabitowski checked his watch. Cullen lifted the aircraft to a three-foot hover. When his second hand swept past the twelve and the watch indicated 7:54, Rabitowski indicated go and clicked the stopwatch. Cullen pushed forward on the cyclic and they were on their way.

  FORT MYERS, VIRGINIA

  8:30 P.M.

  Linders entered the officers' club and immediately headed for the bar. He was over an hour and a half late but he didn't care. He hated these formal functions. This one was being sponsored by Linders's own service, the air force, under some pretext or other. In reality, it was a chance to invite some of the politicians from across the river to come rub elbows with the brass. Linders knew the hot topic of the evening would be the B-2 bomber, and the party line would be to support that effort. He couldn't care less about the B-2 bomber. Any aircraft that cost that much was ridiculous, in his opinion, but he didn't dare voice that heresy. He was here because protocol required it.

  He circulated through the crowd, nodding to acquaintances. Linders wasn't very popular with his air force cronies because as DCSOP-SO his priorities were somewhat different. He fought his own service for funding for more Combat Talon and Spectre Special Operations aircraft. Linders had a bitter appreciation for where the priorities lay: In the last air force budget, procurement of more Combat Talons was forty-fifth on a fifty-two-item aircra
ft priority list.

  Linders's musings on the skewed sense of priority of the air force were interrupted when he spotted General Macksey holding court on the other side of the room. Why was the chairman here when he was supposed to be overseeing the operation by Delta Force? The only logical answer Linders could come up with was that the general would be returning to the war room of the Pentagon later this evening.

  Linders worked his way across the room toward Macksey. He was further surprised to see that Macksey was drinking alcohol. There was no way the general would be drinking with an operation pending later in the evening. Linders elbowed his way through the crowd of sycophants and insinuated himself next to the chairman.

  Macksey noticed the intrusion. "General Linders. How are you?"

  Linders grabbed the chairman's elbow. "Sir, I need to talk to you privately." Macksey nodded. He led the way out of the main ballroom and into the foyer. Ignoring the people entering, he fixed Linders with a hard gaze. "What's so important?"

  Linders figured the direct approach was the best. "Sir, do you know about a Delta strike this evening in Colombia?"

  Macksey frowned. "The Hammer strikes have been canceled since the third one was compromised. What are you talking about?"

  "Sir, Delta Force was alerted yesterday and elements of it are presently forward deployed in Panama preparing for a strike tonight."

  "What!" Macksey grabbed Linders's shoulder. "Who authorized that?"

  "Mike Pike came to my office yesterday with the OPORD. He said it was authorized as a continuation of your Hammer order. Since I hadn't heard any cancellation of the Hammer missions, I assumed it was part of the same mission and verified the OPORD."

  Macksey closed his eyes briefly as the reality of what Pike had done sank in. He thought rapidly, trying to sort out the pieces. "Do you know when the strike is happening?"

  Linders shook his head. "All I know is it's tonight. I called Pike today and asked him what time. He wouldn't tell me. He said security was being tightened."

  "Where did you call him?"

  "He's at the same STU-III he was for the other missions." Macksey made up his mind. He called for his aide, who was hovering out of conversation range. "George, get my car around front." He turned to Linders. "You're coming with me."

  HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE, PANAMA

  8:38 P.M.

  The Combat Talon lifted off the runway and its four powerful turboprop engines drilled it into the night sky. Inside the cramped cargo bay, Edberg sat as comfortably as his parachute and equipment would allow on the web seats rigged along the side of the aircraft. He wore a headset connected by a long cord to a SATCOM radio nestled in among the electronics gear in the front half of the bay. The other nine members of his team were spread out in the rear half.

  This was Edberg's first live mission. He hadn't expected to get the final go. He'd anticipated another no-go and mission evaluation, especially after the haphazard way General Pike had alerted them and with the tight time limit that had been imposed.

  They had an hour-and-fifty-two-minute ride to their infiltration point. The Combat Talon was going to rely on something besides its terrain-following ability for this flight. The electronic warfare people in the front were sending out a transponder signal indicating the Talon was a civilian airliner en route from Panama City to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The aircraft would fit this profile except for the brief one-minute slowdown over the infiltration point for the drop.

  Edberg's ears perked up when he heard the radio come alive.

  "Eagle, this is Hawk. I have lifted and am en route." Edberg checked his watch. 8:44. The HH-53 Pave Low helicopter had lifted from the USS Raleigh off the coast of Colombia on time. All the pieces were moving.

  KNOLL 8548

  9:05 P.M.

  Riley waited at the base of the tree with Westland and Thompson. The Delta Force soldier had on the headset for the SATCOM. Tremont was in the tree continuing surveillance and in place for the role he would play shortly.

  Thompson gave a thumbs-up. "Tiger, Hawk, and Eagle forces are all en route."

  Riley turned and stared at the lit compound below. His adrenaline was starting to flow. He forced himself to calm down. They still had a while to go before things started happening. Another hour and twenty-five minutes.

  Thompson pulled one of the cups of the headset off his ear. He reached into his ruck, took out two small radios with headsets, and handed them to Riley and Westland. "You know how to work that thing? We brought spares in case we found you all."

  Riley nodded as he put the radio into a pouch on his vest and rigged the headset. He showed Westland how to work hers.

  Thompson waited until Riley was done. "All right. You and Westland head down at 2200. You'll be able to talk, but remember that those guys coming in are going to shoot anything moving. I don't know why the old man agreed to have you two go in, but he did, so I'm not going to argue with him. I guess he figures he needs all the help he can get, plus you're a backup for Tiger if they don't make it in. The elements have been told you're going in over the wall, but you know how it gets in the dark when bullets are flying."

  Thompson pulled a roll of tape from his ruck. He peeled off a long strip and wrapped it completely around Riley's chest, taking care not to seal any of his ammo pouches. With other strips he encircled Riley's wrists and ankles. For a finishing touch he put a strip around Riley's head. "That'll give you better odds of not getting shot. All the good guys will be wearing this IR tape in the same places. It'll show up like a strip of light in the goggles. Shoot anyone who doesn't have it."

  Thompson removed his combat vest and gave it to Westland, who put it on. He then taped her with the IR chemical tape. Reluctantly he handed his Mossberg Bullpup to Westland. The squat weapon was only thirty and a half inches long. Thompson ran her through a quick overview of the weapon. "You got eight rounds in the tube under the barrel. As you can see, the sights are on top of the handle so it aims high. If you're going to fire from the shoulder, aim about half a foot low."

  Westland hefted the bulky gun. "What about recoil?"

  Thompson smiled. "It's a beauty. You fired shotguns before?" Westland nodded. "It's got less recoil than any shotgun you've ever fired. You can fire it from the hip."

  Riley interrupted. "What kind of load you got in there?"

  "Alternating slugs and number four buckshot." Riley whistled lightly. That thing could clear out a room. Thompson pointed at Westland's vest. "You got solid slugs on your right side and number four buck on the left. Don't forget that if you reload. It's best to alternate the rounds. The slugs will knock the shit out of someone if you hit. The buckshot gives you some dispersion. Alternate them and you raise hell."

  Westland nodded. "I can handle it."

  Thompson pointed out one last important feature. "You've got two safeties. First is a normal cross-bolt safety, right here. See, this is safe and this is fire." Thompson flicked the switch. "The second safety is in the grip, kind of like the .45-caliber pistol. You have to maintain pressure on the pistol grip to fire."

  Westland nodded. Thompson slapped her lightly on the back. "Take care of my gun now. Hate to lose it."

  Riley had grown to like the gruff commando over the course of the day. He'd been surprised to find out that Thompson was a major and the assistant operations officer for his troop. He certainly had not seemed concerned about rank in dealing with Riley or Tremont. Thompson's role in the upcoming conflict was to be the coordinating point for the attacking elements from his bird's-eye view up here on the hill. With the SATCOM he could talk to the incoming aircraft and with the small FM radio he could talk to the members of the Tiger and Eagle forces along with Tremont up in the tree.

  Thompson looked the two of them over. "Looks like you're ready to party."

  FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

  9:33 P.M.

  Pike watched the headlights turn into the parking lot. He counted two cars, one of which was a military police vehicle. Pike looked at his
watch and then at the SATCOM set. Since giving the final authentication he had monitored B Troop's traffic. He knew all the elements were in the air and en route.

  Unfortunately, he also knew there was still plenty of time for those forces to be recalled. If only he had another hour.

  The door to the building swung open and General Macksey strode in, followed by Linders. Pike stood and faced the oncoming storm. He decided he'd open the pleasantries.

  "You didn't have to get all dressed to come see me, sir," he said, noting the dress mess uniform in which Macksey was regaled.

  Macksey failed to see the humor. "What the hell are you doing, Pike? Is Delta actually on alert in Panama?"

  Pike considered several possible stalling replies. The only problem was the SATCOM radio behind him on the table. All Macksey had to do was pick up the mike and he could talk to the B Troop commander himself. "Yes, sir."

  Macksey glared at him. "What the hell are you doing?" he repeated.

  Pike stopped the general in his tracks with his next statement. "Sir, do you realize that one of the men from that last mission, the one who escaped, has been sent by the CIA down to Colombia to assassinate one of the members of the drug cartel?"

  Macksey seemed stunned. "What?"

  Since he was being honest, Pike decided he'd overwhelm the general with the bald facts and hopefully forestall him getting on the radio with a recall. "Let me start from the beginning, sir. I think you'll find this all quite interesting. The day that last Hammer mission was compromised, the..."

  AIRSPACE OVER COLOMBIA

  9:44 P.M.

  Rabitowski looked at the fuel gauge. They were down to less than a third of a tank. He checked the map as the helicopter whizzed over a single-lane road. "Checkpoint 15, on route and on time."

  Cullen nodded but didn't speak. They were flying terrain contour, approximately twenty-five feet above the highest obstacle. Even with the night-vision goggles it was a tiring operation for the pilot.