by John Weisman
Mucci assembled his intelligence from sparse aerial photographs, as well as from local resistance fighters and reports from an American unit known as the Alamo Scouts. But it was sketchy at best—which hadn’t allowed the Rangers to practice their assault. And so, on-scene and behind enemy lines, Mucci made a tough call: he would delay the attack by one day in order to gather more intelligence and gauge the enemy’s strength.
That decision, Ritzik believed, proved to be the deciding factor. In the ensuing twenty-four hours, Mucci’s forces initiated multiple (and successful) reconnaissance missions of the camp and its guards. By January 29, Colonel Mucci had made detailed sketches of the Japanese compound, allowing the Rangers to rehearse their moves.
The attack on Pangatian was executed at dusk. Twenty-four hours later, Mucci had rescued 512 Bataan death-march survivors and evacuated them safely through hostile territory to the American lines. And while he and his Soldiers killed more than five hundred of the enemy, the operation cost him only two of his Rangers: Captain James C. Fisher, the Ranger doctor, and Corporal Roy Sweezy. More: he accomplished it all with nothing more than basic aerial photographs, good orienteering, and labor-intensive, eyes-on, sneak-and-peek ground reconnaissance—no GPS units; no satellites; no computer technology.
These days, a cow can hardly break wind anywhere in the world without a satellite, or a sensor, or a UAV analyzing the methane content. But there is a downside to this information avalanche: there is so much data coming in that timely analysis and distribution often becomes impossible. This results in the unfortunate situation known as garbage in, garbage in.
Ritzik first came to this judgment in Afghanistan. There were so many satellites, so many Predator and Global Hawk UAVs, so many U-2 and Aurora 16 stealth flights, and other SIGINT, TECHINT, PHOTINT, and ELINT vacuums sweeping up information, that the bosses back in Tampa were rendered incapable of making simple yes/no, or go/no-go decisions.
Very early on in the campaign, for example, one of the CIA’s Hellfire missile–carrying Predator UAVs actually spotted the Taliban leader, Mullah Omar, himself. But by the time this info-bit was filtered through the multiple management layers of CENTCOM’s captains, majors, lieutenant colonels, colonels, generals, and the all-important Judge Advocate General (JAG) legal cadre, it was too late to do anything about it. And so, Omar-baby escaped to fight another day.
It was, Ritzik therefore concluded, just as dangerous to be presented with too many options as too few. Both were limiting.
Ritzik knew that good intelligence, like a dependable weapon, was one of the better tools he had at his disposal. But it was just that: another tool. It wasn’t a crutch, or a panacea.
The essence of unconventional warfare would always boil down to one fundamental element: Warriordom, the deeply ingrained will and fierce determination of Soldiers to use the holy trinity of speed, surprise, and violence of action to prevail against great odds. Full stop. End of story.
And that’s the way it would play out in Xinjiang. If he and his people were able to overcome their initial vulnerabilities and achieve what the SpecWar historians called “relative superiority” over the larger guerrilla force, then in all likelihood they’d be able to complete the mission successfully. No sophisticated, complex op plans, either. Just basic, no-frills, straight-ahead, in-your-face Soldiering.
Warriordom was the heart of Ranger School, and the even tougher Delta Selection course. The weeks of physical and mental anguish were a crucible of pain in which SpecWarriors were forged. The hardship and the severe crescendo of challenges were deliberate. Their goal was to make the Soldier-candidates demonstrate to themselves that they could put out 200 percent more exertion, concentration, and tenacity than they ever thought they could.
Ritzik had entered Delta’s Selection with 159 other men. When it was over, a mere three were accepted into the Unit. The process, which was designed by Delta’s founder, Colonel Charlie Beckwith, and based closely on the British SAS Selection process, has not been altered since the very first volunteers showed up at Fort Bragg back in the late 1970s. Delta Selection proved conclusively to Ritzik that no physical or mental obstacle—not cold, or fatigue, or stress; not topography, or water, or even a determined and dedicated enemy—could ever keep him from completing, and prevailing, in his mission.
That fundamental truth about himself and the Soldiers he worked with was what kept Ritzik on track. He knew that to succeed, at some point he’d have to suck up the pain, overcome the crises, and Drive On, just the way he’d done during Selection, or Colonel Henry Mucci had done during the assault on Cabanatuan. And if Mr. Murphy showed up and the going got rough? Then he and his Soldiers would grit their teeth, say FIDO—Fuck It, Drive On—and grind it out. FIDO: surmount any physical obstacles in their way. FIDO: get close without being seen. FIDO: sneak and peek to ascertain the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. FIDO: attack with utter ferocity and kill as many of the enemy as they could. FIDO: disable the MADM and get the hell out with the American prisoners.
10
Room 3E880-D, the Pentagon.
1912 Hours Local Time.
ROBERT ROCKMAN pulled the heavy secure telephone across the top of the desk in his hideaway office and dialed a similar instrument on a desk at the Navy Command Center, a bustling warren of windowless, interconnected offices on the fourth floor’s D-ring. Once the phone rang with its unique monotone, he pushed the button that enabled the encryption and voice-distortion devices. And didn’t begin to speak until the red light on the phone receiver had turned green. When it did, Rockman barked, “This is Mr. Rogers at OSD.17 Get me O’Neill.”
Captain Hugh O’Neill, USNA ‘86, was one of eight “sweat hogs,” or action officers, at the Command Center, working twelve-hour shifts to track naval movements and crises worldwide. At zero eight hundred, just over twelve hours ago, he’d been abruptly seconded to the secretary’s personal staff on a temporary additional duty, or TAD, assignment. At 0805 O’Neill had been ushered into the secretary’s hideaway, where he was presented with a file folder diagonally striped in orange, on top of which sat an SCI—sensitive compartmented information—secrecy form and a Parker ball pen with the seal of the secretary of defense engraved on its gold-plated cap.
The secretary said, “Sign the form, Captain. Then read the file. You can keep the pen.”
O’Neill didn’t have to be asked twice.
The compartment was called SKYHORSE-PUSHPIN. O’Neill’s assignment was to track the Chinese military’s reaction to a provocative wave of unscheduled American reconnaissance flights and naval ship movements, and report as necessary to the secretary. He was to work his network of fellow sweat hogs and his contacts in the other uniformed services and intelligence agencies to elicit information without advising his sources as to its ultimate destination. He would act with absolute discretion. He would write nothing down. And he would deliver his findings only after he had asked for and received the Skyhorse recognition signal from the secretary.
Rockman waited out a fifteen-second delay. Then he heard: “This is Captain O’Neill.”
“This is OSD—Mr. Rogers.”
O’Neill said: “Signal?”
Rockman said, “Skyhorse-Pushpin.” He paused. “What do we know, Hugo?”
“They’re pinging us, sir, no doubt about it.”
“Good.” That meant the Chinese had taken the bait. “What’s the evidence?”
“I’ll call you back from the SCBF in two minutes with that information, sir.” The NCC’s SCBF—the acronym stood for sensitive compartmented information facility—was a small, bug-proof room with a thick door and a cipher lock at the very end of the maze of Command Center offices.
Rockman replaced the receiver in its cradle and waited. Thirty seconds later the phone squalled once. He picked the receiver up and repeated both the encryption process and the code-word recognition signal. “Sit-rep, Hugo.”
“Naval Air confirms six close-quarters intercepts of our routine surv
eillance aircraft in the past eight hours. A message from COMPAC details two Chinese ELINT trawlers moving in the straits of Taiwan. My colleagues at DIA are reporting huge military message traffic surges. And Rear Admiral Taylor, our naval attaché in Beijing, has just been summoned to the Defense Ministry at ten hundred hours Beijing time—that’s about an hour from now, sir—to explain what the Chinese are calling our ‘highly provocative moves in Chinese territorial waters.’”
“I love it.” Rockman slapped his palms together then rubbed them. “Anything else?”
“The Air Force’s Command Center is tracking unanticipated PLA flights out of the Beijing and Guangzhou military districts.”
Rockman said, “Hmm.”
“Sir?”
“Any details?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. A flight of three HIP-H transport choppers and two HIND-D gunships flying cover moved out of Beijing early this morning.”
‘Transport choppers with gunship cover. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The hair on the back of Rockman’s head stood up. But he didn’t betray his concern. “You’re positive?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. There was also a flight of eight J-7D Fishbed fighters that flew out of Guangzhou, heading south.”
Rockman kept his voice neutral. “Keep me posted if there are any further developments from the Navy. You might as well keep tracking the Air Force, too.” He made a quick note. “I’ll be here at least until midnight, Hugo—which means you will, too.”
Rockman slapped the receiver down without waiting for a response. He paused five seconds, then dialed a second number, repeating the encryption process before speaking. When he saw the green light, he said, “Nick—this is Rocky. Give me the latest on what the Chinese are up to—and don’t try to hand me a load of your usual smoke-and-mirrors political analysis or hand me any horse-puckey about what sensitive information you can and can’t talk to me about.”
20 Kilometers Northeast of Almaty, Kazakhstan.
0900 Hours Local Time.
MIKE RITZIK was pissed. That was an understatement. Mike Ritzik was royally pissed. Royally pissed at Rowdy Yates because the sergeant major hadn’t filled him in. And even more royally pissed at himself because he hadn’t even noticed until he was introducing the men to Wei-Liu.
What had escaped his attention was the presence of a lanky, red-haired warrant officer named Michael Dunne. Dunne had no business being in Kazakhstan. He was the chopper pilot from Task Force 160 at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, whom Ritzik had selected to extract the Delta element from China. But Dunne’s mission had been scrubbed. Given the PLA’s involvement, there was no way Ritzik was going to use a helicopter to extract his people and the CIA officers. Odds were, the Chinese would provide their troops tactical air support. Against fighter aircraft, the slow-flying MH-60 would be a sitting duck. And yet Dunne was in Almaty. And it was Fred Yates who had brought him.
Ritzik finally found the time to pull Rowdy aside. “Rowdy, we gotta talk.” He’d learned a long time ago never to wire-brush a man in front of the troops.
The pair of them walked to the far end of the warehouse. When they were out of earshot, Ritzik jerked his thumb toward Dunne. “Why the hell is he here?”
“Who?”
“Goddammit, Rowdy—”
“Mickey D? He’s here because I want him here, Loner.”
Ritzik crossed his arms. “I scrubbed him, Sergeant Major,” he said, the use of Yates’s rank a sign of displeasure. “You agreed.”
Yates reached into the left thigh pocket of his cargo pants and withdrew a tin container of snuff. He took a pinch, stuffed it between his cheek and his lower jaw, wiped his fingers off on his trouser leg, then closed the container and replaced it. “That was how we left it, Major,” Rowdy said. “But, I got to thinking after your last call.”
“I love you like a brother, Rowdy, but you’re pissing me off.”
“Hear me out, boss. We train differently than most units. We cross-train, just like Special Forces. But we add a lot more esoteric specialties. We learn to pick locks and bypass alarm systems. We can hot-wire everything from cars to locomotives. I brought ten men—we have twelve with you and me, thirteen with the lady. Between us, there’s nothing we can’t do. You want to stage our exfil using a combine harvester? Shep can drive one—and he can also perform a minor operation, because he’s cross-trained with Doc Masland. And Doc’s not just a dicksmith, he’s a sniper, because he’s cross-trained with Ty Weaver. And Ty can handle just about any heavy machinery we come across.” Yates spat into the polystyrene cup in his right hand. “Are you receiving yet?”
“Not really.”
“So what happens if we need to steal a plane instead of a combine harvester, boss?” He spat again. “When I went up to Dam Neck last month, I found out there are four enlisted men at Dev Group who have pilots’ licenses. They told me they paid for their own training, by the way, because Navy SpecWar officers don’t believe enlisted men should be allowed to touch aircraft controls. That’s neither here nor there. What is, is that Sword Squadron currently doesn’t have a single pilot—officer or enlisted.”
“And you concluded we need one out here.”
“Frankly, yes,” Rowdy said. “We used to have half a dozen people with pilots’ licenses, and guys were always going to flight school in their spare time. That guy Dean Williams who retired last year was qualified to fly multi-engine jet aircraft. But lately we’ve been so busy no one’s had the time to take the courses, and no pilots have come through Selection.” Yates spat into his plastic cup. “Mickey D brought it up when I told him he was scrubbed. He’s got a pilot’s license. What if the shit hits the fan and we have to get out using an aircraft, Major? Bottom line is, the more I thought about what Mickey D said, the more it made sense.”
Ritzik said: “Does he have the quals?”
“I don’t know if he’d make it through Selection,” Yates said.
“Well …”
“That’s not the point. Doing this particular job is the point. Look—he’s a runner. He completed the Marine marathon last year. And he took the MFF HALO-HAHO 18 parachute course at Marana four months ago.”
“All eight jumps?”
“Roger that. He has the quals.”
“That’s fourteen people, Rowdy—plus the four spooks. Eighteen is a lot to move around.”
“I know, Loner.” Yates used his improvised spittoon. “I’m just thinking about flexibility in the field. I want us to have as many options as possible.”
“You probably brought everything he’d need, didn’t you?”
“ ‘Be Prepared,’ isn’t that the Boy Scouts’ marching song?” Yates growled. “You let me take care of the details.”
1020. “Loner—call for you. Some guy claiming to be secretary of defense.” Bill Sandman wasn’t a big man, but he had an aggressive edge to him and a raspy, gravel-toned voice that came from two packs of Marlboros a day for more than twenty-five years. He swiveled Ritzik’s chair away from the computer screen, pointed it toward the STU-?? satellite phone, and gave a gentle shove.
Ritzik rolled to the phone and picked it up. “Ritzik.”
“Major.” The satellite connection mildly distorted Robert Rockman’s distinctive voice.
“Sir.”
“How’s it going?”
“So far so good.”
“Glad to hear it. The president wants an update, so sit-rep me.”
“We are on schedule, sir. I’m planning our departure at seventeen-thirty local time.”
“Any chance you can go earlier?”
“Not really, sir. Any reason why we should?” Ritzik’s question was greeted by silence. “Mr. Secretary?”
Rockman hesitated. “I just got off the phone with Nick Pappas. Major General Zhou Yi’s air unit departed Beijing at zero eight hundred this morning.”
Ritzik hadn’t known, which disturbed the hell out of him, because he was supposed to be getting r
eal-time intelligence dumps from Langley. Christ, the CIA was still stovepiping its precious information. “That’s a full day ahead of schedule.”
“I know, Major.”
“What’s their ETA at Changii?”
“Langley says the earliest would be about eighteen hundred tomorrow, local time.”
“How did they arrive at that?”
“Major?”
“Is Langley tracking them? Because if they are, we’re getting none of it.”
“You’re breaking up,” Rockman said.
Ritzik said, “If Langley’s tracking them, sir, we need the info out here now.”
There was static on the line. Then the secretary’s voice, sounding metallic, said, “I don’t think they are, Major.”
Ritzik found Rockman’s reply troubling. “Mr. Secretary?”
“I asked Nick. The son of a bitch said there’s some sort of problem with cloud cover between Beijing and Taiyuan. He said his analysts are working off statistical models.”
“Jeezus.” Ritzik didn’t like that at all. The problem was basic: statistical model was a fancy way of saying “simulation.” Intelligence analysts liked statistical models because they were neat and easy to put together on the computer. But no matter what you called them, simulations were simulated, not real, events. They were simply educated guesses. More than that, statistical models didn’t take any part of the human element of operations into consideration. Nor did they factor in Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame.
Nor, for that matter, could a statistical model predict a ground commander’s reactions or leadership qualities or lack of them. Interpreting those issues required real-time intelligence. “What’s the worst-case scenario, Mr. Secretary?”