by Iain King
Swiftly a research assistant set up the phone-in lines. Just as Myles requested, two numbers appeared on the screens. By the first number, the words ‘send him back’. By the second: ‘give him a second chance’.
A TV in one of the offices nearby picked up the broadcast, and someone turned up the volume.
Helen called out from behind the camera-phone. ‘Mohammed, you’re live on national TV. Do you have anything to say to make your case?’ she asked. ‘This is your chance to try to persuade people.’
Still terrified, Mohammed took a few seconds to register what Helen was saying. Slowly, he tried to find the right words. ‘Yes, my name is Mohammed,’ he began, talking slowly. ‘I work here so my family has food. I was born in Darfur, Sudan, but when my family’s house was destroyed I moved to Libya, where my father and uncle were killed in the war which killed Colonel Gaddafi.’ Mohammed looked over to check the border officials were still some distance away before he continued. ‘And if I am sent back, I will be killed, too. I clean toilets here in America. Please let me stay to clean toilets. Don’t let them send me back. For my family, please let me stay.’
Mohammed’s sincerity came through. Myles saw the man was close to tears.
A ring of airport police had formed behind Helen and the deportation officials. Alerted to the events, they wanted to keep onlookers away. They didn’t want this situation to be interrupted.
Within the ring of policemen, for several minutes, nobody moved. Helen kept filming while Myles stayed close to the deportee. There was still a chance one of the border guards might make a rush for the man, but none of them tried. The force of phone-in TV was far more powerful than the orders of their supervisor. They understood: this was an extraordinary situation, which meant their supervisor’s instructions could wait, at least until the results of the phone-in vote.
Myles also understood: this was evidence that Placidia was right – modern America was more like ancient Rome than most people realised. Whichever way the TV phone-in went, this would be like the Roman games, where emperors decided whether a gladiator who had been defeated in combat lived or died. They indicated with gestures still used today: thumbs-up for ‘he lives’, or thumbs-down for ‘he dies’. Myles didn’t know whether modern Americans were cruel enough to deport a man like Mohammed when the fate awaiting him was death, but he was sure, like ancient Romans, they would be compelled by the spectacle.
When Susan discovered what was happening on one of the airport televisions, she marched up and ordered the ring of policemen to let her through, which they obediently did. With her back to the camera to keep her face hidden, she moved to stand between Myles and the deportee, Mohammed. ‘Enough,’ she called, her hand raised.
Myles, Helen and the border guards looked around, not sure how to react. Mohammed looked back over the rail, knowing this might be the moment when he would have to jump.
Susan turned to the man. ‘Mohammed: your case will be reviewed. I don’t care about the vote on TV. OK?’
Mohammed nodded, letting out a breath as he became slightly less terrified. Myles repeated the words loudly to make sure they were picked up by the camera-phone. ‘So his case is going to be reviewed. Thank you.’
Susan wafted her ID card towards the uniformed men, who accepted her authority and understood their new instructions: to get the man down safely. Mohammed moved away from the railing and volunteered himself into their custody.The drama was over.
Helen turned the camera-phone to herself to wrap up the live broadcast. She owed it to the viewers to summarise what had happened, and to explain how a decision on Mohammed’s life had been taken before the votes were counted. She thanked everyone who had phoned in.
As Mohammed was led away and the crowds gradually realised the situation was over, Susan turned to Myles. ‘You should come with me,’ she instructed.
Myles followed as he was led along corridors within the airport, through several sets of security doors and towards a suite of computer screens where a huddle of security experts was waiting for him.
The TV pictures from the deportation drama was nothing compared to the live video footage he was about to see.
Twenty-Three
Undisclosed Location, North-east Libya
The Chinook helicopters were in the air. Warm air blowing up from the desert was mixing with the hot blast from the engines. It was too loud for the men to talk to each other, and the preparation was all done. There was nothing to do but think.
Captain Morton remembered this time from his last mission. That had been a success: a quick flight into Lebanon to rescue a scrawny Canadian journalist, then out again before the Lebanese government could complain about the unlicensed breach of its borders. Morton hadn’t lost any of his men, but the hostage-takers had been ready with night-vision goggles.
Night-vision goggles: they used to give US Special Forces the edge. Now they were available over the internet and in half the shops on Main Street…
When the journalist – the very man they had rescued – had written about the Lebanon raid, he had warned that America was relying on its reputation. The things which used to make it the supreme fighting country were slipping away, he said. Its technology had spread to its enemies. Worst of all, it had lost its fighting spirit – a generation brought up on TV and hamburgers was no match for jihadists and radicals.
Captain Morton hadn’t liked the skinny Canadian: instead of being grateful for his release, the first thing he had done was complain. In particular, Morton remembered how the journalist had mocked America’s capacity to take casualties – ‘casualty aversion’, the generals called it. In the Second World War, the US had lost 300,000 men without blinking. In Vietnam, it had lost 68,000 and been humbled. In Iraq, according to the Canadian journalist, it had lost just 4,000 and been humiliated.
Casualty aversion was why they were sending only two Chinooks-worth of Navy Seals to rescue Senator Roosevelt. Morton had argued for more – and lost.
For all his lack of gratitude, perhaps the journalist had been right: casualty aversion was crippling the American armed forces.
‘Two minutes,’ called the flight controller.
The words were inaudible over the noise of the helicopter, but it didn’t matter. The assault team were watching for his signal, and responded when they saw it.
Backpacks were buckled on, body armour tightened and helmets checked. Captain Morton took a final sip of water from the pipe attached to his shoulder. He remembered his pre-mission briefing session. He was glad to learn that parts of the mission had been planned by Sam Roosevelt himself before he left. Morton had queried why Juma had taken the Senator away from the city. After all, a hostage rescue in a city would be far harder. His commanding officer replied bluntly. ‘Because they’re dumb, that’s why.’ As he sucked on the water tube, Morton knew he would soon find out if his commanding officer was right.
‘One minute…’
The helicopter manoeuvred down, and angled forward as it began to dive. The men held their seat-straps, ready to unbuckle them the moment the wheels touched the ground.
A blast of air rushed into the body of the Chinook, filling the interior with dust. Captain Morton could just hear the voice of the flight controller shouting, ‘Go! Go! Go!’
With the front wheels still off the ground, the men ran down the centre of the machine, out into the downdraught from the rotor blades. Into the midnight desert. There they fanned out, running from the wind behind them, until they lay on the ground. Within seconds, the Chinook had risen off again and was gone. Captain Morton and his men were alone.
Morton’s SOPs – his Standard Operating Procedures – dictated a five-minute ‘soak’ period: time when the men were meant to remain still and tune in to their surroundings. Five minutes was easy to wait during training, but this was the real thing. They were too anxious. This time they were rescuing a Senator, no less. Five minutes was far too long for them to wait. Most were twitching after two or three.
&
nbsp; A large insect crawled onto Morton’s neck. He couldn’t see it but only feel it as it climbed onto his face. Frozen still, he tried to ignore it, but it moved towards his nose. He had no choice: in one quick motion he brushed it off, and kept at it until his face was clear. He had to jump up as he did so. Instantly the men stood up with him. Three-and-a-half minutes, and they were all eager to move. No point waiting any longer. It was time to go.
Morton’s team had been dropped off four miles from the Senator’s mobile signal. Those four miles were enough to hide the noise of the Chinooks: their arrival would be a surprise to Juma’s gang. But it meant Morton and his men had to do a little light exercise before battle.
Four miles: a thirty-minute run. They set out, careful not to run too fast.
Morton wondered what his commanding officers were making of the feed from their helmet cams – the little cameras attached to the head of every one of his team. Hope you’re enjoying the pictures, folks…
Perhaps one day he’d be able to enjoy war from a sofa, watching helmet cam pictures as he sipped a latte somewhere on the East Coast.
Something flipped Morton’s mind back to the present. He was worried about the operation. Something wasn’t right.
As he and his men ran along the single track road, he felt eyes watch him from the shacks and scrub which dotted the desert on either side. He swung round in his night-vision goggles: nothing. His team kept on running.
One of the Navy Seals tapped his GPS. The monitor glowed in the dark to show they were halfway along the track. Just two miles to go.
They passed old concrete farm shacks, one on each side of the road.
Morton’s senses were screaming at him: something was very wrong.
He looked at the buildings: why make farm shacks out of concrete? And why build farm shacks in a desert? There was no farmland here.
There were two more of the concrete huts ahead, and more in the distance. Morton and his men were surrounded by them. In the dark he could just make out slits beneath the roofs.
He held up his fist, ordering his men to stop. They obeyed instantly, and the slap of boots on the dry mud stopped with them. Silence.
The silence enabled Captain Morton to make out the unmistakeable scratching noise of a gun barrel being repositioned on concrete. Others heard it too. Instinctively, they ducked down onto the ground, readying their weapons as they did so.
But it was far too late: they were already trapped.
With heavily protected firing positions on all sides, Morton’s men were caught on flat and very open terrain. Their efforts to shoot back into the concrete huts were useless. Juma’s men – Morton knew that was who it must be – were too well guarded. Bullets whizzed over Morton’s head. He heard the muffled sound of fast metal penetrating flesh. The soldier beside him took a chest wound. His men were too professional to scream when they were hit, but it didn’t stop them dying. The blast of gunfire came from all directions. When one of the men at the back tried to escape he was cut down.
Captain Morton didn’t have time to think about how disastrously the mission had turned out, or how Juma had been able to set such a perfect ambush. His fears that the Navy Seals were living on their reputation alone were proved correct.
Then he saw a chance to escape….
Twenty-Four
JFK Airport, New York
The live feed from the helmet cams was streaming back to the US, and to the secure computer suite within JFK airport where Myles and Susan were watching.
It was tragic: within seconds, most of the helmet cams became still, indicating the Seal who was wearing it had ceased to move. Some of them stopped showing pictures at all, because the cameras themselves had been hit.
Susan leant forward, peering at the screens. She couldn’t believe it.
Myles watched the few screens still moving. One showed tracer rounds of outgoing fire: the Seal was firing straight into one of the concrete huts. Then he had to turn, probably to cope with fire from behind.
Another showed a Seal trying to crawl through the bodies of his comrades, looking for cover. He managed to escape the main group, into a desert bush. But some of the foliage had been set alight by tracer rounds. The Seal had to move faster to avoid the flames, which probably meant he was seen. Soon a tall Somali pirate with an AK-47 was running towards him. The Seal raised his rifle to shoot the African, but the pictures from his helmet cam tumbled until they too were still. Myles and Susan knew that this man had become another casualty.
Susan scanned the wall of images, looking for hope but shaking her head. She leant forward again. ‘Any of them still alive?’ she asked, pressing the button on a microphone as she spoke.
It took a few seconds for an electronic voice to come through – military but subordinate. ‘Yes ma’am, screen five. Er, it’s Captain Morton.’
Myles and Susan zoomed in on screen five. At first the pictures seemed as still as the others. Then they noticed the images were gradually moving – rising and falling with Morton’s breathing. Clearly the man was trying to hide amid the bodies of his men. Then, slowly, he managed to slip into a shallow ditch.
Susan pressed the microphone again. ‘We’ve got to help this guy,’ she demanded. ‘What have we got?’
There was another pause before the disembodied answer came back through the speakers. ‘We’ve got the Predator, ma’am, or we can send in the helicopters again.’
‘OK, give me the images from the Predator.’
One of the dead camera-feeds was replaced with an infrared image. The high-altitude Predator unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV, was clearly circling the scene. The gangmen wouldn’t have known it was there – it was circling with a six mile radius, and flying at 14,000 feet.
‘OK, I’ve got the pictures from the Predator,’ reported Susan. ‘It’s got Hellfires, right?
Myles suddenly became animated. ‘Hellfire missiles?’ He tried to get Susan’s attention. ‘You’re going to use Hellfires?’
Susan nodded. Clearly she didn’t share Myles’ concern. Ignoring the Englishman, she turned back to the microphone. ‘OK, let’s give Captain Morton some cover. Send Hellfires into the concrete huts.’
Myles grabbed the microphone from her. ‘Cancel that. No Hellfires.’
Susan locked eyes with Myles. She was trying to gauge the strange misfit who seemed to be causing ever increasing amounts of trouble. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to help the surviving member of our mission.’
Myles was breathless as he answered. ‘Then send in the Chinooks. Or an A130 gunship, or anything,’ he pleaded. ‘But not a Hellfire. If Juma’s men were ready for the Seals, they’ll be ready for a drone missile.’
Susan accepted Myles was sincere, but didn’t share his doubts about the technology. ‘I don’t want a debate about this. The Chinooks would take ten or fifteen minutes to get there. The Hellfire just needs seconds.’ She moved back to the microphone. She was about to give the order again when Myles touched her shoulder, more calmly this time. ‘There’s a US Senator out there,’ he reminded her. ‘And he could be being held in one of those huts. If you send in a missile…’
Myles could tell he had made Susan think. She was scratching her head, looking desperately at the screens for several seconds.
The subordinate military voice came back over the system, sounding confused. ‘Ma’am, do we have a decision on the Hellfire?’
Uncertain and now quivering slightly, Susan pressed the microphone button again. ‘OK, we’ve got to make a call on this,’ she conceded. ‘Is Richard Roosevelt listening in to this?’
There was another pause. Then Dick Roosevelt’s unmistakeable accent came through the speaker. ‘Roosevelt Junior here.’
‘Mr Roosevelt, sir, we’re ready to send a Hellfire missile into the area. It could enable our last surviving Navy Seal to escape. But, if they’re holding your father there, it could also lead to his death. Are you happy for us to go ahead, sir?’
Silence as every
body waited on Richard Roosevelt’s thinking time. Then his answer came back. ‘What are the other options?’
Unsure she was doing the right thing, Susan graciously handed the microphone to Myles.
Myles thanked her with a look, and then tried to make his case. ‘Dick, it’s Myles,’ he began. ‘The Somali gang were ready for the Navy Seals, so they’ll probably be ready for a Hellfire missile. The only way we can help this Morton guy is by sending in Chinooks. They can fire on the area and pick up any survivors, including any wounded.’
‘Good to hear your voice, Myles. How long would a Chinook take?’
Myles shook his head as he tried to answer. Susan took the microphone back. ‘Up to ten minutes for a Chinook,’ she said. ‘Less than a minute for a Hellfire, Mr Roosevelt.’
This time the pause was short. Richard Roosevelt’s voice didn’t seem troubled by the decision: he was confident in his choice. ‘Then it’s the Hellfire. We don’t have ten minutes.’
‘OK, then launch the Hellfire,’ commanded Susan. ‘Lock onto the huts.’
Susan’s instruction was relayed through the system to the Predator’s flight controller, who sat by a computer screen in Louisiana. Moments later the image from the drone’s cameras juddered upwards slightly, twice, indicating it had released two of its Hellfire missiles.
Myles and Susan stood transfixed. Even though they both had reservations, they knew this had to work.
On the screen, infrared images were slowly beginning to emerge from the concrete huts. The firefight was over. Juma’s guys were about to inspect the bodies.
‘Twenty seconds to impact…’
Once the target of a Hellfire has been chosen and the missile fired, the missile was designed to drop from aircraft and glide in mid-air for several seconds – enough time for the helicopter or jet which dropped it to move away. Only then did the main rocket ignite with a powerful flash, and the weapon accelerate towards its target.