Mission Liberty

by David DeBatto

  “You being ironic?”

  “Nothing personal,” DeLuca said.

  As the van sped toward the sea, DeLuca turned and saw that the troop transport had backed up and was following them. He opened fire, as did Vasquez beside him, but the Isuzu was veering and careening around or across potholes at a speed that prevented firing with any accuracy.

  “Any time, Pred One,” DeLuca said into his radio. “Let’s lose the tail.”

  The AGM-114B Hellfire was a laser-guided solid propellant missile, five feet four inches long, seven in diameter, with a weight of about one hundred pounds and a warhead capable of defeating any tank made. The M-113 following the van was no match for it, the subsonic rocket penetrating the front windshield on the passenger side, where the captain in the red beret was sitting, before blasting the vehicle into a million flaming particles.

  “I’ll bet that lit his cigar,” Hoolie said.

  Zoulalian, taking directions via his headset, turned left when the falcon view from INMARSAT told him the street connecting to the beach road was blocked up ahead by an overturned vehicle that was burning. He was instructed to turn right at the next intersection, but when he did, he stopped when a pair of “technicals” came into view, two Toyota pickup trucks, one green, one white, with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in the back. A rebel in the green truck opened fire as Zoulalian hit the brakes, backing up to speed forward again on the street he’d tried to turn from. The green truck followed while the white truck raced parallel to them, firing at them whenever there was a gap between the houses, doubtless causing serious collateral damage with rounds that didn’t make it through the gaps. DeLuca shot at the truck behind them, though the road was so uneven with potholes, exposed cobblestones, and eroded excavations that it was impossible to steady his aim, and he knew he was firing more for demonstration than effect. The rebel soldier manning the machine gun looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, but for all DeLuca knew, he’d been fighting half his life.

  “What do we have?” he called to support. “Taking fire.”

  “Stay your course,” command and control came back. “Minneapolis has it.”

  He estimated their speed to be fifty or sixty miles an hour. As the next intersection loomed, he turned toward the sea. With the green truck bearing down on them from behind, slowing down was not an option. At the intersection, beyond the corner house, he looked down the street, his weapon ready. He saw the sea, and then he saw the white truck appear, and then he saw it launched into the sky when a shell from one of the destroyer’s six-inch guns struck it. The van was through the intersection before DeLuca had a chance to see the truck land.

  “Nice shot, Minneapolis,” he said.

  “We’ll give the computer an assist on that one,” a voice in his headset said. “Apache Three at your back door.” He turned in time to see the AH-64D Longbow attack helicopter descending on the green truck, closing the distance rapidly. A burst from the Apache’s M230 chain gun, mounted beneath the fuselage, sent a stream of 30mm rounds down the center of the green Toyota, which veered suddenly into a wall before flipping and barrel-rolling on its side a half dozen rotations before coming to rest on its collapsed roof.

  The Apache climbed quickly, at low altitudes an easy target for shoulder-fireds and RPGs.

  “You’re three blocks beyond the take-out point,” DeLuca heard in his headset. “Come back, come back three!”

  Zoulalian turned right, then right again onto the street that paralleled the beach, racing past a row of fish vendors and an open-air bar, speeding another block before turning left at a marine repair shop when the way ahead was barricaded by a pair of overturned cars. He threaded his way between overturned brightly colored fishing boats and turned right again once he hit the beach, the van fishtailing and slowing as the sand grabbed at the tires. The way ahead was clear, until DeLuca saw a man rise from the sand and wave his arms at them to stop.

  “Navy SEAL, Navy SEAL!” he heard in his earpiece as Zoulalian hit the brakes. “Claymores directly in front of you—do not proceed!”

  Team Red spilled from the van, MacKenzie staying by the ambassador’s side, while DeLuca gazed seaward, where he saw the destroyer USS Minneapolis, and closer in, the LST from which the helicopters had launched. The USS Lyndon Johnson, the aircraft carrier that was their final destination, cruised beyond the horizon.

  The SEAL stood in the sand, pointing to a spot at his feet and gesturing with his arm for the team to approach.

  DeLuca turned the binoculars up the beach, in the direction of the soccer stadium and presidential palace. He saw, perhaps a thousand yards off, several hundred rebel troops running as fast as they could in his direction. When he turned 180 degrees and looked toward the castle, he saw another group of rebel soldiers, larger than the first, headed their way.

  “Det cord, right here,” the SEAL said, clearing away the sand to show DeLuca and the others where he’d buried a line of explosive detonating cord, capable of killing anyone who stepped on it or tripped over it. The drab green cord, about the thickness of a cotton clothesline, was rigged to a half dozen Claymore mines, stuck into the sand on tripods with the curved side facing the approaching rebels, capable, when detonated, of killing anybody within one hundred feet in a ninety-degree arc. DeLuca assumed the SEAL team that had prepared the take-out point had mined the beach in the opposite direction as well.

  “Lieutenant John Riley,” the SEAL said. “Step over the cord and follow me. Do you have wounded?”

  “We’re good,” DeLuca said, as a rocket-propelled grenade fired by one of the rebel soldiers destroyed the Isuzu behind them. Pieces of shrapnel rained down around them, a rear wheel rolling down the beach and curving into the sea. Then a machine gun opened fire from the rooftop of a four-story beachfront apartment building. DeLuca fired on the machine-gun position, joined by the SEAL with his M-5, chromed against corrosion from seawater and vented to drain.

  To the west, DeLuca saw palm tree after palm tree splinter and fall, mowed down like blades of grass by the incoming rounds as the Minneapolis opened up with all its guns, six-inch and eight-inch shells raining down with incredible precision. A pair of F14 Tomcats crisscrossed in the sky above them, strafing the beach in either direction as the Apache they’d seen before returned to send a fire-and-forget wave-seeking Hellfire at the automatic weapon on the apartment building roof, taking it out with the first shot.

  Down the beach, a pair of SEALs rose from the surf, gesturing for DeLuca and his party to join them.

  “It’s too dangerous to land a craft but once you’re in the water, your target profile is minimal,” Riley explained. “Mr. Ambassador, are you a strong swimmer?”

  The ambassador shook his head.

  Riley handed him a float vest from his pack and told him to put it on, while the others jettisoned their gear, dropping it in the surf that crashed all around them. DeLuca was happy to lose the tie.

  “SEAL four, five, six, and seven, need your help,” Riley barked into his radio, and in an instant, four other SEALs in scuba gear rose from the water where they’d hidden, submerged.

  “Sorry we’re late,” DeLuca said as the Apache circled back to strafe the beach in the direction of the presidential palace. “Traffic was bad.”

  “That’s all right,” Riley said. “Any chance I get to work on my tan is always appreciated. We’re not used to doing this in daylight.” The second and third SEALs held remote detonators, one looking west, the other east. Riley regarded the screen on his handheld, which showed infrared satellite images of the approaching rebels.

  “We should go,” he said, extending his arm and pointing into the sea.

  The water was warm, rising in broad swells beyond the breakers. Each member of the team had a Navy swimmer as a partner, Lieutenant Riley taking the ambassador by the back of his vest and pulling him forward. DeLuca turned briefly when he heard an explosion on the beach where a rebel soldier had tried to cross the hinter line, which the
SEALs had also mined. Three rebels streaked in through the beach, firing on them with AK-47s.

  “Don’t worry about it,” his SEAL swim partner said. “Hitting a person this far out is like shooting at a coconut.”

  Then the Minneapolis put a round on the beach, directly in front of the shooting rebels, and when the smoke cleared, DeLuca saw only body parts.

  One hundred fifty yards from shore, the SEALs directed them to form a line and hold their right arms in the air. A PBR fastboat appeared, its .60-caliber deck gun blazing toward shore. A SEAL in a Zodiac tethered to the starboard side dropped rings attached to lines over their arms, at which point they closed their arms over the rings, and then the PBR yanked them out of the water one by one, never slowing to less than five knots. Two SEALs with arms the size of buffalo haunches hauled them into the Zodiac and helped them roll into the fastboat. When the last man was out of the water, the PBR throttled up, hydroplaning at fifty knots as it sped toward the waiting LST, bouncing across the waves.

  DeLuca gazed astern. He saw plumes of black smoke rising above the city, several buildings on fire in the neighborhood beyond where the Castle of St. James sat atop its mount. A single CH-47 Chinook flew toward the carrier.

  Over the radio, DeLuca learned that the Marines holding the castle had lost a “jolly” on liftoff to a rocket-propelled grenade, taking three casualties in the process before the flight crew and passengers could be transferred to the remaining helicopter. He passed the news on to the ambassador, who’d said very little since leaving the castle.

  “Believe it or not,” DeLuca said, “it looks like we took the easy way out.”

  “Agent DeLuca, I’m recommending you for the Congressional Medal of Honor,” the ambassador said. “I believe your conduct today has been absolutely outstanding.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” DeLuca said. Evidently the ambassador had no idea what the Medal of Honor was for. “I’m not being humble. The more attention I get, the harder it is for me to do my job.”

  “Then I’ll buy you a beer,” the ambassador said.

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink,” DeLuca said. The fact was, DeLuca drank as much as the next guy, but if the next guy was going to be Ambassador Ellis, he’d pass. They were paying him to rescue the guy, but they couldn’t pay him enough to like him.

  Chapter Two

  DELUCA AND HIS TEAM CHANGED INTO DRY clothes aboard the LST, the USS Cowper, then choppered to the USS Lyndon Johnson, to debrief and await transport to a British base in Ghana, where they would, if everything went according to plan, catch a flight home.

  DeLuca knew, when he saw his friend, General Phillip LeDoux, waiting for him in the briefing room aboard the Johnson, that the plan was about to change. They were joined by a dozen others, including the captains of the Johnson, the Cowper, and its sister ship the Glover, two admirals, a Marine four-star, an Army two-star, Ambassador Ellis, and a handful of civilians DeLuca knew he’d be introduced to soon enough. He saluted his friend. At the time that they’d both been accepted to OCS, DeLuca’s ratings were higher than LeDoux’s, but DeLuca had chosen to go in another direction. LeDoux’s career vector had been the proverbial skyrocket, distinguishing himself in Panama, Gulf One, Kosovo, and Iraqi Freedom. Sometimes DeLuca wondered if somebody was trying to slow LeDoux down, putting him in charge of counterintelligence. “Why do they have you watching over guys like me?” he’d asked his friend, who’d replied, “Because it’s the toughest job in the Army and I’m the only bastard up to the task.” In mixed company, DeLuca saluted, but between the two of them, they were as equal as a three-star general and a chief warrant officer could be.

  Night had fallen. Given that DeLuca had been up for nearly twenty-four hours, planning the day’s mission, which they’d launched before getting official approval, he accepted LeDoux’s offer of coffee with gratitude.

  “Navy coffee any better than Army coffee?” he asked.

  “Light-years,” LeDoux said. “This is Starbucks. The LBJ is subcontracting with ’em on a trial basis. Army still has KBR.”

  “I didn’t expect so many important people to show up, just to hear me describe my day,” DeLuca said.

  “They didn’t,” LeDoux said, stating the obvious. “This isn’t about you.”

  “You sound like my wife.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not going home just yet.”

  “I was afraid of that, too,” DeLuca said.

  At the last minute, a half dozen civilians entered the room. DeLuca recognized two, one a senator from California, the other a representative from Florida. The others were either congressmen he didn’t recognize or their aides—it was, no doubt, a fact-finding commission of some sort. DeLuca wondered what part he was going to play in the dog and pony show.

  “Gentlemen,” the LBJ’s captain said, a man named McKinley who DeLuca had been told was a distant relation to the former President McKinley. “If we could all be seated, we’ll get started. As your host, please let me know if there’s anything I can get you. There are drinks and light snacks in the captain’s mess afterward for anybody who’s still hungry, and I apologize for the late hour, but we wanted to wait until Ambassador Ellis could attend. Mr. Ambassador, welcome aboard.”

  “Captain,” the ambassador said.

  The table was large, oval, made of teak, with a glass of water, a black three-ring binder containing a report, and a notepad and pen at each position. The carrier’s captain stood in front of a seventy-two-inch plasma screen, mounted on the wall behind him, and on it, a map of Liger, divided into three sections. He also had a laptop on the table in front of him.

  “We’ve got some special visitors who I’d like to introduce first, and then I’ll let General Kissick introduce the others. We have with us tonight, just flown in from Washington, Senators Todd and Morelli, Representatives Lacey, Stephens, and Hokum, and their aides.”

  Each member of the delegation nodded when Captain McKinley said his or her name. DeLuca shot LeDoux a look, but LeDoux didn’t respond.

  “They’re here to find out the latest intel regarding Operation Liberty and to get a sense of our preparedness,” McKinley said. “We welcome you, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard. Please let me know personally if there’s anything I can do to make you comfortable. Now I’ll turn the floor over to General Kissick. He’ll get you up to speed.”

  The Marine general, wearing his DCUs, was a slender man with close-cropped hair and a voice that sounded more like a high school math teacher than a more typical boo-ya Semper Fi jarhead—he sounded more like an accountant than what DeLuca expected a Marine general to sound like.

  “I know some of you have already been fully briefed but some haven’t,” Kissick said, “so those who have been, bear with me, and the rest of you are going to have to drink from the fire hose on this. Most of the names and facts I’m going to give you are in the report in front of you. Those of you freshly arrived from Washington have no doubt been reading the newspapers as well as the official briefings. My name is General John Kissick, United States Marines. Why don’t we go around the table and introduce ourselves.”

  “Admiral Donovan Webster, Sixth Carrier Group, Task Force 32,” the man to Kissick’s immediate right said. He was about fifty, with fair hair and a default facial expression that stopped just short of a smirk. “We’re here to provide close air and missile support.”

  “Rear Admiral Stanley Pulaski, Task Group 32.5,” the next man said. He was smaller in stature than Webster and a few years older, balding, with round wire-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows that made him look a bit like a troll. “We’re here to put the Marines on the beach, or wherever they need to go. I believe we have a number of Army Rangers who are going to need taxis, too.”

  “Captain Henry Long, with the Cowper,” the next man said. He looked as if he was barely out of his twenties, clean-shaven to the point that DeLuca wondered if he could grow a beard if he tried.

  “Captain Alan Gates, with the Glover,” said the man
next to him, early forties, handsome, good posture, hair beginning to gray above the ears.

  “Wes Chandler, CIA station chief for Liger,” the next man said. Chandler was corpulent and pasty, like a hairless rat on an unlimited cheese budget. DeLuca’s first thought was that for a station chief in Africa, Chandler didn’t appear to get out and about much. “I’ll be the general travel advisor.”

  “General Phil LeDoux,” DeLuca’s friend said. “Commander G-2, DOD Ops Intel.”

  It was DeLuca’s turn.

  “Special Agent David DeLuca, U.S. Army counterintelligence,” he said, “and as far as I can tell, I’m just here in case you need to send somebody out for pizza.”

  “A bit more than that,” Kissick said, after the laughter died down, “but all in good time.”

  The man next to DeLuca introduced himself as Hanson Sedu-Sashah, assistant to United Nations general secretary Kofi Annan and the UN’s liaison with General Rene LeClerc, commander of the UN peacekeeping forces in Liger. “I am Ghanaian,” he said, “but I know a bit about Liger, if you have questions.”

  The man next to him introduced himself as Hans Berger, with WAOC, the acronym for the West African Oil Consortium. “My group includes Dutch Shell, Exxon-Mobil, Chevron-Texaco, and Agip. I am here only to listen, but I can also answer any questions you might have about the oil industry in Liger.”

  “Lionel Ayles-Kensey,” the next man said, his Britishness given away by both his accent and his bad teeth. “British foreign service. My family had a farm outside Baku Da’al until the locals had enough of the Brits and threw us out in ’62. I could give you a bit of historical background, I suppose, but I’d better not speak for the prime minister—I believe General Denby was going to be here for that…”