by C. G. Cooper
“Take a look at that firepower.”
McKay watched as streams of missiles reached out and tagged the American Embassy, one after another.
“Are those mobile howitzers?” asked Nitalli. They were still too high to see every detail.
“I think so. Paladins maybe. Higher needs to hurry up and give us the go-ahead.”
As they made their way to the deck, still waiting for word from higher, something flickered in McKay’s peripheral vision. He turned his head.
“Jeez. Is that a 767?” he asked, more to himself than his wingman.
Nitalli was saying something, but McKay didn’t hear. He was switching to the civilian air frequency. The air traffic controller was hollering in Arabic.
“Baghdad, this is U.S. Navy 212. We have your aircraft in sight. What’s the situation?”
The air traffic controller was in a frenzy. He switched to accented English. “Navy, we have lost contact with EgyptAir. They reported a malfunction—”
“They’re heading straight toward embassy row, Baghdad.”
The controller swore, screaming something to someone else in the tower. “I cannot be sure, Navy, but we think the plane has been hijacked.”
McKay swore under his breath. If they were going to do something they had to do it now. He had seconds to make a decision. If they shot it with their missiles, who knew where the aircraft wreckage would go. The carnage could be worse than a direct hit by the airliner.
He did the quick math in his head, the time as one of the elite Blue Angels flooding back suddenly. An omen. Hundreds of hours of flying wing to wing, nose to tail. Precision flying. Some of the scariest stuff he’d ever done, but it might help him now. He made his decision.
“I’ve got this, Herringbone,” he said, now talking to his wingman again.
“You can’t shoot that thing, man. It’ll—”
“I’m not shooting it.”
McKay made a hard left and came around to shadow the falling 767. He had no idea if his plan would work, but he had to try.
“What are you—”
“Stay back, Joey. Tell my wife I love her. Crapshoot, out.”
He switched off the radio to avoid Nitalli’s objections. His multimillion dollar jet could easily outrun the 767, but all he needed to do was catch up. McKay touched the picture of his wife and kids taped to the control panel, and said goodbye.
+++
8:17am
Cal and the CIA station chief were taking steps four at a time, running past scared embassy staffers until they finally got outside. It was pure chaos. Explosions all over the huge compound. Cal thought it was bad, until he looked up.
He could plainly see a civilian aircraft flying toward them, flying in from the west, in a steep angled descent. Cal grabbed Isnard’s arm and pointed up.
“What the—” said Isnard.
“Run!” yelled Cal, sprinting away from where he predicted the aircraft would hit. Not that they’d have much of a chance, but he’d be damned if he just stood there staring up at the sky like some others were doing. Frozen in shock.
As he looked over his shoulder, he noticed another aircraft close to the airliner. Possibly American. For a split second he wondered why they weren’t shooting the thing down, but then it hit him. It didn’t matter. Even if they did, it would still land on the embassy. So what was the other plane doing?
+++
8:17am
Jamila was surprised that she hadn’t been shot at. She could just make out people scrambling on the ground. Infidels realizing their death neared. Most were still focused to the east, where her brothers continued the dual diversion. She relished the thought as she came in slow, wanting her enemy to see their peril when it snuffed them out.
For some reason she looked left, and for a moment she thought she was dreaming. There was a military jet closing in, maneuvering close. She could see the pilot’s outline, obviously looking straight at her.
It didn’t matter. There was nothing the fool could do. The caliph had planned it that way. If they blew up her plane, the same thing would happen. Tons of twisted metal, fuel and consuming fire engulfing the American embassy.
Jamila turned away from the jet that she could now see was American by its markings. Good. The man would have a front row seat to his people’s death.
She gripped the controls harder and focused straight ahead, anxious to be part of the killing below.
+++
8:18am
Cal and Rich Isnard made it to the only decent shelter they could find, a grouping of huge concrete barriers waiting to be placed somewhere else. It wouldn’t help them when the plane crashed down, but they had to go somewhere.
Done running, the Marines looked up, watching as the pilot of the F-18 saddled up next to the civilian plane.
“What’s he doing?” asked Isnard.
“I don’t—”
As they watched, the F-18 flipped onto its side so the top of the cockpit was now facing the larger aircraft. The world slowed, the F-18 and 767 touched. Cal couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In the motion picture in his brain, Cal saw the excruciatingly slow momentum of the larger plane. It was like having a front row seat to inevitable ruin. Dreamlike.
Cal lost the view a split second later, when an explosion sent him flying.
Chapter 26
Baghdad, Iraq
8:19am AST, August 15th
Lieutenant Joey Nitalli, call sign “Herringbone,” watched wide-eyed as his wing man, and good friend, somehow did the impossible. Honed from years of some of the best flying Nitalli had ever seen, McKay altered the 767’s path, its downward trajectory painfully slow.
To an untrained eye it would have seemed that the F-18 was having no effect, but Nitalli saw it, the shift as they plunged through the seconds, the falling feet. McKay’s fighter was like a sheep dog herding a charging bull, subtle pressure applied expertly. Nitalli counted it down in his head. Three, two, one.
The interlocked aircraft narrowly missed the southern wall of the embassy complex, plunging spectacularly into the Tigris River. Water shot every which way like the footstep of a titan, drenching a wide swath of the coastline.
Nitalli said a silent thanks to his friend, the man who’d saved his career. No one else would’ve gone to bat for him, telling the admiral that he’d take care of the free-spirited Italian-American. McKay said he believed in the hotshot, and took him under his wing, literally and figuratively.
Back in the present, the squadron was chattering in his ears, but he didn’t hear it. He knew they were coming to help, still precious minutes out. He willed away the tears that blurred his vision. There would be time to mourn later. A proper tribute.
There was something he could do. A quick look at the ground and he found his target, the military parade that was still firing round after round into the American Embassy.
Screw the rules. It was time for payback.
+++
8:20am
The Iraqi captain knew it was almost time to leave. No forces had engaged them yet except for the stray round from the embassy. The Iraqi government had been very clear on any use of military force within the city. In fact, they’d helped the Americans craft rules of engagement that were even now precluding them from firing into civilian neighborhoods.
But that would change. He’d watched the American fighter pull off the miraculous save, the sound of the crash still ringing in his ears.
Just as he reached for the radio to order their withdrawal, he saw something flash overhead. Another plane, fast, probably American. No payload dropped.
Good. I have time.
He ordered his fellow traitors to exit their vehicles and retreat to their rendezvous point. As the last word left his lips, the two lead vehicles in the column exploded, flipping one and sending the other spinning into a building where it crumpled into a fiery heap. The captain knew what was coming before it hit. He heard the clank, but never felt the explosion of the AGM-65 Maverick air-to-s
urface tactical missile that sent him to hell.
+++
8:22am
Ambassador Brighton’s hand shook as he waited for the president to come on the line. No stranger to war-torn lands, the blatant attack on the seemingly impenetrable embassy shocked the veteran public servant.
“You there, Luke?” asked President Zimmer, a hint of alarm in his voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Sir, just after zero-eight-hundred Baghdad time, explosions, we think mortars, began the attack on the embassy. Not long after, from south of our position, a military procession started a rocket and high caliber round barrage. At almost the exact same moment, a crowd of demonstrators, estimates say between ten and twenty thousand Iraqis, attempted to overwhelm our main gate.” Brighton paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a soaked handkerchief.
“Go on.”
“We’re still piecing the rest together, sir, but we believe there was also an attempt to crash a commercial airliner into the complex.”
“How is that possible? Don’t we have that airspace buttoned up?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’re putting it together as best we can.” The Marines were the ones who kept sending runners to the deep bunker, breathlessly handing the American ambassador sheets of handwritten paper with their commander’s assessment. It was chaos overhead.
“Do you know where Stokes is?”
Brighton almost said, “Who?” before he remembered the man he’d met not hours before. “No, sir. I saw him earlier today, and then he left with Mr. Isnard.”
“Okay. Hang tight, Luke. We’re sending help.”
The line went dead and Brighton looked up as another runner entered the secure room.
“Sir, the mob just broke through the first barrier.”
+++
8:25am
Cal came-to slowly, aware that he was laying on something soft. Grass? He took a painful breath as his eyes fluttered open. Isnard was ten feet away, not moving.
“Rich,” croaked Cal, his throat dry. No movement from Isnard.
Cal tested his arms and legs, grimacing when he felt the fresh pain. It didn’t feel like anything was broken and he didn’t see any blood. Lucky. Just banged up. He couldn’t remember what had thrown them, probably an explosion.
Then the whole scene that had played out overhead came screaming back. If he was breathing, at least the planes hadn’t crashed into the compound. Cal felt a buzzing in his pocket and thought that maybe his leg was spasming. He touched his thigh and realized it was the phone in his pocket.
Cal answered the call.
“Stokes.”
“Cal, it’s Brandon. Are you okay?”
“As far as I can tell.” Cal could now see Isnard moving, struggling to get to his hands and knees.
“I just talked to Brighton. He told me about the demonstrators and the rockets. What about the EgyptAir jet?”
Cal didn’t have a clue what Zimmer meant about the demonstrators. Then he remembered the sound he’d heard before, the roar of a crowd.
“I didn’t see where any of it came from. I felt it. All I saw was that brave bastard who saved everyone.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Zimmer.
Cal told him about the F-18 and what the pilot had done.
“I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,” said Cal, still amazed. “You better give that guy the Medal of Honor if he really did what I think he did.”
Zimmer grunted. “I’ll take care of it. What about—”
Like the charging cavalry, Cal saw Daniel Briggs leading his column of international warriors around the corner not thirty feet away, running toward the main gate. Cal shouted to get their attention.
Daniel turned his head, and the men headed toward Cal and the bloodied CIA station chief.
“Cal, you still there?” asked Zimmer.
“Yeah, sorry. Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call when I know more.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
“Sure.”
Cal placed the phone back in his pocket, gratefully taking Daniel’s hand, and was pulled to his feet. Everyone crowded around, weapons bristling. No one looked afraid, eyes steeled for battle.
“What took you guys so long?” asked Cal.
“We came as soon as we could. Didn’t know where to find you,” said Daniel, handing Cal his FN MK20 assault rifle and extra magazines. “What happened?”
Cal gave his men a rundown of what he knew. No one flinched, digesting the news like the seasoned warriors they were.
“Let’s find the Marines and see how we can help. Rich, you okay to show us the way?” asked Cal.
Isnard nodded, his scalp above his left ear oozing blood. He had another wound under his right eye. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Without another word, they trotted toward the sounds of ongoing battle, into the mouth of chaos.
Chapter 27
U.S. Embassy
Bagdad, Iraq
8:31am AST, August 15th
Master Gunnery Sergeant Mark Morris had spent the last twenty-two years of his life in one Marine Corps post or another. After enlisting in the Marines at the age of eighteen and serving his first tour as a 0311 (infantryman), Morris volunteered for MSG (Marine Security Guard) duty. He wanted to see the world and figured embassy duty was the best way to do it.
A meritoriously promoted corporal and sergeant, the clean cut Texan was a perfect fit for MSG. He’d been on embassy duty off and on since, serving all over the world.
This was supposed to be his last tour, a promise to his wife. She’d been pissed he’d wanted to go to Iraq of all places. He’d assured her that the enormous embassy in Baghdad was a fortress that couldn’t be breached.
He was eating those words now. While he wasn’t ultimately responsible for the security of the entire embassy, the Marine in Morris took it personally. This was his embassy.
He was standing on the roof of the highest building in the complex, giving him the best vantage point. But it also made him a perfect target. Luckily, the walls he kept peeking over were reinforced with enough metal and concrete to stop anything but the highest grade explosives. And not that the bastards hadn’t tried. The vehicles south of the river had slammed them with rockets and high caliber rounds, wounding three of his Marines already. His boys were still mobile, each taking a quick bandaging and going back to their duties.
The situation on the ground was chaotic, but it wasn’t anything compared to the airplane that had almost taken them out. Morris saw it all, how that crazy air jockey had somehow pushed the larger aircraft into the Tigris. CMH for sure for that brave bastard. Thousands of lives saved.
While the normal staffers ran to secure locations, the operators working for the embassy, and even those just passing through, had run to the sound of battle. It was Morris’s job to help coordinate the defense and possible counterattack. He’d already had more than one heated conversation with American military commanders who’d cited Baghdad’s rules of engagement (ROEs) as a reason for not sending in artillery and close air support.
Luckily, whoever the pilot was flying the second Navy F-18, he took out the BM-21’s and paladins pounding from across the river. With that group taken care of, and the civilian jet at the bottom of the river, what was left, other than the occasional mortar round, was the screaming crowd trying to get through the gate.
The last Marine he’d sent to get a better look, a new kid from Cali, had never come back. He was about to send another scout when the door of the stairwell emptying out onto the roof slammed open. Armed men streamed out, the lead guy coming straight toward Morris. The others fanned out, trying to get a better view of the surrounding area. Some looked like foreigners.
“Master Guns?” asked the man. Young face, but cool eyes. He carried one of those 7.62 rifles that SEALs loved. FN-something.
“How can I help you?” asked Morris, not really in the mood to brief strangers.
He was busy.
“A fellow Marine sent me.”
“Who’s that?”
“Rich Isnard.”
Morris’s eyebrow rose. Most people thought the CIA station was a prick, but Morris liked the guy. In fact, the two Marines had hit it off from the beginning, even getting together occasionally to take money from the senior embassy staff who thought they could swindle a couple of grunts over a few games of Texas Hold ‘Em. They’d become friends. If Isnard sent this guy, he probably liked him, and he was a Marine. Good enough for Morris.
“How can I help, Mr.—”
“Stokes. Actually, I wanted to see what we could do to help you.”
Morris thought about it for a moment, another mortar round exploding a building away. He noted that none of Stokes’s men flinched. Pros.
“The shacks at the main gate were overrun. I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I’ve already lost one Marine and was about to send more to see.”
Stokes nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”
The grim smile on the man’s face made Morris curious. He’d never seen the guy before. “Can I ask what you guys are doing in Iraq?”
The smile widened. “I could, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Morris nodded, returning the smile despite the dire situation. “Good luck, sir. Oh, and take this.” Morris handed Stokes a handheld radio.
Stokes nodded and walked to where he could better see in the direction of the front gate. He said something to a man carrying a M40 sniper rifle, the preferred weapon of Marine snipers. The guy with the blond pony tail nodded and gestured back to Morris. They exchanged a few more words and the man looked at the master gunnery sergeant again, throwing him an amused wink.
I’d bet my next paycheck that guy’s a Marine too, thought Morris. It almost made him laugh. For some reason, despite the smoke and mayhem, Morris breathed a little bit easier as Stokes and his men rushed down the stairwell. He’d have to buy those guys a round at the club if they made it back alive.