Jamie rocked the GAARV to a stop. All four grinning airmen inside were coated with dirt. Clapping, they made puffs. The GAARV, too, wore a jacket of dust, initiated.
LB moved first, reaching the driver’s door, which Jamie had not opened.
“How was it?”
Jamie shook his head as if to rattle into place the proper words.
“Awesome.”
“You got it all worked out?”
“We’re good. Everyone drove her.”
“Okay. Get out.”
Jamie raised his goggles above a sheepish grin.
“Nope.”
“What?” LB leaned in over the windowsill. “Wally, come on. Our turn. Let’s go.”
On the passenger side, Wally lifted a finger for silence. He was listening intently to something LB did not hear, the radio in his ear. He nodded.
“Yes, ma’am. Roger that. On our way.”
Quincy kicked the dirt again and turned away.
Berko moved beside LB.
“What’s up, Captain?”
“The riggers want her back.”
LB stepped up to make a more impassioned complaint than the young lieutenant would.
“This is bullshit.”
“Orders.”
“You guys have been out here since sunup. We get to train on her next. That’s the deal.”
Wally shrugged, setting off a tiny dust avalanche down his chest.
“Torres says the riggers want it back in the hangar. Now.”
“We don’t spin up for another six hours. This sucks. At least give us back the thirty minutes you were late.”
Wally replied by lowering his goggles.
“Go.”
Jamie shifted, mashed the gas, and threw grit and pebbles. The GAARV growled and leaped away. From the backseat, Dow and Mouse added their raised middle fingers to the antennas and gun barrels.
LB watched her drifting dust. Berko, Doc, and Quincy shuffled back to the ATV, the souped-up golf cart that had hauled them out here three hot miles from camp. Doc and the LT climbed in the back, Big Quincy in the front passenger side. LB pointed at Quincy.
“What are you doing?”
Quincy folded his big arms. “You wanted to drive. Drive.”
After cleaning up the used GAARV, six of the team members went to their CLUs to rest before tonight’s op. Doc and LB climbed to their tents on top of the high shelf inside the Barn, close to the ductwork, where rain on the metal roof sounded like drumrolls.
In midafternoon, unable to nap, LB descended the ladder without waking Doc. He didn’t favor the notion of deploying with a piece of equipment he wasn’t familiar with and hadn’t shaken his sense of unfairness out on the savanna. On top of this, over in their portion of the Barn, the riggers were working and noisy.
LB moseyed over, hoping at least to sit in one of the GAARVs, to get the feel of it. Even that was frustrated; all five riggers shouted him away. The pair of vehicles glistened like new, which they were. One was already packed, strapped down, and ready to be loaded onto a plane. Both vehicles looked wrong motionless. These things were made to go, evade, survive, carry the Guardian Angels into and out of a fight. They were designed to be tossed out of airplanes, too, so the riggers coveted them as much as the PJs. LB took a seat on one of the chute-packing tables to study their work. At some point in the future, he’d have to undo it.
On every jump, the rigging team held the GA team’s lives in their hands. These men were all experts, and by nature perfectionists. They moved efficiently but carefully; this was their first time with a GAARV, too.
They worked from a TO, a technical order binder that came with the vehicles. The first task was to build for each GAARV a platform to tie it to, which would absorb the impact of a parachute landing.
The riggers were halfway through building the platform for the second GAARV. The pallet was made by laying out a big plywood deck, then overlaying it with a five-inch sheet of corrugated crush board. Another plyboard deck was set on top of this, and the sandwich was secured by long bolts. The bottom of the platform was left smooth, to be rolled on and off the ramp of an HC-130. The base would make contact with the ground first, and the honeycomb crush board was designed to take the blow, instead of the three-thousand-pound GAARV.
When the platform was finished, the riggers started the motor of the second GAARV to drive it on top. LB asked to do this for them and was almost run out of the room.
For the next hour, the riggers packed more crush board around the wheels, axles, machine guns, steering column, head- and taillights. Anything that might suffer from a hard landing or get tangled in the huge G-12 cargo chute’s lines. The chute container itself was attached to a release mechanism that would detach the silk once on the ground, to stop the canopy from dragging the load away.
Finally, the second GAARV was strapped to its platform by rolls of tubular nylon webbing and metal fast-release buckles. With the rigging done, both vehicles hunkered side by side, looking like subdued wild things, like they wanted to burst their restraints.
The riggers stood around LB to explain how they’d done their job and how best to free the GAARVs. Because vehicles were involved—ATVs and GAARVs—they’d stowed everything needed for extrication in case of an accident: a battery-powered Sawzall, Jaws of Life, crash axes, and shovels, plus inflatable lift bags that could raise forty thousand pounds. They showed LB the blood cooler, spare batteries, signaling devices. The list of supplies for a wide range of mission contingencies was exhaustive. The riggers had done a superb job, and they said as much. They’d finished up two full hours before the scheduled load time. LB could have spent that time out on the Djibouti plains finding out what these wild things could do. He shut his mouth about this and listened to the riggers brag until Wally called from the doorway.
“Nice work, guys. LB, the major wants us in the Rescue Operations Center. Pre-op brief.”
LB hopped off the table. One of the riggers patted him on the back.
“Try to make it back in one piece.”
LB pointed at the GAARVs. “You mean them or me?”
All five hooted him out the door.
“Them.”
The Rescue Operations Center had the most computers at Camp Lemonnier. Because of this, it had the best air-conditioning.
In the small waiting room surrounded by air force posters, LB and Wally were met by Torres, black hair in a bun. She wore the same baggy airman battle uniform as everyone else, but while the ABUs made LB look like a blue tiger-striped sugar bowl, the major and Wally brought to mind long-legged animals in their prime. Wally held the door for her entering the op control room.
LB spoke to Torres’s back. “You coming along on this one, Major?”
Torres halted in the doorway, blocking Wally and LB. She kept her back turned, drew a deep breath of patience.
“Essential personnel only. And I still define what essential means.” Torres stepped into the ROC.
Inside the op center, a dozen airmen, soldiers and marines sat at computer stations in front of a wall of glowing monitors. These displayed the Falcon View program, combining satellite maps of Horn of Africa, Persian Gulf, and Middle East regions, with overlays of air asset tracking and weather conditions. At the head of the conference table, in the place where Torres normally sat, an O6 bird colonel leaned on his forearms, fingers knit around a coffee mug. Trim and fit, with a chiseled face and short gray hair, he had the look of a future general. His face bore the squint of an intent man. The colonel did not rise. Torres handled the introductions.
“This is Colonel Hulsey, from AFRICOM. He’ll be Chief of Operations for this mission. Colonel, team commander Captain Bloom. And team leader Master Sergeant DiNardo. Gentlemen, have a seat.”
Gathered around the table, Wally and LB opened notebooks and set out pens. Colonel Hulsey
thanked Torres, then took over.
“We’re in a support role on this one. The SEALs are out front. It’s a precious cargo pickup. You’ll get their backs.”
Hulsey left his coffee cup to approach the bank of Falcon View monitors. He pointed into central Yemen, at Ma’rib, a small city in the Wadi Hadhramaut, on the edge of the great Empty Quarter desert. The Hadhramaut region was increasingly known in the West for oil and harboring wanted men.
“The PC is a Saudi national. She’s the daughter of a big shot in the government, one of the royal family. She’s decided she wants to go back to the Kingdom, but circumstances make that difficult. The US has been asked to lend a hand. The request was made at the highest levels. This is a multiagency op. That’s why I’m here.”
LB raised his pen.
“Sir, what circumstances?”
“Her husband’s a confirmed terrorist. And no, he doesn’t know she’s leaving.”
LB stuck out his lower lip. “Those are circumstances.”
“She’s got no passport, no travel papers. That’s why she’s being exfilled through the desert, off the grid, where there’s no border control. The op goes down tonight. She’ll be taken out of Ma’rib in a civilian car, departing 1830 hours. The vehicle will be driven by a Yemeni official. There’ll also be a US State Department diplomat riding along.”
Wally piped up next. “Sir, why’s he there?”
“He’s carrying a blue force tracker. Beyond that, it’s need-to-know, gentlemen. I don’t need to know. So neither do you.”
LB snorted. “Funny how the people who say that are never the ones with parachutes on.”
Torres glowered at LB but apparently the colonel had earned his wings and agreed. Hulsey just tapped the map north of the Yemen-Saudi border.
“Your rescue unit will sit pre-position here at the airport in Sharurah. A six-man SEAL team will be there, too. At 2300 hours, the SEALs will deploy along the Saudi border in ATVs, where they’ll wait for word that the package has arrived here, on the S150 road ten miles south of the line. They’ll cross into Yemen to take possession of the PC, return to Saudi territory at a remote location, then bring her back to Sharurah. A private jet will fly her to Riyadh and her rich daddy. The car heads back to Ma’rib. We’ll monitor the op from the Personnel Recovery Center. The diplomat will also be coding in threat levels one through four every fifteen minutes. You’ll jump in if you see a four. Which you probably won’t. This is pretty straightforward. Questions?”
LB spoke before Wally. Since both would ask the same things, Wally sat back.
“Sir, what are the threats in the area?”
Hulsey came back to tuck himself in at the table. He gestured to Torres, who answered without notes.
“Northeast of Ma’rib is the Ramlat al-Sab‘atayn. Beyond that is the much larger Empty Quarter. These are vast, unpopulated sand regions. There are some scattered Bedu camps, but they’re hard to pinpoint.”
“So where’s the threat?”
“It’s important you understand something. These deserts are barren, but they’re not empty. Large areas are controlled by tribes. The land is not unknown to them. Occasionally the tribes will set up roadblocks along the highway. They collect minor tolls for passing through their territories. The diplomat’s been prepared with ample funds and government franked permits.”
LB spoke to Wally. “What happens if he’s got the wrong change?”
Torres patted the table in front of LB to bring his attention back to her.
“We’re not worried about the tolls. The concern is the husband of the PC. He’s a Saudi terrorist. Some of the tribes have links to al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula. We can’t know how that will affect the mission. That’s why you’re in backup.”
Torres’s voice had an overly portentous ring to it. Or was she just putting LB in his place, showing her hard-ass side in front of the bird colonel? Either way, LB didn’t like it. Hulsey caught something, too, because he jumped back in.
“It’s also why we expedited delivery of your new GAARVs. If you have to go in, do the job and get out fast. This is not a good place to take on the locals.”
“Exit strategy?”
“Head north into Saudi territory. Stay off the roads in and out.”
“What’s our rules of engagement?”
“ROE is you’re clear to return fire for defense only. Use your judgment. Evade if you can. The point here is to leave no footprint.”
“Roger that.” LB added “Sir,” so Torres would know he wasn’t talking to her.
Wally rapped LB’s leg under the table, then spoke next.
“How about the passengers. Any medical conditions we need to know?”
“Negative.”
“Anything else you can tell us about the SEAL mission, or the cargo?”
“Negative. Now you know what I know. I admit that’s not much. This is pretty hushed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The major will handle call signs and frequencies. You spin up in ninety minutes. I’ll be watching. Major.”
Hulsey stood from the table. The others got to their feet for his exit from the ROC. Torres opened a folder. Wally and LB picked up their pens.
Torres checked down her list. The SEAL team leader would answer call sign Mako 44. The ground-to-ground freq would be 55.50; ground-to-air with the HC-130 would be on 226.45. Sat comm was on a Naval Special Warfare Channel.
“That’s it.”
Wally closed his notebook. “Roger.”
LB rose quickly, gathering his notes. “I’ll get the team together. Major.”
“Sergeant.”
“There’ll be a half-moon over the desert. Very romantic.”
“LB.”
“Ma’am.”
“Rescue yourself. Go. Right now.”
LB briefed the squad. They asked the same questions he and Wally had asked, and LB gave the same answers he’d gotten from Hulsey, mostly “I don’t know.”
He split the unit into two teams, assigning Jamie and Mouse into his GAARV with Berko because they had experience driving this morning. Wally, Dow, Quincy, and Doc formed Team 2.
Wally followed with his usual amped-up pre-mission speech. Stay together, work together, do the job, everyone comes home. You’re the best, act like it. This was young Berko’s first op and he sat forward through Wally’s quick speech while everyone else slouched. Wally clapped when he was done, like a quarterback. Berko jumped to his feet, charged and ready.
The squad headed to their lockers to gear up. Each locker was the size of a small garage, holding the equipment and outfits for the job of combat search and rescue: high- and low-altitude jumpsuits, gear for mountaineering, jungle survival, scuba, traversing snow, and hot climes. Everything needed to enter and survive any terrain on earth. LB grabbed his soft campaign hat and spare water bottles, extra sunglasses, and goggles. He tied a bandana around his neck.
He checked the compartments of his med ruck, adding cold packs to chill down bottles of water for later. Next, he slid the ruck into an eagle pack; if the PJs had to jump tonight, they’d clip these black sacks to their containers’ equipment rings once they were tight in their chutes. This allowed the med rucks to ride in front at their waists, out of the way of deploying lines. Next, LB buckled on the web vest that held his armor plates, radios, and five extra magazines of M4 ammo. He tested his night-vision goggles, attached them to his helmet, then clapped the whole on his head. Lastly, he hefted his field pack across his shoulders, tightened the straps, and snatched his carbine from the armory cabinet. This completed the burden. Out of long habit, LB did a few deep knee bends to shrug everything into place. More importantly, he displayed for himself, again, that he could do this.
With the rest of the team, he grabbed his chute off the riggers’ table, then shuffled out of the Barn to the three cart
s waiting to ferry them to the runway.
The carts hauled them under a violet sky and early stars. The African dusk had dispelled little of the day’s warmth. As the team entered the staging area, the big HC-130 with its gate down and engines quiet shed heat from standing in the sun all day. Even the tarmac radiated. LB and the rest of the team dropped their chute containers to sit against them. The heat through LB’s pants prickled his haunches. He pulled off his helmet to wipe his brow. He was going from this to a desert.
The ground crew and loaders busied themselves around the cargo plane. A forklift delivered the second packaged GAARV, easing it down onto the ramp’s rollers. The forks were withdrawn and the load team shoved the big vehicle into the plane’s giant bay. Once it was in place, the loadmaster set to securing both GAARVs behind yellow nylon webbing. None of the reclining PJs chatted; they listened to earbuds or, like Doc, dozed.
Berko sat next to the tireless Wally, going over their comm equipment and protocols. The two men were very different types; lanky Wally and his sun-etched eyes beside dark Berkowitz, thick, a former wrestler. They had dissimilar energies, too. Wally spoke with his hands, all wrists and elbows. Berko used less motion; he soaked things up instead of gathering them. The kid was earnest and, in his own way, commanding.
While the PJs dealt with heavy med rucks, the two CROs wore matching Guardian Angel op kits. The bulging vests were the communications centers for the rescue team. Wally and Berko were bundled inside an array of multiband radios, a modular tactical system that strapped a computer to the wearer’s back and a drop-down screen below his chest, and a SADL12 receiver/transmitter for real-time positions of the PJ teams and all assets on the mission. Tonight Wally and Berko would be able to track the movements of the SEALs, the diplomat in the car, and each other.
The four engines of the cargo plane fired up and the propellers gained speed and volume. Wally and Berko helped each other to their feet, then went among the PJs to do the same. LB sat in the rising roar of the propellers, to stand last.
He did not see the approach of the slim hand that reached down to him.
The Empty Quarter Page 15