The crew took the elevator to the lobby and climbed into the van waiting for them out front. The drive to the airport took about thirty minutes. They had armed escort vehicles both in front of and behind their vehicle. Plus, a couple of SEALs rode in the van with them. Jason noticed security was beefed up when they reached the building where the SOG set up shop. Each crewmember showed their line badge and signed in. Once they entered the building, it was significantly different.
Two Security Policemen checked their military IDs and line badges once they got inside the facility. Jason still had his line badge, because it was with his flight gear, but his I.D. card was still at the mansion in Cambodia. The SP’s had been pre-briefed on Jason’s situation, so he went through unscathed. They meandered through various hallways, where another set of SPs rechecked their IDs and directed them to leave their gear against the wall. The crew followed one of the SPs into the briefing room where Lieutenant Colonel McClendon stood in front of the room, talking to Remi. The rest of the SEALs leaned against the wall, waiting. McClendon looked up when the Jakals entered the room.
“Captain Conrad, glad you could join us.”
Jason wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or a greeting. He shrugged it off, aware the colonel and his team had been working while he slept. The crew filed into the two rows of seats. Remi’s team shed the walls and filled in the remaining seats.
Once everyone was seated, Remi took an open seat in the second row, and McClendon moved forward.
“Secure the doors in the back. Thank you. Folks, this briefing is classified top secret. U.S. only. NOFORN,” he said, indicating “no foreign nationals” were authorized to know what this briefing covered.
He continued. "I've been in contact with SOCPAC, AFSOC, SOCOM, and the SECDEF. The intel provided by Captain Conrad has proven authentic. The threat against the president is real. We have a time-sensitive mission that we will be executing. Sergeant?"
The young sergeant stepped forward and discussed the weather in Bangkok and over the target area. For the first time, the crew found out they would be flying over Southern Thailand, near Malaysia. Sugarmann briefed next, giving historical background on the BIPP and gave an update on their current status. Remi was next, briefing imagery of the SEALs' landing zone, the three-klick route, and the terrorist camp. Jason and the crew were informed it would be a HALO insertion.
A myriad of thoughts coursed through Jason's brain. Pre-flight, flight planning, crew shortfalls, pre-breathing—all things that affected his timeline. Intel followed with a quick update on the BIPP and the most recent chatter intercepts. What caught the crew's attention were MANPADS they possessed—man-portable missiles. Intel could not assess what version of missile the terrorists possessed. He realized, despite being in a friendly nation, this would be no walk in the park.
McClendon walked back up front, indicating the briefing was over. "Captain Conrad, there is no back-brief. We've filed a flight plan with the Thai ATC from Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur for you. The route takes you over the target. You can adjust your run-in based upon winds. Once the team departs the aircraft, continue until you cross the border, then RTB for a ‘malfunction.' You decide on what. Get your crew ready to go. You launch in two hours."
The briefing concluded, and Jason gathered his crew.
“Chris, start reviewing the flight plan. Let’s make sure it’s accurate. Martinez, you and Lon head out to the plane and start the pre-flight. Jimmy, find the charts for Southern Thailand and Northern Malaysia. We want to know where we’ll be flying. We’ll brief at the plane in forty-five minutes.”
His crew split up, each member setting out to accomplish his own tasks. Chris sat at a computer, typing in the route given to Thai ATC, his face drawn into a scowl.
“What’s up?”
Chris shook his head. “Whoever built this didn’t factor in our thirty-minute pre-breathing for the HALO.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Of course. Just more work. I’m gonna slow us down a little at first. I’ll insert a timing triangle. That will give us the time and the range to reach the altitude for the drop.” Chris created the adjustment, adding distance to their route. He added a right turn for fifty miles, then back to the left on an intercept course.
“Good man,” Jason said, patting Chris on the shoulder.
Just then, a worried airman—one of McClendon’s admin troops—walked toward them. The airman carried a piece of paper, which Jason recognized as his flight orders.
“Sir,” he said, “we’ve got a problem.”
56
October 16, 2003
The camp sat in darkness. The overcast sky hung over the camp like a moist, heavy blanket, hiding the stars overhead. Arthit stepped from his tent and rubbed his scraggly chin, his clean shirt sticking to his skin. His business suit from the bank hung haphazardly on a post next to his cot. He placed the sling of his AK-47 over his shoulder and wandered the camp.
The drive from Bangkok had taken longer than expected. He had tried to reach the safe house in Bangkok to drop off the missiles. Unfortunately, because of the shootout in the warehouse, police blocked off that portion of their escape route. His only choice had been to come back to camp. Too many phone calls between him, the camp, and Maison Andrepont had occurred over the last twenty-four hours. Thankfully, they kept a low profile since their inception. No one knew of their existence.
It was a long and nerve-racking drive, carrying three SA-16 missiles. Arthit arrived two hours earlier, and his men quickly unloaded the missiles and checked their functionality. They worked.
Arthit walked around the camp, talking to each of his men as they huddled around numerous campfires. They weren’t exactly his men. The BIPP had been a disorganized group of radical Islamic protestors on their best day. He had hired them and persuaded them to join the greater jihad. He organized them into a semblance of a fighting force.
“Arthit,” a young man said with a grin, his face shimmering in the firelight. “In two days, we will strike a decisive blow for Allah.”
"Yes," Arthit said with a nod. "It will be a decisive blow, indeed."
He wondered if the young jihadist knew he probably wouldn’t be coming back from this. Most likely, a suicide mission, but none of them realized it. If they did, they either didn’t say or didn’t care. The missiles, however, boosted their confidence.
Arthit almost wished he would be there to see the operation go down. Nevertheless, that was the difference between him and his men. While their goal was the same, their motivations remained vastly different. They engaged in the great jihad in a fight against the American devil. All they had required was a little nudge.
Him? He was already counting the money he would make from this. And you can’t spend that if you’re dead.
“Sir,” the airman said, “you can’t fly tonight.”
Jason glared at the naïve airman. Is he kidding? He didn’t have time for this. Nurse Carol must have gotten to the admin branch. He would handle her later.
“Look, I’m not DNIF.”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
Okay, now he was confused. He silently apologized to Nurse Carol and convinced himself he still needed to call her later. “Then what’s the problem?”
“You don’t have the required crew complement.”
Jason chuckled to himself. He’s got a mission launching in less than two hours to save the life of the president of the United States, and the pencil pushers were trying to tell him he couldn’t go because he was missing a couple of crew members. He started to rip the airman a new one, then backed off. The kid obviously didn’t know any better. He thought he was doing his job.
Jason reviewed the crew orders and saw his team listed. He had the basic crew requirements met.
“Looks like I got a full crew to me.”
“Well, no, sir,” the kid said. “You’re flying a tactical mission. You need another navigator and loadmaster.”
“That’s not what the orders say
.” Jason pointed to the mission description. “It says I’m flying a routine supply run to Kuala Lumpur.”
The airman smirked. It was not an arrogant smirk, but the kind of smirk that says, “I know your secret.”
“Yes, sir, but your real mission is tactical. You’re missing two crew members. You’re not going to be able to go unless you get the other two.”
Jason exhaled. “Okay. I appreciate you letting me know. Can you tell Lieutenant Colonel McClendon that we won’t be going? I’m kind of busy.”
"I-I guess so. But shouldn't you tell him, sir? It's your mission."
"Well, I would if it were our fault for canceling the mission, but we're leaning forward to get it done. The Admin shop is canceling the mission due to crew complement. So, you need to tell him."
The airman turned in McClendon’s direction and lowered his head. “Yes, sir.” He shuffled across the room to McClendon. Jason almost felt sorry for the kid. The mindset permeated throughout the Air Force. Everybody was the tip of the spear; everybody wanted his or her piece of the pie. If every person up and down the chain didn’t give his or her personal approval, the mission didn’t go. Nobody followed orders anymore—they had to be “encouraged” to do their job.
Jason walked over to Jimmy to look at the charts. He chose not to watch the poor kid approach McClendon about the orders. Jimmy had the low-altitude IFR (instrument flight rules) charts out, as well as the 1:25,000 scale chart of Southern Thailand.
“This is nice work, Jimmy. Don’t forget to break out the high charts. We’ll be above flight level one eight zero,” Jason said, knowing the high charts were necessary for navigating above eighteen thousand feet. “When you’re done, help Chris with the flight plan, and then find us some divert airfields.”
“You got it, boss.”
McClendon’s roar echoed throughout the room, to the point where everyone stopped. Even the SEALs. Jason glanced up to see the kid scurry out of the room.
“Conrad!” McClendon yelled across the room. “Are you good?”
Jason gave him a thumbs up. “Yes, sir. We’re good to go.”
57
October 16, 2003
Remi walked the length of the C-130 cargo compartment as the mighty Herc climbed through the black sky. The vibrations of the four turboprop engines radiated throughout his body. His SEAL team positioned themselves in the red canvas seats on either side of the aircraft. He checked each man for a visual confirmation they were ready. His query received head nods, several thumbs up, raised eyebrows, and even the incredulous look of “Are you shittin’ me, boss?”
They were a great team. Remi chuckled to himself that their good deal TDY had turned into a real-world op. He knew none of them was bothered by it. This was what they were trained to do. And they were better at it than anyone else in the world.
Reaching the forward bulkhead of the Herc, disconnecting the comm cord to his headset, Remi climbed the steps to the flight deck. The two pilots and flight engineer already wore their helmets, oxygen masks connected at one side, yet dangling in front of their faces. Chris still had his helmet off, located next to his seat.
The flight engineer noticed Remi and pointed to a comm cord on the wall. Remi plugged in.
“Hey, guys, how’s it going?”
"You looking for a better view?" Jason said from the left seat, looking back toward Remi.
“Nah, I figure I’ll get an eyeful before this is all over.”
Jason chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you will. You guys all set back there?"
“Yeah, we’re ready to go. How long to pre-breathing?”
“Nav?”
“Ten minutes, pilot,” Chris said. “Remi, you want to check out the release point based on the updated winds?”
“Yeah.” Remi slid back to the nav table.
Chris showed him the aircraft route, the initial point, or IP, leading them into the release point. Remi picked up the most recent weather report the crew received at the airport and reviewed the winds at the various altitudes.
“Any update on the weather we were warned about?”
“Yep. It’s off to the right,” Jason said. Remi moved next to the flight engineer and peered out the window. Subtle flashes of lightning within a group of clouds lit the distant sky.
“That doesn’t look so bad.”
“From here, no. We’re still a hundred miles away,” Jason said, pointing at his weather radar.
“We wanted to do a jumpmaster directed jump. Will we be able to see the DZ?” Remi asked.
“Unknown at this time. We’re posturing to call it off the radar and instruments if we don’t have ground contact. Is that good for you?”
“Yeah, swell,” Remi said. It could be done, but he didn’t like that option. They always liked it when they could see where they were going.
“Five minutes to start pre-breathing,” Chris said.
“Okay. Crew, pilot, get your oxygen masks on. Stand by check-in.”
“I’ll see you guys in a few days,” Remi said and disconnected his comm cord. Climbing back down the steps, Remi saw the loadmaster ensuring the SEALs were all on oxygen. Remi donned his parachute and put on his gear. He connected his own oxygen, and Hilts stood to check his connections. Once Hilts gave him the thumbs up, Remi plugged back into the aircraft comm system.
The aircraft droned for the next few minutes, plodding up to the initial level off altitude. They stayed at ten thousand feet until the thirty minutes were up, then climbed up to twenty thousand feet. The aircraft started bumping slightly in the climb. The turbulence increased as they approached the area of the thunderstorms.
“Hey, pilot,” Remi said through the comm system in his oxygen mask, “we gonna be able to see the ground?”
“Too hard to tell,” Jason responded. “We’re abeam that thunderstorm. It’s about thirty miles east.”
“How far out are we?”
“Twelve minutes,” Chris chimed in.
“Alright, thanks.”
Remi stood and signaled the time to his team. They all stood and checked each other, checking parachute straps and backups, and their weapons ready. The white lights in the cargo compartment switched to NVG compatible green, indicating they were ten minutes from the drop zone.
At five minutes, the aircraft slowed to 150 knots. The cargo door rose, and the ramp lowered into position. The SEAL jumpmaster moved to the edge of the ramp, holding onto the inside of the Herc.
"Five minutes," the nav said over the headset.
Remi tapped the jumpmaster and showed him five fingers. The jumpmaster nodded and continued his search outside. After a couple of minutes, the jumpmaster pulled back in, shaking his head, signaling the weather inhibited his ability to see the drop zone.
“Pilot, we can’t see the ground. You guys are gonna have to make the call.” Remi signaled his team it would be a blind drop.
“Roger. Nav?”
“On it, pilot. Two minutes out.”
Remi signaled two minutes. The SEALs simultaneously switched from the ship’s oxygen supply to their supplemental supply. They double- and triple-checked all their connections.
“Sixty seconds.”
The team shuffled close together near the ramp. The cold wind whipped through the rear of the aircraft, and despite all the gear he wore, the sharp bite of the wind pierced Remi’s uniform. It would be over in two minutes. Their drop from twenty thousand to thirty-five hundred feet would be less than two minutes, the cold wind ripping at their bodies as they accelerated to a terminal velocity of 126 miles an hour.
“Ten seconds.”
Remi held up ten fingers. His team all nodded.
There was that pregnant pause where time stands still before each jump. When the red light inside the cargo compartment seemed to linger, unchanging.
“Green light!” Chris called over the interphone.
The interior light switched to green, and the team quickly and methodically leaped off the ramp. Remi was the last to go, steppi
ng into the blackness. Once he stabilized in his freefall, the altimeter attached to his wrist indicated he was passing through sixteen thousand feet when he entered the cloud deck. It was a disconcerting occurrence, but the weather report said the base of the clouds was around eight thousand feet.
At nine thousand feet, the clouds thinned out, and the ground appeared. The air started to warm. His uniform and gear were soaked from the cloud, but most of that water would disappear in the final rush to earth.
At thirty-five hundred feet, the automatic deployment system on his parachute activated. He felt the jolt in his groin and checked for a full canopy. Pulling out his GPS, Remi identified where he was in relation to the DZ, then steered his chute in that direction.
It was dark due to the cloud cover. He tried to count the chutes. Slowing his descent, he pulled out an NVG monocular and counted chutes. Damn. A quick second count confirmed what he thought.
One of his men was missing.
58
October 17, 2003
Remi disconnected his parachute from his harness when his feet lightly touched the ground. The tall grass was still moist from the rain, dampening his boots and pants once again. He studied his surroundings. The darkness enveloped him, but his eyes adjusted as he surveyed the DZ. He pressed his throat mic to establish comms with his team.
“Golf-Romeo, check in.”
The team members checked in, except for one. They met at the southwestern edge of the clearing of the DZ.
“Anybody see Bill?” Remi said.
“He was the first one off the ramp,” Hilts said.
“Fan out,” Remi said, flipping down his night-vision goggles. “Let’s take ten minutes to search before we head out.”
The Quiet Professional Page 26