“Cheated death again.” Gillespie grinned at his copilot.
“There’s our passenger,” the copilot said, pointing at the English Army officer standing under the canopy.
Gillespie grunted and turned toward the cargo compartment. “Colonel Mackay, I think your exchange officer is waiting for you.”
E-Squared released his lap belt and made his way forward. “Smooth landing, kid.” He grinned. “Why don’t we hit the greasy spoon for something to eat while they refuel? A touch of civilization would be nice.” After exercising with Delta for three days in the field, the idea appealed to Gillespie.
“Why did you get tapped for this one?” Gillespie asked.
E-Squared shrugged. “I guess they wanted the Air Force represented. Mackay seems to think this guy is a high roller.” They jumped off the ramp at the end of the cargo compartment and headed for Mackay and their passenger.
“He’s only a captain,” Gillespie said.
“How can you tell?”
“The three pips on his epaulet,” Gillespie told him. “That’s the insignia for a captain in the English Army—I think.” They walked up to Mackay, who introduced them to the Englishman. Neither of the two Air Force officers were impressed with the man. He was nondescript, of average height and on the stocky side. The only feature that distinguished him were his cold blue-gray eyes. He wore a beige beret with an unusual device—it looked like a dagger with wings—and his khaki service dress uniform had been tailored to give him a well-turned-out appearance.
“Major Eberhard,” Mackay said, “I’d like you to meet Captain Peter Woodward.” Woodward snapped an open-handed salute. E-Squared returned it with his normal awkward wave that he tried to pass off as a salute. “Captain Woodward,” Mackay continued, “this is Captain Gillespie, our pilot.” Again, salutes were exchanged and Gillespie wondered why Mackay was being so correct in his introductions. This guy is only a captain, Gillespie reminded himself.
“We’ll be about forty-five minutes,” Gillespie explained, “while we refuel and refile. Then it’s a two-hour flight to Entebbe.”
The Englishman looked puzzled. “Entebbe,” Mackay explained, “is the name we’ve given to our training site.”
Gillespie and E-Squared excused themselves to take care of the paperwork and get something to eat. “You ever see that badge on his beret before?” Gillespie asked.
E-Squared shook his head. “He doesn’t look like much to me.”
“Yeah,” Gillespie agreed.
They discovered how wrong they were the next night.
The Pave Low MH-53 approached the clearing from the south, but this time no radio clearance was needed to land. The noise split the night air, and like a giant wasp, the helicopter settled into the small landing zone, its whirling, thirty-six-foot-long blades barely clearing the surrounding trees. The ramp at the rear of the aircraft was down and, before the wheels touched, twelve men piled out and disappeared into the dark, securing the perimeter. Then Mackay stepped off the back and waited. Quickly, the men reported in—the landing zone was secure. Gillespie cut the engines and silence came down. Gillespie, his copilot, and flight engineer ran a checklist, cocking the aircraft for a quick engine start and takeoff. Then they waited, ready to crank engines and launch on a moment’s notice.
E-Squared stuck his head onto the flight deck. “I mean to tell you, boy, flying this thing at night is an unnatural act. What do you tell your mother you do for a living?”
“Something respectable,” Gillespie answered, “like playing piano in a whorehouse.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” the Combat Talon pilot said. “Is that where you got the hicky?”
Gillespie touched the square bandage on the side of his neck. “It’s not a hicky.”
“You consorting with vampires then?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“The boy’s becoming a pree-vert,” E-Squared chortled as he disappeared out the back of the plane. He felt a definite urge to put his feet on solid earth. He didn’t like being an observer and would have preferred piloting his own plane, something respectable like an MC-130. But Colonel Mallard had insisted that he be familiar with every detail of the training going on with Delta and to keep him informed. He joined Mackay and checked his watch. “They’re late,” he said.
“They’ve got a twenty-minute window to rendezvous for the extraction,” Mackay explained. “We’re only two minutes into it.” The colonel tried to hide the worry in his voice. The exercise he had laid on was not that difficult. A team was to bring two individuals, one friendly and one a hostage, through a heavily wooded area at night to rendezvous for a helicopter extraction. Woodward had volunteered to be the hostage and Sergeant Dolores Villaneuva, the friendly. Mackay was now worried because he had told the British captain to “throw them a curve” and Woodward had allowed that he “would love to oblige.” Mackay found some comfort in the fact that Kamigami was part of the team.
“Hell,” Mackay said, more to himself than E-Squared, “Kamigami can carry him if he has to.” But there was no trace of the team and the radios were silent.
Seven minutes later, Mackay monitored a single radio transmission; something about closing in on the hostage. Then silence. Mackay’s worry increased—captors don’t normally “close in” on their hostage. A slight movement in the low brush near the helicopter caught Mackay’s attention. He motioned E-Squared to cover and moved away from the helicopter. Woodward stepped out of the brush and walked directly over to Mackay. “What in the hell happened?” Mackay asked.
“Incredibly loose security on the march,” Woodward explained, “so I escaped. But Sergeant Villaneuva was spot on. She slowed us down as expected.”
Mackay gritted his teeth. Well, he had told Woodward to throw them a curve. “How did you penetrate our perimeter?”
“One of your chaps was making a bloody great noise so I convinced him that he was dead.”
“Is he okay?”
“Of course. I trussed him up. He should work himself free in a few minutes.”
The radios came alive as the landing zone security guard cleared the missing team through the perimeter. Kamigami’s huge bulk was the first to materialize out of the darkness as he slowly made his way to the helicopter. When he joined the group, they could smell dampness. More of the men came straggling in. Many flopped to the ground, exhausted and bruised from the chase through the woods. The last of the team came in, carrying Villaneuva. “Thanks for the lift, fellas,” she told the men brightly. It was the first time she had been in the field with Delta and was enjoying herself.
“Believe me,” came the reply, “it wasn’t our pleasure.”
“What happened, Sergeant Major?” Mackay asked.
Kamigami didn’t answer at first as he considered his answer. “Captain Woodward managed to escape,” he explained.
“Like fuckin’ Houdini,” a voice from the ground said.
“And we couldn’t recapture him,” Kamigami continued, ignoring the comment. “At one point, I thought I had him trapped against a river, but without backup from my team”—he paused for effect—” I was forced to take an unscheduled swim.” A stunned silence settled over the man. They could not believe what they were hearing.
“Swim?” Mackay asked.
“To be exact, sir,” the big sergeant said, “Captain Woodward threw me in the river.”
Mackay stifled a smile, remembering another patrol in Malaysia. “He does have a penchant for that.” Mackay made a mental note to ask Kamigami in private how the captain had managed such a feat. It was a question the rest of Delta Force would be asking before too long.
“He was threshing around a bit,” Woodward said.
Kamigami said, “He told me I was making too much bloody noise and wouldn’t let me out until I promised I’d give him a head start.”
“Couldn’t let the chap drown,” Woodward allowed.
“He was holding on to me, sir,” Kamigami admitt
ed. “Otherwise, the current would’ve carried me away.”
“And you negotiated with him?” Mackay said, now totally incredulous. Kamigami’s legendary reputation was taking a severe hit.
“Yes, sir,” Kamigami replied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time since no one on the team had kept up during the chase.” That answered Mackay’s unspoken question as to what had happened to the rest of the men.
E-Squared couldn’t help himself. “Sounds like you got in over your head, Sergeant Major.” No one laughed.
“I think,” Mackay said, “that we had better find the hammock Captain Woodward tied up. I don’t think he’ll work himself free.” He detailed two men to follow Woodward and they set off while the security guard pulled in and the men climbed aboard the helicopter. Mackay pulled Kamigami aside. “What the hell happened out there, Sergeant Major? Why did you let him get away with it?”
“Sir, no one let him get away with anything. He made it happen.” There was respect in his voice.
“And what does all this prove?” Mackay snapped, frustrated with the turn of events. “And just what message do you think the men are getting?”
“It proves that there’s someone out there who’s a lot better than us. The message is that we”—Kamigami stressed the “we”—“have to get better. Fast.” The last word did not need emphasis.
How many times have we been over this, Mackay thought. He was sitting in the command tent at Entebbe reviewing the plan named Operation Loose Red with Mallard and Trimler. He was impressed with the two colonels and how they worked together and had mastered every detail of the planned operation on Chiang’s compound. Mackay glanced around the tent, trying to gauge the reactions of the other men who had gathered for a last review of the plan before they took it to Cagliari. The three Air Force pilots seemed more bored than concerned and Mackay could understand their feelings. Their part was uncomplicated and straightforward, which, in his opinion, was good.
The plan called for helicopters to insert two assault teams at separate landing zones. The LZs were set well back from Chiang’s compound so the helicopters could escape detection by Chiang’s air defense net. The teams would then move independently into position for the attack. The first assault team, Fastback, would be responsible for freeing the hostages while the other team, Bigboot, blasted holes in the wall and kept Chiang’s security forces occupied. Although Colonel Trimler seemed satisfied, a nagging worry keep itching at Mackay, demanding a scratching. Rather than fight it, he decided to ask Kamigami a direct question. “Sergeant Major, do you have any reservations?”
“As long as we can deliver maximum surprise with maximum violence, it will work,” Kamigami replied. “But to get the violence, we got to surprise them. The closest any chopper can get to the compound without being detected by radar is about twenty miles and that means Fastback and Bigboot have to make long overland infiltrations to get under Chiang’s air defenses. Plus we have to do it in the rain to sneak past his observation and listening posts on the ground. That’s going to take time. The longer we’re on the ground, the greater the chance for discovery. Then once we attack, I figure it’s got to be by the clock—in and out fast.”
Mackay glanced at Peter Woodward, trying to gauge his reaction to what Kamigami had said. It was the first time the British officer had seen the entire plan and Mackay wanted his opinion. While he had never come to terms with the vicious streak he had seen in Woodward during the interrogation of the three pirates in Malaysia, Mackay needed a coldblooded bastard like Woodward to help him. Woodward arched an eyebrow at him. “Captain Woodward,” Mackay said, “we would appreciate any comments you might have to offer.”
“Beat the clock and it should work,” Woodward said.
The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.
Heads turned and stared as Mazie Kamigami led the three officers through the halls of the Executive Office Building to the secure conference room where they would meet with the national security adviser. There was a brief pause when she held the door open and the men waited for her to enter first. She sighed and waddled in ahead of them. Once inside, Mackay could see the northeast corner of the White House through the windows. “Well, Colonel,” Mazie said, “welcome back.”
“Not for long I hope,” Mackay said. “By the way, your father sends his best and says he hopes to be in town this weekend.”
Mazie gave another mental sigh—that was her father, a man of few words and more than willing to let others pass messages on to her. Family togetherness by rumor, she thought. Nothing had changed. She settled into a chair. “You ready to sell it to the boss?”
“Loose Red is ready to go,” Mackay assured her.
“Where do you get these names?” she asked.
“The Pentagon has a computer that spits out random names for exercises or operations so the name won’t serve as a tip-off to the objective.”
“Oh, like Desert Storm or Just Cause.”
“Well,” Mackay admitted, “sometimes politics does get involved.”
National Security Adviser Cagliari walked in. “Good morning,” he said, sitting down. “What do you have?”
“Good morning, sir,” Mazie replied. She introduced Mallard and Trimler to her boss. “The situation with Chiang is still very fluid,” she told him. “The DEA has evidence that the Colombian and Japanese drug cartels are forming an alliance with Chiang called the Consortium. The DEA estimates that between the three, they will control over half the world’s heroin production along with all the major distribution nets and approximately seventy percent of the cocaine traffic.”
“Anything from Willowbranch?” he asked.
“Willowbranch confirms it and reports that the leaders of the two cartels are scheduled to meet with Chiang in his compound in the near future. No firm date as of yet.” She went over the details of the latest report.
“What an opportunity,” Trimler said, unable to contain himself. “We initiate the attack when they are there.”
“Chiang has some formidable resources available to him,” Mallard reminded Trimler.
“True,” Trimler shot back, all eagerness. “But look at his guests. If I were Chiang, I’d have my forces more aligned for internal security so they would feel secure from each other. We go in and there will be so much confusion as to who’s doing what to who that we will be well inside their reaction cycle. By the time they get it sorted out, we’re out of there. Hell”—Trimler grinned—“we might even be able to service a few of the bastards.”
“What does that mean?” Mazie asked.
“The good colonel means,” Mackay explained, “that it is an opportunity to put a well-placed bullet into a few brains.”
“Anything else new?” Cagliari asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mazie said. “We received confirmation that the earring found on the body thrown over the embassy’s wall in Bangkok was Heather Courtland’s. This is getting very weird. Does Chiang want us to know that he has Heather?”
“Chiang is one the most devious and clever bastards that I have run across,” Cagliari said. “My best guess is that he’s inputting noise into the system. Treat it that way.”
“‘Noise’?” Mallard asked.
Now it was Mazie’s turn to explain. “‘Noise’ is information that masks the important facts.”
“I see, the fake stuff,” Mallard said.
“Nothing fake about it at all,” Mazie told him. “Because noise is valid, we have to analyze it to determine if it’s relevant. That’s what makes this job so frustrating—too much noise. In this case, we’re going to ignore it.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Cagliari told them. “I want to see what you’ve come up with to rescue Heather Courtland.”
Twenty minutes later, Cagliari made his decision. “I think we need to take this to the President.”
The men and Mazie were standing behind their chairs in the White House’s Situation Room when Pontowski entered. Leo Cox, his chief of staff, introd
uced Mallard and Trimler before Mackay presented the plan called Loose Red. When he was finished, Pontowski said nothing and stared at the largescale map Mackay had used for his presentation.
“He’s got to be expecting us,” Pontowski finally said. “Without surprise this could backfire and turn into a disaster.” He paused, recalling the lessons of Eagle Claw, the abortive attempt to rescue the fifty-two Americans held hostage in the United States embassy in Teheran. Eagle Claw had spelled the end of the Carter administration. Then he remembered another raid years before: a raid that no one in this room had ever heard of. Was he about to repeat history? So be it, he thought. But it saddened him that the crisp, clear call to duty that he had felt before was missing.
“How is Special Operations Command progressing with their plan to rescue the hostages?” the President asked.
“It’s ready,” Cagliari answered. “As expected, it’s a massive attack with Stealth fighters leading the way to take out the radars and surface-to-air missiles followed by a vertical envelopment.”
“If we go in like that, the hostages will be dead by the time we get to them,” Cox predicted.
Pontowski made his decision. “We’ll do this one by the book. Place Loose Red under the operational control of USSOCOM.” He rose to leave. Then another thought came to him. “I would like to change the name Loose Red to Operation Jericho.” He disappeared out the door.
“And the walls came tumbling down,” Mallard quipped.
“That’s probably what he was thinking of,” Cagliari replied.
Mazie sat frozen to her chair, trying to calm the rolling emotions that beat at her, threatening to break like a tidal wave over the breakwaters that kept her safe. Oh, Pop, she thought to herself, matching a face to the cutting edge that was now called Jericho.
1943
RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, England
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