by Tom Clancy
Jamal looked at Ahmed, looked at Khalil, looked at his other comrades. “Show them how to die, brothers,” Khalil said in a harsh whisper. Jamal nodded, his heart pounding. Then, his hatred toward the Americans boiling up within him, he fingered the trigger of his gun and opened fire. Before he could hit anything, the Browning ratcheted out a short burst, the 50-caliber bullets cutting the front of his shirt to ragged shreds. He sagged to the ground in a shower of blood, his rifle turned uselessly skyward. Beside him, Khalil let out a whoop of suicidal defiance, reached into his pocket for a grenade, and was about to toss it at the Hummer when he too fell writhing in a hail of bullets. “Surrender your arms!” the American soldier warned the remaining attackers. Instead of obeying, they charged and were rapidly cut down. It was no contest.
Around the U.S. Embassy Compound, Khartoum, Sudan, 0800 Hours, February 18, 2007
The whole thing came down fast. The Sudanese militiamen knew nothing of tactics and had been relying largely on the element of surprise. Their plan, such as it was, had been to charge the compound at daylight and overwhelm a token contingent of Marine guards. Now they were running headlong into a battalion of crack American airborne troops armed with superior weapons and trained to conduct a tight, coordinated counterstrike. Despite their zeal and a considerable numerical advantage, they were over-matched and outfought with dispatch. Gunfire ripped through the awakening city for several hours after their attack commenced—occasionally punctuated by the flat thud of an exploding grenade—but by late morning the sounds of battle had almost ceased, and the scattered, decimated militia force had been run to ground.
The Sudanese losses were high, while the American casualties consisted of two troopers with superficial gunshot wounds, and Colonel Bill “Hurricane” Harrison had no difficulty holding his defensive perimeter. What he did was take a map, draw a two-block-wide circle around the compound, and declare everything within its radius to be under his temporary control, citing international rules of engagement that allowed the unlimited use of deadly force to safeguard an endangered embassy.
Needless to say, these developments did not sit well with Hassan al-Mahdi.
ILC Headquarters, Khartoum, Sudan, 0830 Hours, February 18, 2007
“This is worse than a defeat. We have been made to look like fools.” Al-Mahdi stood at the council table, fury storming across his features. “I will find out who alerted the Americans and deal with him. That is a promise.” He looked around the room. Joining the assembled ministers was Colonel Abu Hammik, commander of the Sudanese regular army garrison stationed at Wad Hamid, just north of the capital. He sat very stiffly in his badges, shoulder boards, collar tabs, and ribbons, listening to al-Mahdi’s tirade in silence, occasionally trading flustered, uneasy glances with the other men at the table. Even Ahmad Saabdulah was showing none of his usual inclination to stoke their warlord’s temper; when al-Mahdi’s rage grew to a certain critical level, it was best to keep one’s words to oneself. Unless, of course, he specifically asked to hear them.
“Am I alone in this room?” he said, raising his voice. “Or do you all fail to appreciate what has happened? The heart of our capital has been surrendered to American troops!”
“Obviously, this is unacceptable, Highness,” Foreign Minister Nizar Socotra said. He was a plump, neckless man with a gray scruff of beard, and his cupidity was exceeded only by his fawning devotion to his leader. “I have already lodged a complaint with the U.N. Security Council—”
Al-Mahdi brushed him aside with a ferocious swipe of his hand. “Do not speak of it. Diplomacy is a salve, and nothing more. The Americans cannot be allowed to stay where they are. We must regain control of our city.”
“I agree,” Saabdulah said. It was the first time he’d spoken since the emergency meeting had been called. “Our response to an outrage of this order must be forceful and expeditious. And for that we will have to commit our military ... which, I assume, is why the esteemed colonel has been summoned here this morning.” Hammik dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“What sort of force can you muster?” al-Mahdi asked him.
“It should be possible to have an infantry battalion in the city within an hour,” he said. “There is, in addition, an armored company attached to it.”
Al-Mahdi noticed his Minister of State shaking his head even before Abdel-Ghani caught himself doing it. “You disapprove of the proposed action?” the warlord asked.
“The thought of tanks rolling through our own streets troubles me,” Abdel-Ghani said. “We would be exposing civilians to tremendous danger, and the consequent property damage of such an encounter—”
“This is a time for strength, not counting the cost,” al-Mahdi said. “You are growing far too tentative these days, Abdel-Ghani. It surprises me.” Abdel-Ghani was silent in response. Al-Mahdi allowed his gaze to linger on him a moment, then turned back toward Colonel Hammik. “Mobilize your infantry,” he said.
Aboard a Marine MV-22B Osprey Over the Red Sea, 1200 Hours, February 18th, 2007
The composite prop/rotors on the engine nacelles tilted down for horizontal flight, the trio of Ospreys buzzed toward shore with Lieutenant Colonel Wes Jackson in the lead slot. Bare minutes earlier, they had launched from the flight deck of the USS Bonham Richard (LHD-6) after the three amphibious ships of Amphibious Squadron Three (PHIBRON 3)—the ready group assigned to berth and transport the 13th MEU (SOC)—had made a high-speed, all-night up the Red Sea to deceive Sudanese naval forces. It had been the hope of the amphib’s commanders that by lying in wait around the Horn of Africa, just outside Somalia’s territorial waters, they would escape detection until well after the Ospreys had been signaled to begin their approach.
Their rabbit-in-the-hat gambit had panned out beautifully. The PHIBRON and their escorts had encountered no resistance at all until they came within sight of the Sudanese mainland and were hailed by astonished coastal patrols. By this time, though, the first wave rescue birds had left their flight decks and were Khartoum-bound. Now Jackson briefly checked the multi-function displays in front of him, tweaked the autopilot to make a minor correction in altitude, and scanned the sky. He saw two flights of sleek Harrier fighter bombers on his left and right, the sunlight glinting off their skins as they escorted the Ospreys toward their destination. Within easy view up ahead lay the level, sandy curve of the Sudanese shoreline.
Cruising along at a steady 150 knots, Jackson sank back in his cockpit’s bang seat and ran the mission plan through his head for the umpteenth time. In his mind’s phenomenally clear eye, he could see the street grid of Khartoum just as it had appeared on Colonel LeVardier’s video-projected map, see the aerial layout of the embassy compound with the pickup coordinates superimposed over it, also as it had been presented during the briefing. Within minutes he would reach the LZ, an employee motor pool near the gymnasium where the evacuees had been gathered. The descent and subsequent takeoff from the embassy would be the hairiest parts of this carny ride; his flight would be deep in enemy territory and exceedingly vulnerable to ground fire. But, he’d trained his men well and they were ready. As ready as they’d ever be, anyway.
Outside the U.S. Embassy, Khartoum, Sudan, 1200 Hours, February 18, 2007
Thus far the operation had succeeded beyond all expectations: The paratroops had established their perimeter without sustaining any significant losses, and managed to tighten the ring around the compound while encountering only light opposition from a few straggling Sudanese militiamen. It was too good to last, though. The first, ominous rumblings of armor were heard—and felt—at noon by troopers positioned near the embassy’s north wall. Within minutes, the mechanized column was spotted approaching along the Sharia al-Baladaya amid a company of infantrymen. It was an odd, motley group of vehicles consisting of two ancient Russian PT-76 light tanks, several equally old BTR-60 armored personnel carriers, and a couple of newer looking BTR-40 armored cars. The Sudanese had obviously pulled them together on short notice for the express purpo
se of repelling the American paratroopers.
The sudden cackle of automatic weapons fire from one of the forward tanks instantly drove home the point that this was no mere showing of tail-and-breast feathers. These boys meant business. With machine-gun rounds slamming the ground near his feet, Sergeant Joe Blount quickly decided to demonstrate how a kid from Brooklyn responded when someone bullied him—especially if he was equipped with a Javelin antitank missile. Moments before the armor had turned onto the wide avenue bordering on the embassy, Blount had felt the rolling vibration of its approach underfoot, and hurriedly lifted the Javelin’s lightweight, disposable launch tube onto his shoulder. Now he squinted through the command launch system sight, zeroed the lead tank in his thermal view, and squeezed the trigger.
The missile whizzed from the launcher, its kick motor ejecting it on a stream of pressurized gas, its guidance fins unfolding, the electronic sensors in its nose unerringly guiding it toward its target. Within several seconds the missile’s software recognized that it was diving into the armor of the tank and detonated the warhead. The eruption that followed was so spectacular that for several heartbeats Blount and his fellow troopers could only stare down-range in wonder. The Sudanese tank rumbled and shook with a massive peristaltic convulsion, its armor bulging out and rending where pale blue fireballs punched their own exit holes. The balls of flame soared up and up like helium balloons cut from their strings, and climbed to a whirling hover before breaking apart. Finally there was a whoosh of trembling, superheated air, and the entire tank was blanketed by a wave of fire. The Sudanese foot soldiers that had been flanking the knocked-out juggernaut simultaneously ran for cover behind nearby buildings and started blasting away at the paratroops with their submachine guns. The fierce, relentless fight for the embassy would last for hours, and be paralleled by similar confrontations all around the airborne’s doughnut perimeter.
Hassan al-Mahdi’s orders to his military had been unequivocal: He wanted the compound taken at any cost. So far, the Sudanese lacked the currency to pay the price.
An MV22B Osprey Above the U.S. Embassy, Khartoum, Sudan, 1230 Hours, February 18th, 2007
In the cockpit of his Osprey, Major Wes Jackson eased back on his thumbwheel control to rotate the propellers ninety degrees—effecting a vertical position in preparation for touchdown. Thankfully, the other two birds in his flight had also made it through the enemy ground fire outside the embassy, and were swooping onto the parking area off his port wing. The approach had been nerve-wracking, to put it mildly. Light flak had zinged upward from several different directions during the approach, forcing him into evasive maneuvers. Navigation had been another dangerous challenge—the streets around the American positions were clogged with battle haze and dotted with fiery buildings that had looked like burning match heads from above.
But despite these deadly hurdles, the first flight of Jackson’s rescue team had landed without taking any serious hits, and as far as Jackson was concerned, the reward was already more than apparent. Already he had seen the first lift of evacuees come spilling out of the gymnasium under the protective eyes of their Marine guards—women and children, their faces wan and frightened, yet flushed with open gratitude. Looking out his window at them, Jackson was nearly moved to tears. Never in his vivid and perfect recollection had he felt so proud of serving his country. Within a minute, the civilians had been seated in the cargo compartment, the rear ramp raised, and he was airborne, followed by the other two MV-22s. As he transitioned back to forward flight, he saw the second flight of three Ospreys coming in to land, with others following. So far, Operation Fort Apache was working like clockwork.
Outside the US. Embassy Compound, Khartoum, Sudan, 1630 Hours, February 18th, 2007
The 2/505th paratroops were literally fighting with their backs to the wall. The first group of evacuees had been delivered to safety out to the ships of PHIBRON 3 without a hitch. By 1630/4:30 PM, the second relay of Ospreys started to arrive and began loading up the remaining embassy personnel and refugees. With this lift the birds were also taking aboard the first groups of paratroopers as the 2/505 initiated the pullout phase of the operation. As the afternoon went on, they tightened their defensive ring to the very streets outside the compound’s gate—streets that, for all appearances, might have been swept by the explosive shockwave of a nuclear blast. Fighting at the perimeter line was fierce, the air layered with smoke and reverberating with the nonstop clatter of automatic weapons. Virtually every last civilian in the area had fled for cover at the outbreak of violence, many of them abandoning their cars in the middle of the road. The smoking metal corpses of those vehicles now cluttered every intersection and cross-street, their chassis torn and twisted from bullets and grenade explosions. Far more dreadful was the toll in human life. The bodies of dead and dying combatants lay sprawled on the sidewalks, the vast majority of them Sudanese militiamen and infantry troops. A few, however, were wearing the urban-camouflage uniforms of American paratroops and Marines. On the pavement outside the front gate, where the fighting was up close, eye-to-eye, and in some instances hand-to-hand, Colonel Bill “Hurricane” Harrison stood in the hellish thick of things, shouting orders to his soldiers as the enemy push intensified. When he was seventeen, he had read a biography of General James Gavin, to his mind the greatest combat general in American history. Gavin was a leader who had never expected his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. Later, after choosing his own career in the military, Harrison had occasionally wondered if he would have anything like the guts that Gavin had. As he stood there outside the compound, his troops outnumbered by perhaps four to one, bullets shuttling past his head, it never occurred to him that he was doing his boyhood hero proud. He was too busy carrying out his mission to be worried about posterity.
Just a few more hours to go.
Outside the U.S. Embassy Compound, Khartoum, Sudan, 1700 Hours, February 18th, 2007
Even before word finally crackled from his personal SINCGARS radio, Harrison had known that it was time for his men to retreat to the pickup area. He had heard the sound of rotors churning the air, looked skyward, and seen the fourth and final convoy of MV-22s and CH-53s approaching in the near distance. Their airframes were little more than silhouettes as he watched them descend through raftering clouds of soot and smoke. With a silent prayer of gratitude, he gave the final fallback order, his voice hoarse as he raised it over the throbbing clamor of battle. While four armed Osprey gunships laid down a heavy suppressive fire around the compound, the last company of paratroops sprinted for their own MV-22B transports. In less than five minutes, the last of the American transports were on their way seaward. At almost the same moment, demolition charges in the Hummers and guns reduced them to scrap metal. This was designed to keep the weapons and vehicles out of Sudanese hands. However, the President had ordered a more powerful demonstration of how America walks out of a country. This time, the U.S. was going out under its own power and there would be a message in it for the world.
Above the U.S. Embassy Compound, Khartoum, Sudan, 1720 Hours, February 18th, 2007
Like Colonel Harrison, the pilots of the four AV-8B Plus Harriers cruising over the city had been awaiting orders to begin the last phase of Operation Fort Apache. Each of them was prepared to launch a salvo of four GBU-29 2,000- lb./909-kg. GPS-guided bombs from under his wings. The call to engage came in over their radios, and they reacted immediately. Diving like the predatory birds that are their namesakes, the fighter jets accelerated downward through bursts of light flak and released their destructive payloads.
The sixteen heavy bombs showered over the embassy compound in annihilating rain, the detonations of their 2,000-lb/909-kg warheads bringing up screams in the throats of the Sudanese forces they had caught by surprise, many of whom perished wondering what they had done to incur the wrath of Heaven. The GPS-guided bombs had been dropped in a specially planned pattern, designed to flatten every structure inside the compound walls. Suggested by the Joint
Chiefs and approved by the President, it was a “scorched earth” statement to the Sudanese that they would not be permitted to take the American embassy as the Iranians had back in 1979. They got the message loud and clear.
Flight Deck, USS Bonham Richard (LHD-6) in the Red Sea, 1800 Hours, February 18th, 2007
The Osprey landed with a gentle thump and discharged the final wave of evacuated paratroops. His field jacket whipping around his body in the wash of its prop/rotors, Colonel Bill “Hurricane” Harrison quickly made his way down the cargo ramp and trotted over to the forward cabin. He waited as the cabin door opened and the pilot exited. “Helluva job you did today,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ll never forget it, long as I live.”
Lieutenant Colonel Wesley Jackson took firm hold of his palm and shook it. “Me neither, sir,” he said, and grinned with secret humor.
The People’s Palace, Khartoum, Sudan, March 1st, 2007
Hassan al-Mahdi stared out his window at the gathering crowd. On the street below, Abdel-Ghani’s severed head rotted on the tip of a wooden spike, a cloud of insects harrying it in the bright midday sun, the dead eyes gaping vacantly at those who had gathered before the palace. Today they had come here to shout insults at the grotesque remains of the Minister of State, who had been declared a traitor and summarily executed, despite concrete evidence for revealing the plan to seize the embassy to American intelligence. Tomorrow, al-Mahdi thought, the crowd’s fickle passions might well turn against him. And could he truly blame them if that happened? Thousands of his people had been killed in the midst of their own capital, compared to the handful of American soldiers that had lost their lives during the rescue. Just seven dead and less than two dozen wounded, according to CNN. And already the Western nations were calling for U.N. sanctions and an international trade embargo. As the economic noose tightened, and the suffering of his people worsened, so too would their anger intensify to open revolt and bring him low. His Bedouin ancestors had learned centuries ago that the desert was unforgiving. The men it had spawned were much the same. Now he was about to learn the lesson personally.
