The captain of an Aeroflot airliner, scheduled to depart at noon from Tripoli, angrily confronted the embassy personnel, who escorted six special passengers to the business section, delaying their flight to Moscow by an hour. Fifteen minutes after Vasilev, Alexei, Yuri, Fedorov, Stepkolov, and Popov strapped into their seats, the wide-bodied airliner took off. Popov was already on his third vodka by the time the wheels locked into the undercarriage.
At the Hungarian embassy, the military attache hastily wrote a synopsis of what Hova Vaitsay, member of the Hungarian Intelligence Service, debriefed. His bosses had listed Hova as missing months ago, having lost contact with him after he disappeared into the desert with the Russian scientists. Five minutes after the encrypted message was transmitted from the Hungarian embassy’s secret, soundproof, lead-lined room deep in the bowels of the formidable building on Gamal Abdel Nasser Boulevard, it arrived at the Hungarian Intelligence Service Headquarters in Budapest. The American CIA agent, assigned as an exchange officer for the Hungarian agent stationed at Falls Church, read the message. He had lived in Washington through the biological attacks of the early twenty-first century. He knew well the implications of what Hova Vaitsay had relayed. The Hungarian Army general at the intelligence center sent a shorter encrypted message to the Hungarian NATO representative in Brussels.
Ten minutes and eight thousand miles later, the Hova message, along with the CIA agent’s personal validation assessment of Hova’s reliability, reached the duty officer in Falls Church. This time, the deputy director of the CIA had not been out jogging when the critical news arrived.
Deep underground, one hundred miles south of Tripoli, Colonel Alqahiray screamed at Sergeant Adib and shoved Major Ahsan Hammad Maloof, his terrified aide, out of the way. While he was launching his tirade over the escape of the scientists, tasking had already been transmitted from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the commander of Joint Task Force African Force.
The tasking message was short and to the point: “Take out the missiles before they can be launched.” General Sutherland, the commander in chief, European Command, called the chairman and asked him to go through him with future orders and quit jumping the chain of command. He did it very tactfully.
The crisis in Korea still held the attention of the small, overworked JCS staff, but the immediacy of two anthrax warhead missiles being prepared for launch against Europe caused a new focus. The chairman leaned back in his chair, pinching the top of his nose and blinking several times to clear his eyes. For him, it would mark the sixth night in a row he had not been home, and home was only six miles away. Though none had complained, he knew most of the staff had been here much longer; the couches in the various cubicles and rooms had gotten a lot of use in the past two months.
He stood and strolled to a map of the Mediterranean. He wished he had the resources to help the remaining United States Sixth Fleet units that would have to deal with this. The only thing he could do was detour a couple of Air Force B-52s with their air-launched cruise missiles to help. He would like to have sent another reconnaissance asset to the area, but every available recce bird was in the Pacific Theater of operations. After several seconds of thought, he turned to his aide and told him to get his British counterpart on the STE secure telephone line. The plan agreed upon between the president and the prime minister would have to be moved up. It helped that he and General Alexander Suttle-Temple had a long personal friendship from their days when he was commander, European Command, and supreme allied commander. He would leave it to the secretary of defense, Roger Maddock, to iron out the niceties of the political end with the minister of defense. He’d call General Sutherland later and explain why he circumvented the chain of command.
The door to his office burst open, and the vice chairman, accompanied by the Joint Staff Operations director, Vice Admiral Sterling Jones, walked in with broad smiles across their faces.
“They’re retreating.”
“Who?”
“The North Koreans, General. The Eighty-second Airborne with the First Marine Division outflanked the Korean lines and have been rolling up the bastards. They are breaking and running.”
For the first time in two months, the chairman grinned. “About time for some good news.” He paused for a moment. “If this works—”
“No, if about it, Chairman. The Chinese called the State Department a few minutes ago, trying to take credit for the North Koreans retreating.”
General Eaglefield nodded. “Then as soon as possible I want two of those carriers with their battle groups heading toward the Mediterranean.”
“Should we also send an Amphibious Task Force?” Jones asked.
“Of course. Meanwhile, keep the Kearsarge and her Marines locked in place for the time being, but tell them to be prepared to execute original orders of supporting the Korean Theater.”
“Congratulations, sir,” the vice chairman said, saluting General Eaglefield, then along with Vice Admiral Jones the two hurried out of the office as the joint director for command, control, communications, and computers walked into the chairman’s office.
“You heard?”
Lieutenant General Moses Davis nodded. “Congratulations, sir. Does this change the other plan?”
General Eaglefield shook his head. “No, the forces are in place. You know what you have to do. Unless you hear otherwise, Moses, make it happen.”
“Yes, sir. Everything is rolling along smoothly so far. I have talked with Colonel Dusty Cooper, and he assures me his men are ready to execute Tangle Bandit.” The gray-haired Africanamerican ran his hand across his short crew cut. “Sir, maybe we should tell Task Force African Force—”
“No. This is a special operation, and we will keep it that way. The less who know, the safer our people are.”
“It’s still dangerous.”
“I know.” He nodded. “And we will probably sustain casualties, but it is something we have to do.”
* * *
The sun rises quickly along the flat, schub covered terrain of the Algerian coast where the edge of the Sahara desert teases the Mediterranean shores. The occasional shots fired by the rebels, dug in across the highway, failed to cover the continuous sound of smooth surf mixing with the slight wind coming off the night desert. Duncan wiped the moisture from his eyes and licked his dry lips.
Like the other members of the team, he had been awake through the night.
Twice the Algerian rebels had tried to overrun their position, but the casualties inflicted by the battle-hardened SEALs had soon dampened any desire for further attacks. Daylight might change the rebels’ reluctance when they discovered there were only ten of them: eight Navy SEALs and two Marine Corps helicopter pilots. Every Marine was a rifleman, even if the only weapons were Navy-issued Colt forty-five pistols.
The razor-sharp edge of sunlight flowed like a fast-moving tide, racing across the beach until its sharp, bright rays flooded over him and the others, quickly burning off the night cold with unbridled heat. Minutes before, he had his knees drawn up, bunching his flack jacket against his torso to conserve heat from the night’s near-freezing temperatures. Now he unbuttoned his collar, straightened his body, and rolled up his sleeves. The process of unlayering began as the temperature raced upward like a great stallion bolting from the gate. Around Duncan, the others began to do the the same, welcoming the warmth after a night of shivers.
The smell and sounds of the sea seemed at odds with the heat, lack of humidity, and rough sands of the desert.
Duncan looked for Chief Wilcox and spotted him lying along the top of the incline leading up from the small depression where the CH-53 Super Stallion had crashed. The man’s carbine-14 pointed over the top toward the fanatical Algerian rebels. The two Marine Corps pilots squatted at the bottom near the body of their crew chief.
“Captain,” Gibbons whispered from his right.
Duncan turned his head toward the radioman SEAL positioned on the ground near the rim of the depression
they had defended through the night. The damaged Marine Corps green CH-53 Super Stallion sat silently behind them as if it could take off whenever they wanted, if he ignored the bullet holes, which told the true story. Bullet holes peppered the sides from the sniping, periodic fire, and the two rebel attempts to overrun them.
Bullets zipped over their heads and played rat-a-tat on the fuselage throughout the night. Even if they had wanted to sleep, the noise would have kept them awake. When no other charge followed the second attempt, Duncan figured the rebels had decided to wait until daylight. He had everyone keep their heads down and let the rebels waste their ammunition sniping and firing over their heads. Beau had expressed amazement when no mortar rounds followed the attack. The only thing they could figure was the rebel forces confronting them were not military. “Probably civilians,” Beau offered. “Kind of a light infantry equivalent,” Duncan agreed.
“What you got, Gibbons?” Duncan asked the New Jersey native who was holding the handset of the backpack radio.
“Sir, the Marines just called. Rescue helicopters are airborne and on their way.”
The smile on the man’s face belied the slight tremble in the SEAL’S voice. Duncan understood. You don’t stay pinned down overnight, praying for rescue, without anxiety building up. He felt it himself. Navy SEALS were not used to being pinned down. They fought better on the move. That was what they were trained to do: fight on the run.
“Okay, pass the word your way, Petty Officer Gibbons, but tell everyone to still keep their heads down. Rescue is on its way, and we don’t want anyone shot this close to going home.”
“Home, Captain?” Gibbons smiled.
“Anywhere they aren’t shooting at us is home today, Petty Officer Gibbons.”
Duncan scrambled crablifce to the left until he rolled up against Beau, bumping the lieutenant commander on the shoulder with his body.
“Well, good morning to you, too, boss.” Beau slid a couple of spaces away. Not because of being upset but to reduce target opportunity for the rebels who might have an improved advantage this morning. “To hell with Washington; I’ve changed my mind. I want to go to London.”
“Good morning to you, too, Beau. The Marines are airborne out of Algiers … should be here shortly. We need to be ready to board as soon as they touch down. London? Not because of why I think you want to go there?”
“London? Strictly pleasure, boss. As for the helicopters, this boy will be one of the first on board. How’s your knee?” Beau reached up and wiped the sand from the side of his cheek. “You know,” he said before Duncan could answer, “as much as I like you and have enjoyed this deployment, remind me when we get back to ask for a transfer. We are developing different opinions on what makes a fun deployment and what doesn’t.”
“Here they come!” shouted Monkey from the western side of the depression. The giant rose to his knees just below the edge of the rim, cradled the heavy M-60 machine gun, and fired a long, low-sweeping burst across the plain and the highway that separated them from the rebel positions. For the rebels to get to them, they had to cross that asphalt and a few hundred feet of flat sand terrain, making them easy targets with the sun up.
Duncan touched Beau and pointed ahead. His number two flipped off the safety and pushed his carbine over the top.
Duncan slid down the side of the bank, leaving a wake behind him in the sand. He hit the bottom and ran to Monkey’s position. Bud Helliwell arrived at the same time. Both men crawled the few feet to where Monkey blazed away.
Looking over the rim, Duncan watched as about twenty Algerian rebels turned and scrambled back across the road. To the right about one hundred yards, a lone rebel sniper kneeled on the asphalt, his cheek pressed against the butt of the gun as he took aim at Monkey. Duncan pushed the giant SEAL, causing the big man to fall on his side. A burst from the M-60 blazed harmlessly into the air as Monkey, rolling down the hill, shouted, “What the fuck, Captain!”
The bullet ripped a long crease in the sand where a moment before Monkey had kneeled. Duncan fired a shot at the sniper, causing the rebel to roll across the few feet of road and disappear into the dip on the other side. The sniper’s bullet clipped a small rock between Duncan and Monkey, ricocheting through Bud’s shirtsleeve to nick his left arm.
Blood welled up to soak the upper sleeve. “Damn!” Bud shouted, looking down at the wound. “Why in the hell can’t I go on a mission without someone shooting me?”
Monkey crawled across, flat on his belly, using his elbows and knees on the way to the top, all the while holding the M-60 above the sand.
Duncan slid down a couple of feet to where Bud had rolled onto his back.
The mustang officer raised his head as he held his wounded arm. Duncan lifted the arm, ripped Bud’s shirtsleeve, and prepared to apply a pressure bandage.
The bullet had made a long crease, ripping the outer skin as it zoomed away toward the empty desert.
“It’s nothing,” Duncan said, looking closely as he turned the arm back and forth. “Bullet only grazed you, Bud.” He handed the SEAL officer the square white bandage he had pulled from his side pocket. “Here, hold this on it until the bleeding stops.”
Bud took the bandage and pressed it against the three-inch long slash.
“Bullet hell, Captain. Look what you did to my shirt! Do you know how much they cost nowadays?”
“Shows your tattoos better without the sleeve, Ensign,” Monkey offered, taking a quick glance before turning around to face the rebel positions.
Monkey’s attention focused to the front, his hands tight on the M-60, ready to turn back any other charges by the rebels. He licked his dry lips. The secret to desert survival was to drink as much water as you could, if you had it. If you didn’t, then you rationed and hoped and prayed you stumbled on a source of water soon. All rationing did was delay inevitable dehydration; it wouldn’t stop it.
“Monkey, as big as you are and as small as I am, why don’t you — never mind,” Bud said, realizing what he meant to be a friendly exchange might bring bad luck on the sailor.
“I’ll buy you a new shirt, Bud,” Duncan said, then slapped the mustang officer on the good shoulder. “How many Purple Hearts now?”
“One is too many, Captain.”
“Captain,” Monkey said.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks, sir.”
Duncan reached up and shook the man’s ankle. “Monkey, who the hell would carry you if you got wounded?”
The three men grinned. Those never in combat believed it a grim, solemn, fearful event with unrelenting anxiety. In fact, combat seldom lasted long. But while it lasted, it was a mind numbing, fear-bending, pants-filling, praying-for-life event filled with the smell of cordite, blood, and sweat bent to a belief that the hot gun jerking in your hands would save your life. Few knew how close to the surface emotions rose during combat. When the fog cleared and the bullets stopped, black humor, prayers, or tears, or all three emerged from the grateful alive even amid the screams and cries of the dying. Laughter was as common as tears after the worst of battles.
HJ squatted at the bottom of the incline where the three men lay. Duncan hadn’t noticed the woman SEAL move to a backup position behind them.
Something was bothering her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but her answers during the night had been one-word replies and only then after two or more requests. He didn’t believe she was scared, but she was new to the SEALs, and her only time in the field had turned into a combat situation.
“Captain, helos in three minutes, sir,” she said, relaying the word from Gibbons.
Then, again, maybe he was wrong.
Duncan slid down the sandy incline, leaving a desert wake behind him.
Beau, crouching, rushed over from the other side, his carbine pulled tight across his chest. Behind him came Mcdonald, Chief Wilcox, and the two pilots, Captains Dale Cochran and Luke Blair. “What’s going on, Duncan?”
“Helos inbound. We may have
to fight our way into them.”
“Captain,” Dale Cochran said, “we are taking the body of our crew chief with us.”
“Of course, Captain. Did you think we would leave him behind? SEALs have never left a body, and we aren’t going to start now.”
“No, sir, I didn’t mean … ” the young man stuttered. “I just wanted—”
“Don’t worry about it. Beau, put Mcdonald about twenty feet to the right of Monkey. Use the two M-60s in crossfire to keep the rebels’ heads down when the helos arrive. No heroics,” he said, pointing at Beau. “HJ, you and Chief Wilcox, I want you at the helicopter door. Beau and I will provide cover fire for Monkey and Mcdonald. Once we’re on — no hesitation — jump aboard and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Bud opened his mouth to argue.
“No argument, Ensign. On board the helicopter is where I want you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” “How about us?” asked Captain Luke Blair, the Marine Corps copilot.
“Gentlemen, as much as I know it will irritate a couple of Marines, you two are to be the first aboard. Brief the pilot ASAP how we are boarding. I want us airborne thirty seconds after he sets down. Take the sergeant’s body with you.”
Gibbons, bent over at the waist, came running over to where the five squatted and did the same, cradling his carbine across his knees.
“Captain, I have the lead pilot on the radio. You want to talk?”
Duncan nodded and took the mike from Gibbons. “What’s his call sign, Gibbons?”
“Viper Four Seven. And, it’s a her.”
“Viper Four Seven, this is James One,” Duncan broadcast, using his last name as a call.”
“James One, this is Viper Four Seven, we are four Cobras and one heavy inbound your position,” said the female voice.
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