Nabiin and his lieutenants had calculated that it would take his well-disguised ship five days to reach Jeddah at this speed. Even so, there was little chance of anyone intercepting them. Not with all the distractions created by his followers. Plus, to anyone but a close observer his ship was nothing more than a rusty old cargo vessel, trying to deliver a load of pipeline fittings or oil pumps to Jeddah.
His plans considered all contingencies, of course. It might be necessary to call ahead and have a fast-flying helicopter meet them at sea. It was essential that he be in Mecca at the Kaaba before Friday prayers.
Then the new order would be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. Or at least not anticipated by those who had not read or heard and believed the prophecies.
Ψ
The colorful dawn also found Jim Ward and his SEAL team—now augmented by a fresh backup team of SEAL shooters—putting together the gear they would need for the upcoming night mission, now less than twelve hours away. Planning was well underway. Everyone understood it would be a tough and dangerous assignment, so it required careful coordination and all the intel they could muster.
Master Chief Johnston closely scanned a computer display that revealed detailed satellite imagery of the granite monolith they would storm that night. It rose near vertically out of the open sea, like a giant clenched fist. He had gone over every inch of the island carefully and with increasing magnification until he was certain of the location of every rock and ditch.
“Skipper,” he finally said, looking up at young Jim Ward, who was inventorying every item going into his pack. “Look, I know this place has to be armed to the gills. I can feel it in my bones. But damned if I can see so much as a gun barrel. Not even a slingshot or BB gun.”
Ward stepped over next to Johnston and looked over his shoulder at the screen.
“Ain’t no way these bastards are going to let us waltz in there and saunter off with the prisoners without a fight. Clearly this place is important to them and we know they have plenty of firepower. We just can’t see it.” Ward shook his head. “We have to hit them fast and hard, by complete surprise, or it could be a bloodbath. For us and the folks we’re jumping in there to rescue. And if we make it in and locate the civilians, we still have to get out clean and fast. I’m open to any ideas you got, Master Chief.”
The two SEALs put together their thoughts, bounced ideas off their counterparts on the second SEAL team, and then sat down for a long, secure video conference with Admiral Donnegan back at the Pentagon, along with representatives from SOCCOM and Fifth Fleet. Jim Ward could see his dad on the video feed from Admiral Donnegan’s office, sitting to the side, with that familiar look on his face. The elder Ward was worried about his boy, just as he had been when Jim ran onto the football field to play linebacker in junior high or took the family car out for his first date or went off on his summer cruise during his time at the Naval Academy. The worried look his dad kept so well disguised from those around him. But it was clear as day to Jim, even on the long-distance video feed.
And it would be obvious to his mom, too. But the young SEAL knew his dad would not have even hinted to her what their boy was up to this day. And would not be able to tell her anytime soon. If ever. It made for some interesting moments at dinnertime in the Ward household.
The sun over Djibouti was already well past its zenith by the time all the details had been hashed out, a final plan and all contingencies and options finalized. But by the time everyone called off, it was written in stone. And pieces had already been spun into motion.
Ward and Johnston walked out of the concrete block building together, rubbing their tired eyes and shaking their heads.
Johnston looked sideways at his younger boss. “That was about as much fun as a hemorrhoid operation. Are we sure the Air Force is on our side?”
“Master Chief, you gotta look at the big picture,” Ward shot back. “They’re probably pissed we caused them to miss a tee time today. And a couple of them won’t get their beauty sleep tonight. But you have to admit, it helps to have a four-star in your corner. Admiral Donnegan listens to us and he got us everything we asked for. Now let’s find where the rest of our slackers are racked out and see if we can get everything headed toward the airfield. We don’t want to miss our flight.” Ward checked his watch then glanced up at the declining sun. “We need to get everything loaded, then be wheels-up by eighteen hundred.”
“Roger that,” Johnston confirmed. “I called over just before we broke up. Cantrell has mustered the team. They’ll meet us there.”
Ward smiled. “I knew we kept you on the payroll for something. Tell you what. Let’s find some hot chow first. My stomach’s growling.”
By the time the pair made it to the airfield, the sun had settled low in the western sky. They hustled past a flight of A-10 Warthogs arming up for the night’s mission, and then past a brace of CV-22 Special Ops Ospreys, also loading up serious hardware for a nighttime adventure. Down at the far end of the flight line, they spotted their ride waiting for them. There were two C-130 four-engine turboprops, their engines idling, waiting for orders to launch into the darkening sky. The nearer of the two squat, obese-looking aircraft—actually an AC-130J Ghostrider—bristled with ordnance and radomes that stuck out at odd angles. The black-painted bird squatted there, ready to lumber off into the sky and effectively rain down death in wide swaths.
Ward and Johnston stopped at the tail ramp of the next aircraft and swung their packs inside. Doug Broughton and Tony Martinelli were aboard already and helped them climb up into the AC-130J, Commando II. This bird, also painted black, would be their ride on the way out. Then she would serve as the airborne gas station for the rest of the armada. They had other arrangements for the trip back home.
The SEALs had no more than sat down when the stern ramp suddenly started moving, cranking up and being shut. They were on their way to what each man knew would be a very dangerous excursion, one in which their chances of surviving and returning were less than fifty-fifty. But even if they were thinking it, nobody said anything. It was part of the job each man had volunteered for when he decided he wanted to serve his nation as a SEAL.
The huge plane taxied out onto the runway, waited only a moment for remarkably quick clearance, and roared off into the night sky. As they climbed to cruise altitude, Ward went over the plan with his team once again. They would perform a HAHO (high altitude-high opening) parachute jump, emerging from the aircraft while still thirty miles away from and thirty thousand feet above the island they were aiming for. That way the engine noise would not alert anyone at their destination. The high altitude would give them plenty of time to maneuver themselves so as to land exactly on top of the big rock in the sea.
Once the first team arrived, the idea was to quickly secure the clifftop landing zone for the CV-22s and then go find the prisoners. And, of course, determine the amount and ferocity of any resistance they may encounter.
Meanwhile, the Warthogs and the Ghostrider would give them fire support, ready to take out any of that resistance they could see. Speed was just as crucial as surprise. They would need to get in and out quickly. Then they would blow hell out of anything or anyone that might be left there.
By the time they were done with the review, the Air Force jump master yelled a warning over to Ward. Thirty minutes to the drop zone.
That meant it was time for everyone to gear up and check all the equipment as best they could in the plane’s semi-dark interior. Ward examined his own gear and then Master Chief Johnston’s. Next, Johnston took a look at Ward’s equipment, and then made certain that the rest of the team was doing the same. They rarely found anything amiss, but when they did, it was something that could have caused a real problem in the middle of whatever mayhem they were about to jump into. This particular bunch had made hundreds of jumps together. They were more than aware that it only took one mistake to make a very ugly splotch on the ground.
Johnston looked at his watch and called upon his
best master chief’s growl.
“All right, toads, on oxygen. If you was figurin’ on latchin’ onto your momma’s tit one last time, too damn late. About time for us to stroll.”
Almost on call, the jump master yelled out that he was depressurizing the cabin and lowering the tail ramp.
One final check on the GPS and altitude in each man’s jump computer and then the team casually strolled toward the ramp. The light up on the right side of the ramp—the one that had been flashing red—changed to green. The jump master gave the signal for them to go ahead and get their collective asses out of his airplane.
As if walking over to the Navy exchange store to get a gedunk, the SEAL team members walked nonchalantly single file off the end of the lowered ramp and immediately fell away at gravity’s command, one by one, into the blackness of a Middle East night.
Ward plunged earthward for only five seconds before he opened his chute. He saw the black air-foil-shaped ram-air parachute open above him. So far, so good. He could just make out Master Chief Johnston a little higher up with his chute also deployed. The rest of the team was lost in the darkness. Ward then checked his jump computer and tugged on the steering shrouds to bring the chute around and onto the pre-programmed drop course. The computer showed his landing point was still many miles away and that he had fifteen minutes on this course before he reached the clifftop.
“Team Lead, Team Second,” Johnston growled in his earbud. “We’re all stacked up behind you.”
“Roger, Team Second,” Ward answered with his throat mike. “On course, fifteen mikes to LZ.” He heard the double click of an acknowledgement from the master chief. Time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride for a few minutes before the real excitement started. He felt around his combat harness to make sure everything was easily accessible. Nothing had shifted in the jump. Felt normal.
Far better than many jumps he had experienced in his career. Leaps into the midst of thunderstorms, getting tossed around like a hailstone. Jumps into jungle, where there were few open spots to settle into and a risk of hanging yourself high in a tree. Jumps into the ocean, knowing the chute and heavy gear could take you down like a cement block. The best? The time he had delivered the game ball for the Navy and Notre Dame game. Perfect. Right on the fifty-yard line. Two steps and he handed the pigskin to the referee while the crowd went crazy.
Of course, tonight’s landing zone had its own unknowns. Wind. Rocks. Gullies. Fanatical dudes wielding serious firepower.
Ward flipped down his night vision goggles. The NVDs reduced the world to shades of greens and grays, but the island now popped clearly into view, even though it was far below him and still quite a few miles to the southeast. He gave a quick tug on the steering shrouds to fine-tune his course and make allowances for a brisker-than-expected crosswind at this altitude.
Fifty-yard line. Two steps. Hand the ball to the referee.
The island got progressively closer until finally the ground rushed up to meet his boot treads. Ward stumbled and rolled—not his best landing but it would do—then came up to deflate his chute, pull the chute release, and grab his M-4. The rest of the team dropped silently in behind him.
Ward was on the top of a rugged, barren rock pile, the terrain familiar from all the images he had studied. Thirty feet to his right, the drop was almost vertical to the water, shimmering in the starlight a couple of hundred feet below. Just like around the rest of the plateau except the west side, where a steep, rocky trail descended all the way down the face of the cliff to a narrow shelf just above the water’s edge. There, a small, rickety pier ran out into the water a short distance from the shelf. If the prisoners were on the island, they had to be somewhere down that trail. And inside one of the caves in the island’s rock face.
Ward waited as the rest of the team spread out over the small plateau, searching for any threats. Keep low. Advance in short, fast spurts of movement. Make sure it was safe for the Ospreys to come in and set down on the very limited real estate up there.
Johnston eased down next to where Ward knelt behind a small boulder.
“Not much up here, Skipper. Just enough space for those birds to squat down one at a time. We sure need to minimize any fire their way. Otherwise, that’ll make extract a lot of fun.”
Ward nodded.
“Yep. You are a whiz at stating the obvious, Master Chief. We need to do all we can to keep it from being a hot LZ by then. May as well raise the curtain on this little show. Have Hall call the birds in. Have him, Martinelli, and Dumkowski stay up here to give us some cover. It’s time for the rest of us to move downslope. Ready for showtime?”
“Born ready, Skipper. Let’s do this shit!”
Ward did not hesitate. He simply dropped over the top and started moving quickly down the trail. His earbud hummed.
“Team Lead, Jason. Birds five mikes out. Puff and four hogs ready to roll in hot.”
Hall was reporting that the Ospreys—the aircraft bringing the second SEAL team to the party as well as serving as everyone’s ride back home, including the rescued prisoners—was now five minutes out. The Ghostrider and the flight of four Warthogs were orbiting the area, just far enough away to not raise any alarm from the bad guys but ready and able to strike quickly and effectively.
Ward double-clicked his throat mike to confirm his man’s report. Johnston passed him to take point while he talked.
Johnston, now leading the trio of SEALs, eased around a rock outcropping that obscured the next leg of the trail. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there was a burst of what sounded like AK-47 fire. A couple of rounds smashed into Johnston’s chest, slamming him to the ground as if he had been struck by a truck.
Ward clearly saw the flash from the AK-47's muzzle. A single figure, lying behind some rocks alongside the trail, clearly visible through the SEAL’s night-vision goggles. Without even thinking, Ward lifted his own weapon, hastily aimed, and took out the shooter with a couple of three-shot bursts. The man’s head exploded.
Then Ward rushed to check on his master chief, a key cog in his team. The older SEAL lay against a rock where the force of the bullets had knocked him down, face up.
The master chief groaned and rubbed his chest.
Ward let out a long sigh of relief. Johnston was alive and conscious. The chief handed Ward two spent slugs that he had extracted from his Kevlar body armor.
As he attempted to climb to his feet, Johnston groaned again, sat back down, and pressed the heel of his hand into a spot along his ribcage.
“That is going to leave an ugly bruise on my otherwise perfect torso.”
Meanwhile, Cantrell slid past the two and moved a little farther down the narrow trail. A couple of meters lower, he crouched behind an outcropping and scanned the cliffside below him, his M-4 swinging slowly from side to side as he checked out the terrain for potential targets.
Ward quickly examined Johnston but could not find any other wounds.
“I’m afraid you’re gonna live. But you good to go, Master Chief?”
Johnston started to stretch, to pull himself erect, but he fell back against a rock, moaning in pain.
“Skipper, feels like I may have busted a rib or something. That’s gonna slow me a step or two.”
Ward made a quick but easy decision. Having one of his lead shooters a “couple of steps slow” just would not work. Could be deadly and put the mission at risk.
He clicked his throat mike and whispered, “Tony, get your butt down here.” He turned to Johnston. “You stay here and cover us. Help the Ospreys as best you can getting people on and off. Tony, Cantrell, and I will claim all the glory from here.”
Johnston nodded. He was well aware of why the skipper had made the adjustment.
Martinelli moved past the two and disappeared around the bend further down the trail. Ward followed a couple of meters behind.
Another burst of heavy machine gun fire erupted, shattering the rocks just above the SEALs’ heads. That was closely followed by sm
all-arms fire spattering all around them. The men dived for cover.
Someone well-hidden was unloading on them from a cave entrance above and a hundred meters beyond them. And the three SEALs would remain pinned down there alongside the trail until next week if they did not summon the cavalry.
Ward was about to make the call when he heard Jason Hall say, “Team, Puff has them visual. Keep your heads down for a second and let ’em take ’em out for us.”
The night sky immediately lit up spectacularly as the Ghostrider’s GAU-23 thirty-millimeter Vulcan machine cannon poured an intense stream of lead into the mouth of the cave at better than a thousand rounds a second. The bird’s 105-millimeter cannon spat twice, too. The hole in the rock cliff erupted in a brilliant flash of orange-red. Then all was silent.
Ward did not wait. Obviously that threat had been neutralized. Completely. He started moving quickly down the trail again, Cantrell and Martinelli close behind.
One thing was for certain. Any element of surprise that they may have had was now lost. They would have to move quickly and rely on tenacity, ferocity, and overwhelming firepower. And hope the bad guys would be too busy defending themselves to hurt their hostages.
Ward looked down just in time to spot someone running out onto the little pier. The figure stopped and aimed a shoulder-launch MANPAD missile in the direction of the Ghostrider. The missile arced up in the direction of the warbird but then exploded harmlessly, a victim of the plane’s countermeasures.
A second later, the shooter and the pier disappeared, sliced to shreds by a hail of bullets. At the same time, two GBU-39 small-diameter, precision-guided bombs slammed into the cave mouth at the foot of the pier. Clearly their helpers out there in the sky had seen some kind of ugliness there and eliminated it.
Desperate machine gun fire suddenly erupted from half a dozen different caves on the pockmarked cliffside. Tracers arced up into the night sky. Obviously, the rest of the rock island’s defenders had awakened and decided to resist. Shoulder-launched missiles and even rocket-propelled grenades added their flaming exhausts to the fireworks display. But all the firing was doing little more than make smoke, fire, and light. However, it did give the gunship several points of aim.
Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) Page 25
