Easy Day for the Dead

by Howard E. Wasdin

  The guys took their seats and buckled up for takeoff. Takeoffs and landings were the most dangerous parts of a flight. John opened a pocket-sized Bible and began reading it.

  The C-130 taxied down the runway before lifting off.

  “I heard that Hammerhead is banging Cat,” Pancho said. “Guess that relationship didn’t work out too well for you.”

  John looked up from his Bible and frowned at Pancho.

  Although Hammerhead was a SEAL, Alex could never figure out how he’d managed to get into Team Six—he was a tactical moron and a shitty shot. “He isn’t her type.”

  “Hammerhead said that you and Cat have some kind of agreement that it’s okay to date other people while you’re apart.”

  “Where’d he hear that?” Alex asked.

  “From her, I guess,” Pancho said.

  “He lies a lot.”

  Alex noticed Danny listening in on their conversation. When Danny realized Alex noticed, Danny turned away.

  Alex peered out a window. As the shapes of the buildings and roads on the ground became less distinct, Alex felt sad Cat wasn’t going to be on this mission with them. He tried to rationalize: maybe it’d be safer for her not to be with them.

  The plane ascended to a safe level. The guys took off their seat belts and walked toward the open area before the cockpit and sat down for the Colonel’s brief.

  Pancho turned to Alex and asked, “You’re coming up on reenlistment in a little bit, aren’t you?”

  They were supposed to keep quiet and listen to the brief, so Alex, reluctant to speak, simply nodded.

  “Who you going to invite?”

  Now the Colonel was giving Pancho the dirty eye.

  Pancho kept talking. “You got to have strippers. A good reenlistment ceremony needs strippers.”

  Alex hadn’t heard of strippers at a reenlistment ceremony, but he hadn’t attended Pancho’s reenlistment celebration.

  The Colonel’s face was already red under the red lights, but now it was redder.

  “Never know when to put a muzzle on it, Pancho, do you?” John muttered.

  Pancho chuckled. “Muzzle on my mouth or muzzle on my—”

  “Hey!” the Colonel shouted. “Am I interrupting something?!”

  Pancho became silent.

  “Because if I am,” the Colonel continued, “I’ll stop interrupting!”

  The three Outcasts sat silent. “Please, we’re ready for the brief,” Alex said.

  “Good!” The Colonel switched his projector and notebook computer from standby to run, then began his PowerPoint presentation. “Gentlemen, this is the real deal. The Iranian government is continuing its work on building nukes. STUXNET, the cyberattack that shut off the electricity to their centrifuges, slowed them down, but it didn’t stop them.”

  The world knew about STUXNET now. A bunch of computer geeks in the United States and Israel created an electronic worm that actually sped up the Iranian centrifuges under the very noses of the Iranian scientists. While speed was often a good thing, in this case it served to destroy the centrifuges. Once the Iranians caught on they developed countermeasures and repaired the damage. What happened next wasn’t known worldwide.

  “Delta have gone in more than once and blown up power lines, disrupting their enrichment process and mangling more centrifuges,” the Colonel said. “Due to certain political factors that I won’t get into here, a government not ours has taken a more direct approach and assassinated several of Iran’s nuclear scientists.”

  Alex looked around the group and saw knowing smiles.

  “The success of these efforts has given the Iranians pause. We have intel that they are seriously concerned their nuclear enrichment program, also known as ‘weapons,’ won’t pan out. And so they’ve created a backup plan.”

  The smiles vanished. This was something new.

  “An asset code-named Leila has told us that the Iranians have been recruiting bioweapons experts from the former Soviet Union, North Korea, and other countries and set up a lab deep in the Lut Desert. One of the NSA’s satellites picked up radio conversations confirming the lab. The NGA used their satellite to photograph a site that is two hundred klicks northwest of a small town called Abadi Abad. The lab appears to be well guarded.” The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency photographed a site that was 124 miles northwest of Abadi Abad. When Alex first joined the Navy, the military mixing of metric measurements with U.S. measurements seemed confusing, but the military used metrics to standardize operations with NATO countries, especially ground distance. Other measurements, such as altitude, remained unchanged. Now that he was a veteran, the metric mixing seemed natural.

  The Colonel continued. “We aren’t sharing this with our allies in the region at this time.”

  Pancho raised his hand. “Sir? Why not? The Israelis would have no trouble airing out a few biologists,” Pancho said.

  The Colonel shook his head. “Should an unnamed government get wind of this site there is a high probability that they would launch a strike against Iran just like they did when they hit Iraq’s nuclear plant in 1981.”

  “Operation Opera,” Alex said, remembering the details. “A bunch of F-16s and F-15s flew in and bombed the Osirak reactor just before it went online. Pretty much a success. One of the pilots even went on to become an astronaut.”

  “This isn’t a game show,” the Colonel said, huffing. “But yes, that strike was successful, most of all because it didn’t set off a massive war in the Middle East. If a certain country were to try that again, however, the chances of the Middle East going up in flames are a lot more likely. And that, gentlemen, is something we’re trying very hard to avoid, which is where you come in.”

  The Colonel clicked to the next screen, which revealed a map of Afghanistan.

  “We’re flying to Afghanistan, where you’ll do a night HAHO from twenty-six thousand feet, then fly sixty miles to land in Iran.” HAHO meant “high altitude, high opening.” Alex and his men would jump out of the plane at high altitude, then quickly open their parachutes, so they could glide across the border to their landing point. They’d be too small to show up on radar, and Iran would never see or hear them coming.

  The Colonel used a red penlight to indicate the drop point on the aerial image on the projector screen. “You’ll land here, then hump ten klicks to rendezvous with Leila at her house.” Ten kilometers didn’t sound like much of a hike, but depending on the terrain and concentration of enemy in the area, it could be. An image of Leila appeared on the screen.

  “She ain’t ugly,” Pancho said.

  “Would you shut it,” John said, elbowing Pancho in the ribs.

  Alex agreed with Pancho: Leila was hot. She looked like the actress in the TV series JAG, all smoldering eyes and jet-black hair. When Alex had free time, which was rare, he sometimes watched education channels on his cable TV, but one day when flipping channels, he watched part of JAG. She captured his interest more than the show did.

  The Colonel ignored Pancho and John and looked at the Activity guy: “Danny has been in and out of Iran a number of times and has been in direct contact with Leila. He’ll take you to her house and knock on her rear window twice. She’ll respond by knocking twice. Then he’ll knock four times. The next evening Danny and Leila will insert your team near the target, you’ll destroy it, Danny and Leila will help you extract, then you’ll return to her house. From there, you’ll proceed to Kandahar, where we will debrief you.” The bald Colonel looked at Danny and asked, “Do you have anything to add?”

  “Leila is solid,” Danny said. “She’s the most solid agent I’ve met. She’s a triathlete and scuba dives, so she shouldn’t slow us down too much.”

  The Colonel thanked Danny before continuing: “We can’t support you while you’re in Iran, but once you cross the border to Afghanistan, we can. Of course if your team is compromised, you’re on your own. No one will avow responsibility for this mission.”

  The Colonel went on to brief
them about enemy forces and the lack of friendly forces in the immediate target area. The nearest friendlies would be in Afghanistan, too far away to bail the Outcasts out even if the friendlies were allowed to. Because of the different time zones, the SEALs would lose seven and a half hours between Virginia Beach and Iran. As for the weather, there wasn’t any place hotter—the Lut Desert was literally the hottest place on the planet. “Although the days are usually cool this time of year, right now the Lut is experiencing a record-breaking heat wave, with daytime temperatures exceeding one hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit,” the Colonel warned. Locals passed on a legend that a load of wheat was left in the desert for a couple of days; the sun turned it into toasted wheat. Lut Desert was about to become even hotter.

  The Colonel gave them maps and photos of the area, and a photo of Leila. Pancho nearly drooled on his photo of her.

  John picked at his trousers as if there were lint when there was actually nothing—he did that when he felt troubled or annoyed.

  “Why us for this mission?” Alex asked.

  “Because you do the missions that are dirty,” the Colonel said. “The missions that no one will take public responsibility for. And because you’re expendable.”

  “I don’t understand what’s so special about this mission. Why no one wants to take responsibility for it.”

  The Colonel pulled out an olive drab case the size of a briefcase and set it between his feet and the Outcasts. He handled it like it was heavy. “You’ll use this for the demolition: the Mark-2 SADM.” SADM stood for Special Atomic Demolition Munition, sometimes called the “backpack bomb.” The Mark-54 SADM was developed in the 1960s, but the one in front of the Colonel looked smaller and lighter. Congress banned the development of backpack bombs in 1994 but then removed the ban ten years later. “This weighs fifty pounds and packs a yield of one kiloton of TNT,” the Colonel said. “You can imagine how upset people will be if they find out we nuked Iran.”

  Pancho’s low whistle spoke for all of them. A nuke!

  “I assume there’s a good reason we won’t be using conventional explosives for this,” Alex said.

  “There is,” the Colonel explained. “We’re not sure as to the extent of underground structures and how reinforced they are, and we’re unclear as to how we’d disable the whole plant with conventional explosives or other methods, such as hacking their computers or cutting critical power lines. Also, all the scientists and their support live in the compound—we want you to destroy all the scientists.”

  “Who’s the poor bastard who has to jump out of the plane carrying that?” Pancho asked.

  The Colonel’s eyes scanned the Outcasts before stopping at John. “John. You’ve been to SADM school for this very purpose.”

  “This just keeps getting better and better,” John grumbled.

  Pancho smiled. John’s unhappiness made Pancho happy.

  “I have a question,” John said.

  “Go ahead,” the Colonel replied.

  “I heard you got out of the military. You don’t work for JSOC anymore, do you?”

  “Good question,” the Colonel said, avoiding an answer.

  “If you don’t work for JSOC,” Pancho said, “who do you work for? The Agency?”

  The Colonel gave away nothing.

  “Bitter Ash?” Alex asked, looking for a reaction.

  The Colonel shifted his weight.

  Alex interpreted the shift to mean yes. The Phoenix Program of capturing and assassinating high-value personnel didn’t truly end when the Vietnam War ended. Rather, it transformed into Bitter Ash. The Outcasts’ previous mission to eliminate al Qaeda leaders fell under the command of Bitter Ash. Once again, it looked like Alex, Pancho, and John would be operating in the darkest shadows of blackness.

  4

  * * *

  The inside of the C-130 remained darkened except for the red lights illuminating the interior as Alex, Pancho, and John took off their civilian clothes. Alex wore silk boxer shorts, and he wasn’t the least bit ashamed. John, however, had on black Speedo swim jammers—formfitting nylon and Lycra spandex that extended from mid-waist down to mid-thigh, similar to triathlon shorts. Alex felt John should have been ashamed, and in the real world he would have, but then there was Pancho. Pancho, always the fashionista of their group, wore only his birthday suit. On this matter, Alex and John thought alike—if they ever got in too much trouble, they could always strip off everything except their shorts and make a swim for it, then walk onto a crowded beach and fit in like the other beachgoers. Pancho hoped he ended up on a nude beach—if not, oh well—can’t blame a guy for hoping.

  The SEALs put on polypropylene tops and bottoms in order to wick moisture away from their bodies. It wasn’t simply a comfort thing. They’d be jumping from a high altitude in subzero temperatures and sweat would freeze.

  Despite all the advances in material for extreme weather, they all wore wool socks. Scientists still hadn’t managed to beat sheep when it came to putting something on your feet that would wick away moisture and keep them warm.

  On his belt he carried a Swiss Army knife and a holstered Iranian Zoaf 9mm pistol, a knockoff of the SIG Sauer. The Zoaf was inferior to the SIG, but SEAL Team Six’s expert armorers had customized this Zoaf with increased accuracy, phosphate corrosion-resistant finish on the internal parts, contrast sights, and a threaded barrel for mounting a silencer and the ability to hold fifteen rounds.

  His main weapon would be an AKMS, similar to the AK-47 except this modern version had a side-folding buttstock, which gave Alex the option of making the weapon more compact for ease in parachuting and working in tight areas such as indoors. As with the Zoaf, SEAL Team Six’s armorers customized this AKMS with improved sling attachment points, a Picatinny rail with low-profile holographic and laser sights attached, and an enhanced fire selector switch for easier use and more accurate firing. When in Rome, look like the Romans, but carry a bigger stick.

  John carefully put the backpack nuke in his backpack. Of course, the United States could launch a missile with a nuclear warhead at the facility, but it would be difficult to disguise the source of the missile.

  Danny is probably trustworthy, but shit happens, Alex thought. He double-checked the route to Leila’s house and encouraged the others to do the same.

  Pancho sat nibbling on Keebler cookies. “Can you name them?” Pancho asked.

  Alex rolled his eyes.

  “Name what?” John asked.

  “The Keebler elves. All eighteen of them.”

  John corrected him. “All nineteen.”

  “Name them.”

  “Okay. J. J. Keebler, Ernie Keebler, Fryer Tuck, Zoot, Ma Keebler, Elmer Keebler, Buckets, Fast Eddie, Roger . . .” John started to slow down.

  “That’s nine,” Pancho said. “Don’t forget Doc, Zack, Flo, Leonardo, and Elwood.”

  “Professor, Edison, Larry, and Art.”

  “See, that’s only eighteen,” Pancho said, grinning.

  “There’s one more. I just forgot his name.”

  Alex couldn’t believe that two grown men were arguing about cookies and elves. After Alex made sure he was ready to go, he lay down on the cold deck, closed his eyes, and got some rest—he had no idea when he’d get a chance to rest again, so he didn’t waste the opportunity. His adrenaline threatened to keep him awake, but he fought it and caught some sleep—only to be awakened by hunger, so he ate a Meal, Ready to Eat (MRE), also known as Meal, Refusing to Exit because the MREs had been known to cause constipation. More than the food, Alex made sure he drank a lot of water, saturating his cells with it.

  They flew nine hours to Germany, stopped to refuel, then continued eight more hours to Afghanistan.

  During a stretch of Alex’s sleep, John woke him and said, “We’re nearing ten thousand feet.”

  Alex put his helmet and mask on—special molds had been made so that each member’s helmet and mask fit exactly. He connected the hose on his mask to an inline tube on the plane’
s wall (bulkhead) and started breathing pure oxygen to purge nitrogen from his bloodstream and avoid decompression sickness. Alex was also saturating himself with oxygen, so if he got low, he wouldn’t black out as fast.

  He had been through training that simulated a poor mask seal on his face, depriving him of oxygen—it made him feel euphoric. It was like being Superman. He really thought he could fly. If one guy broke seal, everyone had to restart the pre-breathing process, a process that could last thirty minutes to an hour and a half. Alex had seen a SEAL with a new mask that didn’t fit properly. Fortunately it was a training op, and the guy passed out before he jumped. The commanding officer had to make a decision whether to abort the mission or carry on without him. They carried on the mission without him. And he’d heard from John about a training op where a West Coast SEAL had jumped, then gone unconscious. An Emergency Deployment Device (EDD) should have automatically deployed his parachute for him; however, the EDD failed, and he bounced off the ground before he ever woke. Immediately the guys radioed about their dead Teammate. Pancho had been on that op. While waiting nearly an hour for someone to come and help them take the body out, Pancho reached into the rubble of the dead SEAL’s Playmate cooler, took his lunch, and ate it.

  Pancho, John, and Danny joined Alex in pre-breathing.

  After thirty minutes, the C-130 rose above ten thousand feet over Afghanistan. For each one thousand feet the plane ascended, the temperature dropped 3.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Alex put on overgloves, which covered his tactical gloves so his hands wouldn’t freeze off.

  As they reached eighteen thousand feet, a physiology technician monitored the SEALs and aircrew for signs of altitude sickness.

  The plane rose higher and higher. Soon the loadmaster called out, “Thirty minutes!”

  Alex’s bladder had stretched tight from all the water he’d been drinking, so he relieved himself in a piss tube in the bulkhead.

  “Ten minutes!” They were approaching the point of no return. Once they took that step off the plane, there’d be no getting back on.