by Vince Flynn
“And how,” asked Holmes, a bit underwhelmed, “is this going to affect the election?”
“You don’t want any bad press the last four months before the election, and that is exactly when these challenges are going to go before the court.”
“Peggy, I know you’re passionate about this, but the majority of the voting public could give a rat’s ass if some suspected terrorist doesn’t get read his Miranda rights and is denied a lawyer.”
“But the base does.”
Holmes had learned the hard way that the base of his party meant the 10 percent who were so far to the left they were completely out of touch with the values of the vast majority of middle America. If they had it their way, they would lead the party right over the edge of a cliff and into the great abyss of fanatical liberalism.
“What are they going to do…go vote for whoever the Republicans put up?”
“No, they just won’t vote, and you know what happens if the base doesn’t turn out.”
He had to reluctantly admit that she was right. It was an unnerving reality of his job. Holmes was a probusiness Democrat, and if he had it his way he’d jettison the crazy lefties and send them packing to the Green Party, but that was an untenable solution.
He shook his head. “You’re ruining a perfectly good evening and we’re only five minutes into it.”
Stealey remained intense. “I’m telling you right now the activists who are steering these challenges over the constitutionality of that stupid piece of legislation are going to time this so they get maximum exposure. They’re going to beat this drum all the way up to the election. And you and I both know who’s going to take the hit.”
“Hayes?”
“No,” Stealey frowned. “He may eventually, but it’s going to start with my boss AG Stokes…and I’m not going to sit back and let it happen.” As a not so subtle threat she added, “And neither will he.”
Holmes was slowly beginning to see that he might have a problem on his hands. Attorney General Martin Stokes was a rising star in the Democratic Party. There was even talk of having the president dump his worthless vice president and replace him on the ticket with Stokes. The man came from big money, and like Holmes he was pro-business and pro-defense. He was the type of man who could neutralize the Republicans.
“Peggy, I’m not going to say I agree with you on this, but you’ve at least piqued my interest.” He looked down into his glass and snagged an olive. Holmes popped it in his mouth and said, “Knowing you as well as I do, I assume you have a plan of action.”
“I do,” said Stealey confidently, “but it’s not going to get us anywhere unless you can get the president to playball.”
Holmes had significant pull with the president, and he had to admit as of late he thought the pendulum was swinging a bit too far in favor of the law enforcement, defense, and intelligence communities. “Let me hear your idea and I’ll see what I can do.”
PAKISTAN
The two AH-64 Apache helicopters arrived on station one minute after the takedown. One began flying cover over the village while the other moved to secure the landing field. The two attack helicopters carried a combined total of 120 rockets, 16 hell-fire missiles for hardened targets, and their eviscerating 30mm nose cannons. In addition to their firepower they were equipped with the most advanced navigation, weapons system, and electronic countermeasures of any helicopter in the world. They were General Harley’s solution to not being able to use fixed-wing air cover.
A lone Pave Hawk helicopter, an advanced version of the Blackhawk, came through the mountain pass and sped over the city well out of RPG range, but still within shot of antiaircraft guns and shoulder-launched missiles. In the premission briefing, they’d been shown the reconnaissance photos of the truck-mounted antiaircraft guns, called technicals, and were also warned that there was a real chance the enemy might have surface-to-air missiles.
Having no desire to encounter either, the two pilots continued well past the town and banked hard to come back in and drop off their payload. As they descended toward the open field the pilot kept his focus on the patch of land that was punched into the advanced avionics computer, and the instruments that relayed his speed, altitude, and attitude. The copilot scanned the horizon and kept a nervous eye on the missile warning system. Even though visibility was good the door gunners called out their descent and searched the landing area for any hostiles.
As the Pave Hawk landed on the open field, a ten-man Air Force Special Tactics Squadron kicked their hundred-pound packs from the troop compartment and hit the ground running. After sprinting a short distance and fanning out, the men hit the dirt, taking up their defensive positions while the Pave Hawk lifted off, struggling to gain altitude in the thin mountain air.
When the helicopter had reached a safe altitude, the squadron went to work. Retrieving their packs, four of the six men lumbered across the field to secure the main road and cut the phone line while the others consulted their handheld GPS computers and began laying out a precise grid of infrared strobes. Across the field, only a half mile away, they could hear the gun battle building, the cracks of rifle fire spurring them to complete their task as quickly as possible.
They weren’t quite finished laying out the grid when they heard a rumbling in the distance. The noise continued to grow as if it was a herd of stampeding cattle headed up the valley. Then the ground started to shake. The six men quickly laid down the remaining strobes and headed off at a near full sprint to their rallying point where they were to set up an aid station and act as forward combat air controllers.
GENERAL HARLEY’S COMMAND-and-control bird arrived over the village and began circling at ten thousand feet. Rapp had his eyes closed and his hands cupped over his headset as he strained to hear the chatter between Sergeant Corrigan and his men. There was already conflicting reports as to whether they had two or three of the big honchos. Rapp would be ecstatic if they had nabbed all three, but if it turned out one of them was killed in the takedown and two of them were alive to be interrogated, he certainly wouldn’t shed any tears.
They were barely five minutes into the op, and it was apparent from the movement below that the town had woken up. As they’d predicted, it was no sleepy mountain village. Rapp opened his eyes and looked at the image on the screen before him. A quarter of the moon was out and with the clear sky, the night-vision systems were providing relatively clear pictures. Sergeant Corrigan’s position was in the center of the screen. Rapp could make out hostiles moving toward him from all four directions. The numbers weren’t alarming yet, but it was still early. As long as the enemy didn’t throw anything heavy at them, Corrigan and his team should have no trouble holding out until the reinforcements arrived.
Movement at the far left of the screen caught Rapp’s attention. He still hadn’t deciphered what it was when the mission’s air commander sitting across from him spoke in an even but urgent voice.
“Raptor One, we have a technical on the move approaching Team One’s position…engage immediately.”
ONE BLACKHAWK and six massive, lumbering MH-47E Special Operations Aircraft made their way into the valley from a different direction than the initial strike force. Loaded down, the large helicopters were too vulnerable to risk flying directly over the village when they weren’t sure what they were up against. The pilots had to fly an extra forty-two circuitous miles to reach the target, but none of them complained.
The roar of their twin rotors and powerful turbine engines shook the entire valley and sent a clear signal to every person in the village that something bad was on its way. Thanks to the Air Force Special Tactics Squadron the landing area was lit up like a Christmas tree with infrared strobes that shone bright on the chopper’s FLIR screens.
Two of the big choppers came in first and set down, their aft ramps already lowered. Within seconds a pair of Desert Patrol Vehicles (DPVs) eased their way down the ramps and tore across the bumpy field in search of the road that led into the village. The
low-slung vehicles were capable of speeds up to eighty mph and could be outfitted with an array of powerful weapons systems. Each carried a crew of three U.S. Navy SEALs; a driver, a vehicle commander, and a gunner who sat in an elevated position behind the other two men.
For tonight’s mission the DPVs were armed with big .50-caliber machine guns, 40mm grenade launchers, 7.62mm machine guns, and two AT4 antitank missiles per vehicle. The storage compartments on the sides of the vehicles were packed with extra ammunition and could also be configured to carry stretchers if need be. The vehicles were a potent weapon in open terrain, but in an urban environment they were vulnerable. They lacked the armor that was needed to sit tight and sock it out with opposing forces, so tonight they would use hit-and-run tactics to keep the enemy off balance until the bulk of the force arrived.
As the Desert Patrol Vehicles disappeared into the night a pair of ATVs rolled down the ramps of the Chinooks pulling trailers laden with crates and other equipment. The drivers of each small off-road vehicle cleared the landing zone and headed off to set up the command post and several mortar positions. A dozen Rangers in heavy gear struggled to keep up as they hoofed it over the patchy ground.
The two Chinooks, with their loads delivered, cleared the landing area to make room for their sister ships that were already on approach. Four of the big dull-green transports came in, breaking their single-file formation as they lined up with their marked landing zones. As each bird touched down, Rangers streamed from the aft ramps, breaking off into different-sized groups and heading off to various rallying points. What looked like chaos to the uninitiated was actually a highly orchestrated battlefield deployment of a reinforced U.S. Army Ranger company.
They were the sledgehammer that General Harley intended to wield in routing the Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters from their mountain stronghold. The Rangers were part of the 75th Ranger Regiment, 2nd Battalion. The company had rotated into Afghanistan four months ago, and had already seen plenty of action.
They were trained to fight in every environment, climate, and terrain that could be thrown at them. They excelled at direct-action missions—seizing airfields or capturing key facilities or towns. Using mobile firepower, agility, and speed, they were trained to overwhelm numerically superior forces in short order, and that was exactly what General Harley planned on using them for.
Corrigan walked to the front of the house and poked his head past the splintered and mangled door frame just in time to hear a bullet whistle past and slap into the side of the mud-brick house. The bearded Corrigan didn’t even flinch. He turned in the direction the shot had come from and shouldered his rifle, but before he had the chance to fire, one of his men on the roof took care of the problem for him.
The amount of incoming fire was building steadily. So far none of his men had been hit, but if this kept up it was only a matter of time. He’d put four more shooters on the roof to bolster the two snipers and two light machine guns that were already in place, and all eight of them were busy. It was quickly becoming a target-rich environment, and inside one hundred yards, Delta shooters didn’t miss very often, even when the targets were moving.
The potshots weren’t what had Corrigan worried. Brave men with machine guns assaulting a team of entrenched Delta Force shooters was little more than suicide, but these were battle-hardened soldiers who’d been in a state of perpetual war for two decades. It wouldn’t take long for them to get organized and come up with a better strategy—a strategy that would probably involve bigger guns and rocket-propelled grenades.
The call came over the unit’s internal radio link. “Cor, it’s Lou…I think you’d better come back here and take a look at something.”
Corrigan poked his head around the door frame and looked down the street through his AN/PVS-17 night sight. Two blocks away a tango came around the corner and took up position to fire an RPG. “Hold on a second, Lou.”
Corrigan moved reflexively. The PEQ-2 laser designator mounted at the front of his weapon painted the man’s chest with a bright red dot and Corrigan squeezed the trigger. The tango crumpled to the ground. Almost immediately, another man scrambled from the cover of the building and reached down to pick up the RPG. Corrigan painted the man’s head, dropped him with a single shot, and then ducked back into the house.
“What’s up, Lou?”
“I think I found something back here.”
Corrigan edged his way up to one of the broken windows and took a quick look outside. He saw two men dart across the street about eighty yards away. One of them made it and the other didn’t.
“Can it wait?” he asked, as he surveyed the situation.
Before the man could answer, the thunderous reports of a heavy-caliber machine gun boomed above the din of the steadily building rifle fire. A fist-sized hole was punched in the wall a few feet from Corrigan. The master sergeant hit the floor instantly as chunks of the dry mud brick rained down on him. He crawled back to the front door swearing under his breath.
Thumbing the switch on his radio for the command net, he said in an angry growl, “Condor Five, this is Rattle Snake, where is my air cover?”
“Air cover is on its way in, Rattle Snake. Sit tight.”
The voice was calm and professional and it irritated Corrigan to no end. It was easy to stay cool when you were safely above the fray circling at five thousand feet. Come down here on the street and get your ass shot at and see if your voice takes on a more urgent tone.
“I’ve got a heavy-caliber machine gun firing on my position from the east!”
“I see it, Rattle Snake. Raptor One is inbound.”
Before Corrigan could ask for an ETA he heard the telltale “whoosh” of aerial rockets passing overhead. A split second later there was a series of thunderous explosions.
CAPTAIN MILT Guerrero stood at the edge of his hastily established forward command post and looked out across the field through a pair of night vision binoculars. He and his command staff had come in on a Blackhawk and landed at the forward command post set up by the Air Force STS Team. He watched his three platoons, 144 men strong, rush across the open field. Even with their heavy gear they would cover the distance to the edge of the town in five minutes or less. If they ran into any resistance, that estimate could easily double or even triple, but the company commander had contingencies ready in case the enemy put up an unexpected early fight.
General Harley’s original plan had called for the Rangers to march immediately to Rattle Snake One’s position and create a secure perimeter for the exfiltration of the Delta Team and any prisoners, but after studying the objective, and the surrounding terrain further, General Harley came up with a bolder plan—a plan that was more reminiscent of the way Rangers fought in WWII. They were too far afield to fight with one hand tied behind their backs, and Harley had no desire to lose any of his men due to limited rules of engagement.
For an American officer, however, the desire for force protection always had to be balanced against the lives of innocent civilians. In almost any battlefield situation this was an area as murky as a Louisiana swamp, but here in Southwest Asia the lines between innocent civilian and guerrilla fighter were almost completely indistinguishable. Virtually everybody carried a weapon of some sort, even the young boys. A farmer was rarely a simple farmer. This village was an al-Qaeda and Taliban stronghold used to ferry men and supplies across the border into Afghanistan. Those supplies were used to kill American soldiers. There wasn’t an adult in this village who didn’t know what was going on.
The brutal reality of war in this violent, fanatical region was that every child over the age of ten was a potential threat, as were their mothers. If they didn’t move decisively, if they didn’t shock the enemy and keep them off balance, they could quickly find themselves bogged down in a house-to-house fight where they would be outnumbered—an entrenched street-by-street battle against a well-seasoned force that was not known for taking prisoners. If that happened they would have to call in the A-10 Warthog
s and possibly a Spooky gunship that would undoubtedly lead to many more civilian deaths. Guerrero bought into the General Patton creed: engagements, battles, wars that were fought quickly, decisively, and with brute force saved lives in the long run. Patton knew well after fighting in WWI what happened when forces got bogged down.
The loss of innocent life was to be avoided if possible, but not if it meant risking the life of a Ranger. Quick and decisive force on the front end would save lives in the end. It was Captain Guerrero who had pushed for the battle’s more traditional rules of engagement. Anyone seen running toward the battle carrying a weapon, man, woman, or child, was to be considered hostile and engaged, and any house or structure that was used to fire upon American forces was to be pulverized.
That was worst case and they were hoping to avoid it completely by separating the proverbial wheat from the chaff. Guerrero had a great respect for General Harley that bordered on reverence. Harley had studied the enemy, had gone back and read the history of the country. He’d talked with Soviet officers who had fought and lost in Afghanistan. Harley knew the enemy well, and he knew with relative certainty what they would do when confronted with a surprise attack in the dead of night.
“Sir,” a young lieutenant approached the company commander, “the mortar teams are ready.”
Part of General Harley’s ingenious plan for tonight’s operation was to reinforce the young captain’s two 60mm mortars. “Have sections one, two, and three begin laying down a barrage at the southern edge of the town, have sections four and five coordinate with Rattle Snake One on where they’d like them dropped, and have section six look for targets of opportunity as directed by the forward observers.”