Chopper Ops

by Mack Maloney

  In Ali's opinion, then there was only one thing to do. Call ahead to Dawrah and ask that a heavy-lift helicopter be sent to the site. If the chopper's winch could be attached to the truck, it might be able to move it enough to allow the column to pass.

  With much huffing and spitting, Major Tziz finally agreed to the plan.

  But this was where it really got strange.

  No sooner had Major Tziz made the request to Dawrah base, when a helicopter appeared in the sky. It was a heavy-lifter—a Russian-built Hook. Just the type that the column needed to move the disabled truck.

  But something was wrong here. There was no way that the message for help could have been acted on so quickly. Secondly, the helicopter looked to be on fire and about to crash.

  When the huge chopper flew right over them and continued north, toward the sheer mountain, Major Tziz cried out: "Why does he not land here, with us?"

  "Perhaps he is afraid he'll injure us if he crashes," Ali replied.

  A few moments later, the helicopter went right into the mountain.

  Or so it appeared. Because when the smoke and fire cleared, it seemed as if the chopper might have actually crash-landed. It had not been destroyed—not completely anyway. But it had picked a very inopportune spot to come down on.

  That was when Tziz began whacking Ali on the back of his head.

  "Don't just stand there!" Tziz was screaming at him. "Go rescue those brave men!"

  *****

  So now Ali was at the head of a small convoy of trucks filled with mechanics, racing towards the mountain, wondering what the hell he was going to do once he got there. The mountain's face was absolutely sheer, and climbing up to the cliff would be nearly impossible without extensive climbing gear such as ropes and cinches—and maybe not even then.

  But Ali was smart enough to know that he would have to give it a try.

  So when he and his six trucks arrived at the base of the mountain, he had his men line up. He selected the two smallest, lightest men and told them to start climbing.

  Then he radioed back to Major Tziz and told him he had the situation well in hand.

  The two climbers got higher than Ali ever thought they would. It was at least eight hundred feet up to the cliff where the helicopter lay burning, and his men reached a point about two hundred feet high, simply by using every rock and handhold possible to them. Ali was heartened for a moment—maybe there actually was a way to scale the rock face. He briefly theorized how big this would make him look in Major's Tziz's eyes.

  But then his climbers found their climbing was being hampered by something falling on them from above. It was hot and sticky and in a very short time, they discovered it was aviation fuel, trickling down on them from the crash site.

  This caused the climbers to quickly retreat back down the way they came. And Ali was back to where he started.

  His next idea came when he spotted a substantial outcrop of rock located about one third of the way up the sheer face, and not in the current stream of hot liquid flowing down the mountainside. If he could get a chain up to the outcrop and secure it, his men could climb up and then possibly feel their way up from there.

  He sent the two men climbing again, this time with orders just to reach the small ledge with the chain. This they did with remarkable ease. They attached the chain to huge boulder, and now a dozen of Ali's soldiers were scaling the chain. Not wanting to be left behind, Ali was the last one to make the ascent.

  Now they were one third of the way up.

  But the rocks here were very straight and they were not so good for climbing. However, there was another jagged outcrop about 150 feet above them. Could they get the chain to there?

  He selected the strongest man among the twelve, and sure enough, with some lasso motion, and in three tries, this man got the chain to hook onto this new ledge. Now two of his men scampered up, and upon reaching this new high spot, helped the others, including Ali, up to the higher elevation.

  Now they were more than two thirds of the way to their goal. Feeling very confident, Ali radioed back to Major Tziz and declared he and his men would gain the cliff within minutes. Tziz's reply was little more than a huff, but this did not dispel Ali's enthusiasm. If he reached the top in time and was able to rescue and give aid to the survivors of the crash, he would have to be recognized by Tziz's superiors, maybe even his unit commander, or the defense minister. Or maybe even Saddam himself.

  So now Ali started barking orders, screaming at his men to find another place where they could place the climbing chain. But before these words were fully out of his mouth, the mountain started shaking. . . .

  Ali was convinced that he'd had the bad fortune to climb a mountain during an earthquake—that was how violently the rocks beneath his feet were shaking. A storm of dust came down upon them, with smoke and rocks too.

  Then he and his men saw an incredible sight—and a unexplainable one as well.

  With much noise and exhaust, a helicopter lifted off from the cliff, now just two hundred feet away from Ali's position!

  What was this? The chopper they'd seen crash into the cliff certainly was in no shape to take off again. Yet here it was, its engines roaring, its rotors spinning. Passing slowly right above their heads.

  This seemed impossible in itself. But then, the mountain began shaking again. The vibrations increased and incredibly, another chopper appeared above them. It was as large as the one that had crashed, and was making twice as much noise. No sooner was this aircraft moving away when a third aircraft appeared. And then a fourth!

  Ali was astonished. So were his men. What was going on here? Where were these choppers coming from? It made no sense.

  They watched in stunned silence as the four choppers formed up and moved slowly towards the south, passing right over the stalled column again.

  Ali's radio began belching, but he was not going to answer it. He didn't have to. He knew it was Tziz. And he was not going to talk to the major until he reached the top of the cliff—and that was what he began urging his men to do.

  Somehow, his men got the chain to hook on a rock up on the cliff itself, and soon they were climbing up to the ledge. Ali was the third man to arrive on the cliff, and what he saw here made no more sense than seeing the four mysterious helicopters take off.

  Up here the place was littered with shell casings, hoses, buckets, wires, empty chow packs, and puddles of gasoline everywhere. Sitting close to the edge was a helicopter—the one they'd seen crash. It was surrounded by pools of gasoline.

  But there was something else. There was a small fire that had been left behind, and it was now following a trail of gasoline that reached about fifty feet into the largest pool of gas surrounding the badly damaged helicopter. Ali had just enough time to yell to his men to get down when the flame reached this pool of gas. A huge explosion shook the cliff once again. A ball of yellow and orange flame mushroomed straight up—taking much of the helicopter and the litter with it.

  When it was over and the fire had died down, Ali finally had the courage to call back to Major Tziz.

  "What is happening up there!" the major was screaming, so loud Ali imagined he could hear him all the way from the highway without the benefit of the radio.

  "I don't not know, sir," Ali replied weakly. "We came up to aid one helicopter and four more appeared and took off. It does not make sense. Now everything is aflame. And if that is not the truth, sir, you may cut out my eyes and tongue."

  "That might be just what we do," Tziz replied.

  Chapter 25

  Zim had just completed his daily sponge bath when Major Qank came in on his knees.

  The intelligence officer took a look at the mammoth Zim sitting atop the mountain of pillows, seven Japanese girls drying his enormous partially clad body, and nearly burst out laughing. This would have been a fatal mistake, of course—but it was hard not to laugh at the huge sultan-wannabe. He looked like a character from a bad science-fiction movie. Qank bit his tongue and wait
ed until the girls had wrapped Zim into his expansive bathrobe. It was a job equivalent to setting up a circus tent.

  "This is good news, I hope," Zim finally barked down at Qank.

  The intelligence man took this as an opportunity to get off his knees and tiptoe over to the mound of pillows.

  "It is, sir," Qank said, holding up the three-ring binder in his hand. "These are the final numbers for our . . . well, our pending sale."

  "Of my beautiful gunship?" Zim asked him, sounding almost sincere in his sadness.

  "Yes, sir," Qank replied. "And I must say the purchase price is substantial, considering everything involved. Your guest in Room 6 has really done well by us."

  Zim nodded to his squad of sponge girls, and the nubile teens quickly exited the chamber. Another wave from Zim and the two bodyguards left the room as well. Now it was just he and Qank—and the two dozen hidden microphones that recorded everything said inside the vast room.

  "Read me the details," Zim told Qank with a yawn. "I'm much too tired to do it myself."

  Qank excitedly opened the binder. "With pleasure, sir . . ."

  He quickly turned through the pages of handwritten notes—the man in Room 6 wrote down everything—and reached the last page.

  "You will not be surprised that the gunship purchase is going to the highest bidder," Qank began. "The offer begins with 20 F-14A Tomcat repair kits, complete with new carbon-hardened turbine blades and all-weather NACT weapons-radar retrofits."

  "Good," Zim pronounced. "Continue . . ."

  "Offer also includes delivery, over the next eighteen months, of twenty dozen TOW missiles, complete with new refit batteries."

  Qank paused and looked up at Zim, who looked uncharacteristically interested and engaged.

  "Go on," Zim said. "Get to the important part."

  Qank took in a deep breath.

  "The remainder of the purchase price will be filled out in cash," he said.

  Zim's left eyebrow arched a bit.

  "How much?"

  Qank wet his lips and began reading: "Total cash payment for the gunship will be one hundred million, American, at the dollar-trading price on the Zurich Exchange on a day of your choosing within the next sixty days."

  Zim's eyebrow went up another half inch—a sign he was almost overjoyed.

  "I hate to part with it," he finally said. "But we cannot turn down such an offer. The man in Room 6 has indeed served us well."

  "He has, sir," Qank parroted.

  Zim thought for a few moments.

  "What about our camouflage?" he asked Qank.

  The intelligence man was slightly confused. "Excuse me, sir."

  "You know, for the media—in case word of this ever gets out."

  Qank thought a moment—then it hit him.

  "You mean the 'cover story,' sir?"

  Zim just nodded. Qank had come dangerously close to correcting him.

  Qank began flipping through the previous handwritten pages.

  "Our friend says: 'If this transaction ever makes it into the public eye, our story will be that it was a secret third-party purchase of ten MiG-29 Fulcrums from an unnamed former Soviet republic.' "

  Zim gave a little shrug. "Plausible, I guess," he said. "Now, what about the gunship's crew—the surviving ones anyway?"

  Qank turned to another page. "They will be given a cash payment and then dispersed to the four winds."

  Zim showed agreement with this also. "And these odd special operations people?" he asked. "The ones in the funny helicopters. The ones so easily fooled. What will happen to them?"

  Qank hesitated a moment. It was true. The chopper-borne special operations troops had fallen for the fake-airplane ruse perfectly and completely, filling in several holes the man in Room 6 said had to be filled before the gunship could be sold off.

  And although the present location of the American chopper unit was not known at the moment, finding them would not be much of a problem—again, according to the man in Room 6. Indeed, since they had learned the chopper unit was in-country, they had followed the instructions of Zim's special hotel guest to the letter, and so far his plans and information had been flawless. Why would they doubt him now?

  So Qank said: "The man in Room 6 has come up with a rather creative solution as to what to do with these helicopter people. I can tell you his idea now, sir, or wait until it has been completed."

  "I'll wait," Zim replied. "It will make more pleasurable listening that way."

  Now came several long minutes of complete silence. All Qank could hear was Zim's labored breathing.

  Finally the big man came back to life.

  "All right, accept the offer," he declared. "I will miss my lovely gunship. But it has made us substantial sums in the past two years, and has served us well. Now, even in getting rid of it, it is giving us a big return. I think it's a good deal."

  "I agree, sir," Qank toadied. "Shall I let the man in Room 6 go ahead with the final arrangements then?"

  Zim simply nodded. "Yes, and be sure to thank him profusely for me. Send some nonalcoholic champagne to his room. I know he just loves that stuff."

  Qank did a deep bow. Time to get out.

  "As you wish, sir," he said, backing up.

  He was almost out the door when Zim cleared his throat—a signal that Qank should freeze.

  "One last thing," Zim said. "How is that cash payment going to be made?"

  Qank began sifting madly through the handwritten notes. He just hoped he could find the answer before Zim lost his notoriously short temper.

  He finally found the right page; it was covered with scribbling, obscene doodles, and many, many numbers. But at the bottom was the information Zim wanted to know.

  "The payment will be secured through a series of wire transactions," he began reading. "Through the usual avenues in the Cayman Islands, Hong Kong, and finally on to Zurich."

  To Qank's amazement, Zim actually laughed. A full, burst-out guffaw from the huge man was rather frightening.

  "Do you realize how I was paid the first time by these people who are now buying the gunship?" he asked Qank.

  The intel man numbly shook his head. Was Zim actually going to reminisce with him?

  "No, sir," Qank whispered.

  "It was back in the late seventies," Zim began, looking at the ceiling. "A minor transaction. An exchange of a SCUD missile for F-14 parts, coincidentally enough, with some money on the side. And those fools actually sent me a check! And a birthday cake! Can you believe it?"

  Qank started laughing now for real—not so much that some government would make payment to Zim for a back-alley arms deal by check, but that they would send him a birthday cake along with it.

  "I'm sure that won't happen this time," Qank told him. "After all, they are just buying back what was once theirs in the first place. I have to believe they will want to cover their tracks better than that."

  Zim laughed again.

  "Never underestimate the U.S. Government, Major," he said. "You never know what they'll do next."

  Chapter 26

  Over central Iraq

  Considering what it had been through, Truck One was flying just fine.

  The troop-carrying Halo stank of aviation fuel—the entire unit had smelled of gas since the mad rush to refuel the four choppers on the cliff. But the chopper was cruising along without a hint of trouble now, and for that Gene Smitz was grateful.

  He was shoehorned into a seat at the back of the chopper jammed up with half of the Team 66 Marines, most of the air techs, and two of the SEAL doctors. Most of his fellow passengers were asleep; the others were crowded around the chopper's windows, looking out for any trouble that might be following them.

  Meanwhile, Smitz was trying like crazy to get his NoteBook to work.

  They'd been airborne for about a half hour now, and it had been aces since their daring escape from the mountain. No one was following them. They'd received no SAM warnings or any warnings of hostile intent from the gro
und or the air.

  But Smitz knew this was definitely a temporary situation. Thus the wrestling match with his laptop.

  Since the mission began, he'd been receiving his orders directly from his office via the NoteBook. That was one of the beauties of the highly advanced machine. It had a remote modem and could connect him with his office no matter where he was in the world.

  Of course, he didn't know who was on the other end of the pipeline. He never received any direct replies to his situation reports—and that was slightly troubling. But his missives were always followed by more orders. That was why Smitz was so anxious to get through to his office now. He had to apprise them of the new situation, and ask for immediate orders in extracting the unit—something he just didn't have the authorization to do himself. He'd been waiting for a small green light to start blinking in the upper left-hand corner of his screen, telling him a line to Langley was secure and clear. Yet in nearly thirty minutes of trying, that little light was still solid red.

  He was distracted for a moment when he looked out the window to see Norton's Hind pull up in a protective position next to the Halo. Though they'd only been in-country two days, Smitz thought the Hind looked somewhat battered, used, as if it too was getting tired of this game. He also knew that its guns were nearly empty of ammo—the same with Delaney's machine. What's more, both Hinds were running on only half fuel. The rushed refueling job back on the mountain had given each of the four remaining choppers barely enough gas to get airborne and out of the immediate area, but not much more. Certainly not enough to reach friendly environs.

  That was another reason why Smitz had to get new orders very quickly. There would be no more fuel to be had for them—not with the Hook gone. And they couldn't just fly around Iraq forever. They needed an extraction plan now.

  So Smitz closed his eyes and for the first time in years, actually whispered a small prayer.