Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  The base had also served as a launch point for raids into Syria and Lebanon. Operators from Tier One, Special Missions Units appreciated the Agency’s hospitality, and the secluded location of the base allowed them to prep for missions away from prying eyes. But those missions were planned and coordinated with the military well in advance.

  The CIA had its own substantial fleet of aircraft, both fixed-wing and helicopters, operating in the region, but the chief knew his counterpart in Amman Station would have notified him if any of them were making an unscheduled visit.

  “Alright,” the chief growled, unhappy with the delay. “Stand by all, while I try to get us some answers.” He set the radio back in the charger, then moved to a desk two paces to his right and snatched the secure phone’s handset from the cradle. Dialing the number from memory, he waited impatiently for his counterpart in Amman to answer.

  The Marine on the tarmac was the first to see the helicopters. Flying low and fast, four specks on the horizon banked around the northern end of the mountain range that rose out of the desert between the base and Jordan’s capital city. “There,” he said, pointing to the spot.

  Al followed the Marine’s gaze until he saw them as well, their image obscured by the heat waves shimmering off the desert floor. “We’ve got eyes-on, boss. Four birds inbound from the north. They’re still too far away for a visual ID.”

  The chief was growing more frustrated by the minute as he waited for his counterpart to come on the line. Sure. They’d had unplanned arrivals in the past but there had been some advance notice, even if it was only ten or fifteen minutes. For some reason, this felt different, felt…wrong.

  Finally, the familiar voice come on the line. “How’s life out in the desert? Have you turned into a full-fledged Bedouin yet?”

  “Hey, Larry,” the chief said. “I’ve got a slight issue out here. We were in the process of launching Romeo Three when Al and one of our Marines heard rotors. Four helos are approaching from the north but we don’t have any incoming flights scheduled for today.”

  The jovial tone in Larry’s voice turned serious. “That is odd. Nothing comes to mind but let me double check the flight schedule for the week. Gimme a sec while I pull it up on my computer.”

  “Thanks. Normally I wouldn’t call with such urgency, but something doesn’t seem right. I can’t put my finger on it, just a feeling in the pit of my gut that these guys aren’t supposed to be here.”

  Al’s voice boomed over the radio’s speaker. “They’re making a bee-line for us, boss. Probably no more than ten minutes out.”

  Turning to his communications officer, the chief ordered, “Give the security guys a heads-up that we’ve got some uninvited company on the way. If those helos land, I want to make sure we have a fully armed welcoming party ready to greet them. Then get HQ on the horn and let them know what’s going on.”

  Larry’s voice came back on the line, refocusing the chief’s attention. “You’re right. I don’t have anything scheduled until your regular supply run next week.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Not to sound alarmist, but could you do me favor and see if we have anyone in the area that might be able to do a fly-by?” What he wouldn’t give right now to have a pair of A-10 Warthogs on station to put the fear of God into the men in the helicopters. While he waited for Larry to check on his air assets, the chief raised Al on the radio for a status update on the mysterious flight of helicopters.

  The chief relayed the information to his counterpart in Amman and said, “Our security team has been alerted and is taking up defensive positions around the airfield. I’ll stay on the line with you until we get a handle on what the hell these guys are up to.”

  Al couldn’t believe his eyes as the helicopters grew closer. No fucking way, he thought. That looks like a Russian Hind. The Mi-24 Hind was the helicopter gunship made famous in the Soviets’ war in Afghanistan. He was about to radio the chief when a pair of rockets soared from the pods attached to wing-tip pylons on either side of the fuselage. Al and the Marine ducked instinctively as the rockets screamed overhead and took out the communications tower and satellite dishes with an ear-splitting boom.

  The blast rocked the command center. Loose sand and dust particles floated through the air and the lights flickered intermittently, creating an effect like the fog machines and laser light shows at a dance club. With their communications down and a generator that was providing only sporadic power, the chief grabbed his Iridium satellite phone and sprinted for the back door. He powered up the device and cursed as he stared at the screen, pleading with the device to hurry up and make the connection with the satellites orbiting overhead. After what seemed like an eternity the screen confirmed the connection had been established, and he redialed Larry’s number. But before he could utter a single word, another of the Hind’s rockets landed twenty meters away and detonated next to the generator. White-hot shrapnel penetrated the fuel tank, setting off a secondary explosion that sent bits of machinery flying in every direction. The chief’s mangled body lay motionless on the sandy ground with the satellite phone still clutched in his right hand. Larry’s voice could be heard over the speaker, begging his friend to answer.

  CHAPTER 15

  Captain Gennady Kalugin led the airborne assault of the American base from his seat in the Ka-226 observation helicopter NATO designated as the Hoodlum. His knee injury had prevented him from leading the ground assault, but there was no way he was going to stay back in Tartus and miss a chance to take part in this operation. Colonel Gusarov had finally agreed to let him participate, but only in a command and control capacity from the helicopter. Kalugin wasn’t sure if he had made a compelling argument to be on the mission or if the colonel was tired of arguing and just wanted him out of his office. Either way, he was here, and they were minutes away from conducting direct action against a facility belonging to the intelligence apparatus of the United States of America. He still couldn’t believe Moscow had approved the mission.

  As they neared the base, Kalugin had the crew chief slide the doors open on both sides of the boxy, twin-rotor helicopter so he could get a better view of the battlespace. Warm air flowed through the cabin as he ordered the pilot to pull out of the formation, gain some altitude, and fly a racetrack pattern around the airfield. Switching his radio to the mission’s tactical channel, he made the call to initiate the attack.

  Taking out the Americans’ communications had to be the first order of battle, and he watched as the Hind’s crew sent its first pair of rockets into the satellite dish and antennae array next to the command center. For good measure, they fired a second pair into the rubble, setting off a secondary explosion that sent a fireball roiling into the air.

  Like a vicious bird of prey, the heavily armed gunship flew over the command center, its rotor wash and exhaust creating small vortexes in the smoke and dust filling the air from the explosion. As its pilot and gunner searched for other targets, Kalugin noticed two SUVs, probably full of security officers, racing up the runway. They would have to be dealt with, and he preferred it to be sooner rather than later. He directed the crew’s attention to the speeding vehicles, then sat back and let the Hind do what its designers intended. Destroy the enemy.

  The pilot swung the big helicopter around in an arc as the gunner lined up the lead vehicle in his sights. The twin-barreled cannon under the Hind’s nose came to life, spewing a burst of 23-millimeter rounds into the SUV. The heavy projectiles pummeled the vehicle, ripping through its metal skin and the men inside. Kalugin looked on from the open cabin of his command helicopter as the SUV drifted off the pavement and came to a stop in the deep sand on the north side of the runway. He marveled at the crew’s skill and accuracy and made a mental note to ensure these two were providing air support on his next mission. With the lead vehicle and its occupants out of commission, the gunner turned his attention and the twin barrels of his cannon on the second SUV. Caught in the open expanse of the runway, there was no place to run,
nowhere to hide, and the gunner dispatched it and the men it was carrying with the same deadly efficiency as the first.

  With the communication lines cut and the immediate threat of the responding security officers neutralized, it was time to initiate the ground assault phase of the operation. Kalugin adjusted his headset’s boom mic, then ordered, “Begin phase two.”

  The second helicopter in the lineup, an Mi-17 troop transport, landed on the tarmac directly in front of the still-idling Reaper. Ten battle-hardened Alpha men poured out of the open cargo door and hit the ground running. The two soldiers leading the squad raised their AK-74s and opened fire. Al, the mechanic, caught two rounds in the chest and was dead before he hit the ground. The second soldier’s aim was a little high and his bullets tore through the Marine’s neck, sending a spray of bright red arterial blood across the Reaper’s gray fuselage. He dropped to a knee before collapsing on the tarmac next to Al as blood pooled around their lifeless bodies.

  The ten soldiers split into two five-man fireteams and moved in a tactical train toward the command center. The first team stacked up on the main entrance while the other worked its way to the rear of the building and prepared to assault through the back door. Gunfire echoed through the dry desert air as a second Mi-17 dropped another ten-man team at the airstrip’s housing compound. Undistracted by their comrades’ firefight across the runway, the men at the command center remained laser-focused on the entry they were about to undertake.

  When both teams were in position, Kalugin gave the order to execute. At the front of the command center, the lead man in the stack pushed the door open, then stepped back as the soldier in the number-two position tossed a flashbang grenade through the opening. Simultaneously, the men at the rear of the building were going through the same process, and both teams entered on the heels of the exploding bangers. The ten heavily armed men cleared the small command center in a matter of seconds and converged in the open area where the ground control stations were located.

  Shaking off the effects of the stun grenades, the pilot stood and turned to face the soldiers closest to him. “What the fuck…?”

  A rifle butt to the side of his head cut off the question and he slumped back into his seat, bleeding from a gash across his temple. The soldier secured the pilot’s hands, then dragged him across the room and left him leaning against the front wall. Three other soldiers checked the sensor operator, communications officer, and medic for weapons, and once they were secured, had them sit next to the semiconscious pilot.

  “The command center is clear, and we have four prisoners, sir,” the team leader broadcast over the radio.

  “Very good,” Kalugin replied. Moving forward in the cabin, he stuck his head in the cockpit and said, “Take us down.”

  The pilot banked the Ka-226 and flew fifty feet above the runway before bringing it to a hover and touching down on the tarmac. Kalugin removed his headset, placing it on a hook mounted in the cabin, unbuckled his safety harness, and stepped out of the helicopter. He was met by the team leader as he approached the command center. Putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, he ordered, “Have a man bring that tanker truck over and begin refueling the helicopters. I want the Hind topped off first and back in the air in case the Americans were able to put out a call for help before we destroyed the communications tower.”

  Fuel was one of the main logistical issues he’d had to overcome when planning this operation. Due to the limited two-hundred-and-eighty-mile range of the Mi-24 Hind, the flight of helicopters was unable to make the round trip on a single tank of fuel. Kalugin could have stopped off in Damascus but decided to set up a hasty landing zone in the desert seventy-five miles east of the capital to avoid drawing unwanted attention to the mission. They would more than likely need to land again on the way back, but he wanted the helicopters’ tanks full just the same. “And have two men find some way to tow that security vehicle out of the runway so the Antonov can land.”

  Kalugin entered the command center as the team leader went about fulfilling his orders. Looking to the soldier left in charge of the prisoners, Kalugin asked, “Was there any damage to the equipment?”

  “No, sir. We were able to make entry and secure the building without firing a shot.”

  “And the prisoners?” Kalugin inquired, looking at the four Americans sitting against the wall.

  “Only the one offered any resistance, but he was dealt with easily enough.”

  A nasty gash and a pounding headache were the man’s rewards for his efforts. Don’t worry, my friend, Kalugin thought. Your head won’t be bothering you much longer.

  CHAPTER 16

  Kalugin checked the running timer on his watch as the cargo doors on the Antonov An-12 closed and the pilots began to spin up the four turboprop engines. Two hours and six minutes had passed since the initiation of the attack. They were behind schedule, but not by much.

  With the airfield secured, he had given the all-clear, and the cargo plane, which had been loitering on the Syrian side of the border, had come in low and fast, flying nap of the earth to avoid being picked up on Jordanian radar. On loan from the Russian Air Force, it carried a team of aerospace engineers and aircraft mechanics who disembarked and broke into four small teams. The first went to work disassembling Romeo Three while the others began checking items off their specific shopping lists. One team headed for the satellite communication system while another began disconnecting one of the ground control stations. The last team was busy at the weapons bunker packing ten Hellfire missiles for transport.

  Freeing up half his men to help load the components into their storage and transport containers had sped up the process considerably. Truth be told, Kalugin was quite happy they were running only six minutes behind schedule. He had built a bit of cushion into the mission’s timeline in case there were issues securing the base or packing and loading the UAV and its support equipment. But for the most part, the operation had gone off without a hitch. Still, Kalugin had the nagging feeling they’d overstayed their welcome and he was ready to get back across the border into Syrian territory.

  That feeling was confirmed when an F-16 Fighting Falcon belonging to the Royal Jordanian Air Force made a pass down the length of the runway a mere five hundred feet off the ground. The fighter shot silently past the command center and the idling Antonov, followed a moment later by the shriek of its single Pratt and Whitney engine.

  Kalugin’s head snapped to the left, his eyes following the fighter’s trajectory as it banked and began to climb, no doubt gaining altitude for another pass. He admired the plane’s sleek lines, the sun glinting off its bulbous plexiglass canopy. Yes. It is definitely time to go, he thought. But first, we’ve got to do something about that jet.

  While the Hind gunship was an excellent weapon against targets on the ground, and possibly even other helicopters, it was no match for a fighter with the F-16’s capabilities. It would be a waste of a talented crew to have the Hind engage the jet, so Kalugin raised the pilots and had them reposition to the opposite side of the mountain range to the north. He hoped the rugged terrain would hide the Hind from the jet’s pilot and radar systems. Next, he instructed the remaining helicopter crews to fire up the engines and prepare for immediate take off. Finally, he grabbed the two men nearest him, issued a short order, and watched as they sprinted to one of the Mi-17s idling on the tarmac.

  By the time the men reached the helicopter, its crew chief had already positioned two olive-green crates in the cargo door. Taking great care, they set the crates on the ground and unhooked the latches. The first soldier knelt as he opened the lid to reveal a 9K333 Verba. The Man Portable Air Defense System, or MANPADS, was a shoulder-fired, ground-to-air missile. Designated the SA-25 by NATO forces, it was the fourth generation in a line of air defense weapons that had been in the Russian inventory for decades. With its upgraded seeker, adding a third sensor to the prior versions’ two, the Verba was more accurate and less susceptible to an aircraft’s countermeasures tha
n its predecessors.

  The second soldier unlocked his crate, and the men attached the battery packs and electronic sighting systems before standing in unison and hefting the launchers’ long cylindrical tubes onto their shoulders. They jogged to a spot in the center of the runway, activated the battery packs and targeting sights, and waited for the F-16 to make another pass.

  Catching the dark speck speeding across the sky toward the airfield, the more experienced soldier said, “Be patient. Don’t rush the shot.”

  As the American-built fighter drew closer, the Verba’s targeting system began emitting a solid tone indicating its seeker had acquired the target. The soldier took a quick glance to his rear to ensure his back-blast area was clear, then checked the sighting system one last time to confirm the lock-on. Confident his missile was tracking the jet, he pressed the firing mechanism. The missile leapt from the launch tube and seemed to hang, suspended in the air for a split second, before its solid-fuel rocket motor ignited and it sped off at nearly six hundred meters per second in pursuit of its prey.

  The interior of the single-seat fighter lit up like a Christmas tree the moment the early warning system, or EWS, detected the missile. The pilot banked hard to the right and hit the afterburners to put the F-16 into a steep climb, attempting to get above the Verba’s flight ceiling of sixteen thousand feet. He activated the jet’s electronic countermeasures, then began popping chaff, deploying hundreds of tiny bits of foil and aluminum-coated glass fibers that formed an electromagnetic smoke screen designed to distract the incoming missile’s radar.

  With a calmness in his voice that belied the severity of the situation, the pilot pressed the transmit button on his yoke. “Command, this is Falcon One Three. I’ve been fired upon by unknown forces at the base and am taking evasive maneuvers.” Next, he strained against the g-forces of his maneuver to activate an additional countermeasure. White-hot flares fired out from each side of the fuselage, leaving trails of smoke in the plane’s wake. Burning at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, a temperature hotter than the exhaust of an aircraft’s engine, the flares were an effective counter to a missile’s heat-seeking sensors and could buy a pilot the time he needed to survive this type of engagement. While the pilot’s concentration was focused on avoiding the immediate threat closing in on his aircraft, the second solider sent his missile skyward.