"Speaking of getting out of here," said Murdock.
"Yeah, I know. I don't like the idea of tackling those rocks in the dark, but each time we've pulled off a score, the Syrians made me glad we left right afterward."
A creaking, clanking sound rose up from the valley below. The dusk had deepened, and it was hard to see the road. Murdock removed his night-vision goggle from his jacket pocket. Three tanks were coming up the road. From their shape they looked like T-72's. Through the NVG Murdock could see the beams of the tanks' active infrared driving lights and main gun searchlights sweeping the road ahead.
"Man," said Razor. "They're going to drive right over their wounded in the dark."
Murdock slid his MSG-90 back into the drag bag. "All Magic's .50 could do is scratch the paint on those things. Let's get saddled up." He slung the drag bag across his back and carefully made his way across the rocks to where Doc was attending Higgins.
"How's he doing?" Murdock whispered into Doc Ellsworth's ear.
"Not good. His vitals are all dropping."
"Can we move him?" Murdock asked, that familiar sinking feeling returning.
"Only to a helicopter." Doc paused. "Or only if it's the difference between everyone else making it."
Murdock got the Doc's meaning. If they bounced Higgins around any more he was going to die. Murdock wasn't prepared to give that order--yet. Only if, as the Doc said, it meant saving the lives of the rest of his men. He hoped it didn't come down to that. Sacrificing his own wounded was something he never dreamed he'd have to do.
"Everyone else is shivering," said Doc. "Dehydration's making it worse. I don't think we could stay tactical and still live through the night up here. I don't want to step on any toes, sir, but ..."
"You're doing what I want, Doc," Murdock assured him. "Your job."
He made his way back to Razor. "Change of plans. We're staying."
"Higgins?" Razor asked.
"Not good. He can't take another move."
"Then we stay," Razor said flatly.
"I was going to move and then get on the radio," said Murdock. "Now I think I'll just get on the radio."
"I'll rub my nuts for luck," said Razor.
"You rub your nuts for fun," Murdock retorted. He'd been carrying Higgins's radio pack. He took it off and began unfolding the satellite antenna.
Just then there were a series of quick flashes along the valley floor.
"Uh, oh," said Razor.
Murdock began to count off in his head once again. Just under a minute later there were a string of explosions farther up the mountain range, near the top of the road.
"Mortars," said Razor. "Big ones, sounded like 120mm."
"Late in the game," said Murdock. "I'd rather it be never, but I can live with late."
"As long as they don't work the fire down the ridgeline once they get the range," said Razor.
"Wait a minute," said Murdock. He thought he heard something.
They were quiet, and during a gap in the explosions the faint sounds of helicopter rotors could be heard.
"Those aren't Gazelles," said Razor. "And they sure as shit ain't ours."
"Heavy rotors," said Murdock. "Russian Hips, sounds like about four. Twenty, thirty troops in each. Mortars are firing cover for a landing up north of the road. When the troops don't find anything they'll keep sweeping down. You know what that means."
"Yeah, our bet canceled out."
"That and it's time to get the hell out of here."
"I concur," said Razor.
Murdock deployed and aligned the antenna, then powered up the radio. The mortar bombs were exploding in a steady rhythm.
"Hope they don't put up flares," Razor murmured.
Murdock didn't like to think about bringing the pickup helicopters in under flare light. He tapped out a message on the keypad, dispensing with code words. He pushed the SEND button.
41
Saturday, November 11
1833 hours Aboard the U.S.S. George Washington Eastern Mediterranean Sea
"Sir, message," the communicator announced.
"God," Miguel Fernandez moaned. He'd been sitting in that room for more than eighteen hours straight. The CIA men and the Army aviators had only dropped in occasionally during the day to check the message traffic. They'd only filtered back into the room as dusk approached.
Fernandez had remained, as if his commitment would will a successful conclusion. The other SEALs had brought him food and drink. One of the communicators, accustomed to standing late watches, had helpfully informed him that Mountain Dew contained the highest percentage of caffeine of any soft drink. Fernandez had pounded down cans of it. He'd been stepping out to make quick calls at the nearby head ever since. His stomach felt as green as the beverage, and he was like a single pulsing nerve ending, only precariously contained. One of the SEALs suggested he take a break. No one made any suggestions to Fernandez after that. Clean-cut young sailor types like the communicators and intelligence specialists were intimidated by SEALs under the best of circumstances. Now Fernandez had them so freaked out they shied like ponies every time he shifted in his chair.
Everyone crowded around the terminal. The message read
E70 STOP REQUEST IMMEDIATE EVAC STOP CONTACTS ALL DAY STOP CONTACT BROKEN FOR NOW STOP ONE WIA STATUS EMERGENCY STOP LZ ROCKY REQ LADDERS STOP LZ SECURE FOR NOW STOP ENEMY APPROACHING STOP LZ GRID 843591 END
One drawback to print transmission rather than voice was that it was difficult to convey a sense of urgency. Fernandez thought whoever had typed out the message, probably the lieutenant, had managed to do it just fine.
Fernandez rushed over to the map on the wall and plotted the grid coordinates. Damn, they were right on top of the mountain range. They'd covered one hell of a lot of ground. And "contacts all day." Knowing the SEAL habit of understatement, in official communications at least, Fernandez could easily imagine what it had been like. And emergency was the highest of the three evacuation categories. One of the boys was hurt bad.
Don Stroh immediately got on the satellite hookup to CIA headquarters to report the message. After the fiasco of that morning, he'd spent over an hour explaining to his superiors that the Army Blackhawk helicopters, with long-range tanks and flight-refueling probes removed, were indistinguishable at night from the carrier air group's Navy Seahawk helicopters. After wasting the better part of the morning, he'd finally convinced them. Just another in a long, dismal line of examples of people in power insisting on making military decisions even though they had next to no real understanding of weapons, tactics, or strategy. Except in their own minds, that is.
Even so, the George Washington had spent the entire day sailing back and forth across the eastern Mediterranean. Now they were charging toward the Lebanese coast, and would be in range to launch helicopters in fifteen minutes.
"Yes, sir," Stroh was saying into the handset. "Yes, Sir, there may be enemy contact at the pickup. The fact that the Syrians are on alert and have presumably been pursuing the SEALs all day will most likely complicate the extraction. No, sir, I'm not being facetious, I'm simply stating fact. Yes, sir. Then we are clear to launch, sir? Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, I will keep you informed." He set the handset down. "We'll launch as soon as the ship is ready."
The Army major commanding the 160th task force slapped his palm down on the table. "Finally! You people were about to give me colitis or something." He picked up the phone to the ready room. "We'll be in range to launch in fifteen minutes, and I want to go as soon as possible after that. LZ grid is 843591. Rig the short caving ladders and a stretcher on the hoist of each bird. One friendly WIA, emergency. No, I'm not going to send a message asking the SEALs to clarify the enemy situation. Why make the poor bastards lie to us? Look, I'll be right there." The major slammed the phone down and stomped out of the compartment, grunting, "Finally!"
Miguel Fernandez thought that all the major needed was a cigar butt between his teeth. He picked up the phone, got the ready room
again, and had them put Radioman First Class Ron Holt on the line. "Ron? Yeah. I want to go with me and Red on the lead bird, you and Scotty on the number-two. Right. SAWs for everyone. And trauma kits. One emergency, I don't know who. Have Red grab my gear and weapon, and I'll meet you down in the hangar deck ASAP. No, fuck that; we're going up the elevator with them. I don't want anyone screwing up and leaving us behind. Okay, I'll be right there."
Fernandez charged out of the compartment. When the door slammed behind him all the sailors, even the officers, let out an audible sigh of relief.
Don Stroh almost broke out laughing. He picked up his pen and wrote quickly on a message pad. He ripped off the sheet and handed it to the communicator. "Send this now."
The hangar crew rolled the lead Blackhawk onto the starboard aft elevator. They set the second Blackhawk beside it. The horn sounded, the gate rose, and the elevator whirred up to the flight deck. Once it was there, two carts swooped in and hooked onto the helicopters' nose wheels, dragging them out on the deck.
The pilots boarded and started working through their checklists. They loaded the route and landing-zone coordinates into the navigation systems. There was an electrical whining as the main rotors unfolded and locked into flight position.
The two crewmen were checking out hydraulic lines and systems in the cabin. They were using the ANVIS-6 night-vision goggles attached to their helmets and infrared filters on their flashlights. Once in flight they would take up positions behind the two 7.62mm miniguns mounted in the port and starboard windows just behind the cockpit.
The two SEALs in each helicopter were dressed the same as the crew, in unmarked sage-green flight suits. But instead of helmets they wore intercom headsets. Gunners' belts were buckled around their waists, with the long webbing safety straps snapped onto tie-down rings on the cabin floor. The belts would keep them inside no matter what violent maneuvers the pilots put the aircraft through. The SEALs were all armed with the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, as the Belgian Minimi light machine gun was called in U.S. service. It was chambered in 5.56mm, the same as the M-16, weighed fifteen pounds, and fired seven hundred to a thousand rounds per minute at the cyclic rate. A plastic box holding a two-hundred round belt clipped underneath the weapon. The SEALs were wearing night-vision goggles and had laser sights attached to the SAWS. They wore body armor and assault vests with two additional two-hundred-round belt boxes, grenades, and medical trauma packs attached to the back.
The Blackhawks'turboshaft engines gasped, and then began to scream as they powered up. The rotors engaged, and then came up to speed. Light signals passed across the flight deck, and back and forth between the helicopters.
On the deck in front of the lead Blackhawk the light sticks came together vertically. The Blackhawk rose from the flight deck, and hovered momentarily. The light stick pointed the way, and the Blackhawk banked left over the sea. The second aircraft followed right behind.
Miguel Fernandez, listening to the crisp professional exchanges over the intercom, felt his gut smooth out slightly. At least they were doing something.
42
Saturday, November 11
1843 hours North central Lebanese mountains
The keypad light blinked. Murdock almost didn't want to scroll the message. He did, of course, but mentally prepared himself for another kick in the nuts. Just in case. The message read
HELO LAUNCH IN 15 MIN STOP FREQ PER ORDER STOP WILL CONFIRM LAUNCH STOP HANG ON END
"That's a little more like it," Razor whispered in Murdock's ear.
"Right now it looks like the only problem is going to be hanging on," Murdock replied. "We know the Syrians are coming down the ridge at us from the north. For all we know they may be coming up from the south too, and we just didn't hear them over the mortar fire."
"Doc's got to stay with Higgins," said Razor. "Mister DeWitt might as well make it a threesome. Let's send Jaybird and Magic a couple hundred meters south. You and I go north. We'll slow down any Syrians who show up. Either way, when the helos come in we'll all collapse back onto this spot."
"Sounds like a winner," Murdock replied.
Razor brought everyone together around Higgins. Doc Ellsworth and Ed DeWitt kept two AKM magazines each and passed the rest of their ammunition and grenades to the others. Murdock had everyone turn on the MX-300 walkie-talkies. He wasn't concerned about alerting the Syrians now. They all made tsk ... tsk sounds over the net to make sure all the sets were up and operating. Murdock rigged up his PRC-117 with the UHF antenna and voice handset so he could talk with the helicopters. The backup PRC-1 17 with satellite antenna and keypad was left with Doc, along with the sniper rifles.
While they were going over contingencies the keypad blinked and the carrier confirmed the launch of the helicopters. Murdock tapped out an acknowledgment and informed them he was switching both his sets over to UHF voice. "Any questions?" Murdock asked his SEALS. There were none. "Okay," he said. "Razor and I'll meet you all back here."
43
Saturday, November 11
1903 hours North central Lebanese mountains
Murdock and Razor crept slowly along the rocks. The mortar fire was still dropping up near the road, but at a much slower rate.
The wind was whipping; it was bitterly cold. Murdock guessed that the temperature was in the teens and dropping, with the wind chill making it much worse. Their pace wasn't fast enough to keep them warm. Murdock thought about sitting in the ocean at Coronado during Hell Week, the surf washing over him and the instructors saying that they couldn't come out until someone quit. He hadn't quit then. He told himself that it had been much colder then than now.
He and Razor reached the dome of rock that had been so much trouble to cross earlier. Then the mortar fire stopped suddenly, and all they could hear was the wind.
Murdock turned to look at Razor through his NVG. Razor nodded. The mortars had ceased fire because the Syrian commandos had reached the road.
The dome was a handy obstacle. The SEALs unscrewed the fuses from two Russian M75 frag grenades and replaced them with two push-pull instantaneous booby-trap fuses. While no handyman worth his salt would ever be without duct tape, no SEAL would be caught dead without the military equivalent olive-green ordnance tape, also known as hundred-mile-an-hour tape.
With Murdock holding onto him, Razor edged out onto the dome. When he came to the limit of Murdock's reach, he locked his legs, bent over, and taped a grenade to a smooth, dry portion of the rock surface.
Murdock pulled him in, and Razor taped the second grenade a little closer to the edge. As they backed away from the dome, Razor carefully unspooled the hundred-pound test fishing line he'd attached to the pull rings of the fuses. Murdock took one line, Razor the other.
They spread out among the rocks and settled down to wait.
44
Saturday, November 11
1908 hours MH-60K Blackhawk Over Lebanon
As they flew over the treetops, the Blackhawk crew and the SEALs heard a range of different chirping sounds in their headsets.
"We've got radars," the Blackhawk copilot announced somewhat redundantly. He consulted his display. "I'm reading Flat Face, Dog Ear, Gun Dish, and Spoon Rest. They're all over the place."
He'd given the NATO code name for a range of Russian radar systems. Flat Face was a surface-to-air missile or antiaircraft-gun acquisition system. Dog Ear was an early-warning radar associated with the SA-13 short-range missile system. Gun Dish was the radar atop the ZSU-23-4 self-propelled antiaircraft gun system. Spoon Rest was a surveillance radar, and the most dangerous because it could pick up low-altitude targets.
"Anything coming from the higher elevations?" the pilot asked.
"Two Gun Dish," the copilot replied.
"Shit," was all the pilot said.
Since they were skimming over the treetops, the radar would have to be higher and radiating down in order to pick them up. But the crew was somewhat comforted by the fact that most Russian radars weren't good
at picking targets out of ground clutter.
But as the second Blackhawk, flying in trail of the first, swept over some trees, a string of green tracer bullets came floating up right in front of it.
The pilot turned away from the fire. It wasn't easy at such low altitude. Too hard a turn and they would be crashing into the trees. When they steadied out, the pilot realized how it had happened. Someone on the ground had fired at the lead helicopter, or at least the sound of the lead helicopter. But it was going so low and fast that it was already gone by the time he brought his weapon to bear. Unfortunately, the second Blackhawk was just in time to receive the fire. The pilot solved the problem by moving up in echelon with the lead Blackhawk.
The ZSU-23-4 was a small tracked vehicle with a rotating turret mounting four water-cooled 23mm rapid-firing cannons. Atop the turret the Gun Dish radar spun around, searching for targets. When it locked onto one, the Identification-Friend-or-Foe system electronically interrogated it. If the target was a foe, the gunner slaved the turret onto the radar track, the computer provided a solution, and the guns fired.
The Gun Dish radars on the early ZSU-23-4's had had trouble picking targets out of ground clutter at altitudes below six hundred feet. But in later models, notably the ZSU-23-4M, the Russians had introduced radar modifications to reduce that problem.
When the Syrians had put their forces in Lebanon on alert, several ZSU-23-4's had taken up station in the western foothills of the central mountain range. As it happened, one of those vehicles was high enough to be right on line with the Blackhawks' flight path as they came across the coastline and over the western plain. The dish antenna atop its turret stopped spinning and pointed west, wobbling slightly.
A continuous tone sounded in the crew headsets of the lead Blackhawk.
"Gun Dish lock," the copilot called out.
The pilot instantly swung into a gentle S-turn and thumbed a button on his stick. Chaff cartridges were ejected from tubes in the fuselage. The cartridges burst open and filled the air around the helicopter with distinct clouds of thin metallic strips.
Seal Team Seven 04 - Direct Action Page 20