“Go, go, go, go!” The command from Nolt came right after a green “on” light signaled the SEALs were over the DZ. The first four SEALs, comprising Bravo Team, jumped out of the rear of the C-17 that had ferried them from Hickam. Then came Alpha. Their drop zone put them ahead of the USS Essex, a Waspclass landing ship. Two Navy HH-60H Seahawks, equipped for Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR), were ready to lift off as soon as the SEALs cleared the airspace and dumped in the sea.
Now it was Nolt’s turn. He saluted to the Air Force major who supervised their drop. “Thanks for the lift. You know where to send the bill.” On his way down, he thought about the shower he’d be enjoying in twenty minutes, and the one he hoped to take about six hours later.
Aboard the USS Blue Ridge
The Banda Sea
Sunday, 19 August
local time 0116 hrs
(Saturday, 18 August ET)
“Misdirection,” Adm. Zimmer explained from the command ship. Nolt’s SEALs listened over their radio. J3 was connected from MacDill. President Lamden was on in the White House War Room. “They’re going to think we think we’re pounding them.” The Admiral described his plan.
“The target is here,” he used a telestrator, visible via computer links. Everyone saw a small rugged island, twelve kilometers from the target. “The purpose is two-fold. We’re going to light up the sky in the distance and draw their eye while the SEALs come in from their blind side. And we’re going to use the noise to mask the incursion. The window of opportunity is twelve minutes. We’ll start with a heavy bombing run that will shake them all out of bed. They’ll see missiles launched to the South, they’ll feel the shock. And they’ll drop their defenses. Psych Ops says that they’ll be drawn to the lightshow feeling pretty good about themselves. That’s when the SEALs strike. Then phase two of EAGLE CLUTCH.”
“I suppose you’ve blown up your fair share of things, Lieutenant Nolt,” Zimmer gathered. Nolt laughed.
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“And you’ve trained for hundreds of hours, and for virtually any contingency.”
“Yes, sir. The same is true for all my men.”
“But this is one hell of an assignment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do your men know the nature of the mission?”
“They understand that we are to infiltrate a terrorist camp and secure the release of a group of kidnapped VIPs, sir.” As instructed, Nolt had not explained the actual identity of the number-one VIP.
“And your men are ready?” Zimmer asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Nolt’s team listened intently, so far unfazed by what seemed like a typical pre-mission pep talk.
“I’m sorry you were not informed earlier. However, there is an extraordinary aspect to this operation,” Zimmer continued.
A few of the men chuckled. They’d heard this kind of thing before.
“The operation has only come together in the last few hours. We believe there are only a few hours left to act. VIPs were taken. I stress, very important persons. You were called together minutes after the Navy reported that the hostages were taken. The details are known by a handful of people, for good reason. You’re about to join the short list.”
The SEALs began to feel a greater sense of urgency.
“Approvals have gone up the chain of command faster than any action in American history. Any. You have trained for this, without ever knowing who you were training to free. And now the time has come.”
The SEALs looked at Nolt. He kept a poker face.
“Gentlemen, you are about to rescue the President of the United States.”
Nolt watched as surprise registered on everyone: man by man. They shot hard stares at one another.
“He was captured following the ditching of Air Force One. We believe that was an act of sabotage. It is unknown if the capture of the commander in chief is related. But now it’s your job to get the president and the other hostages out. Eight SEALs against hundreds of guerillas. You must succeed. You will succeed.”
Heightened fervor spread through the briefing room aboard the Essex. Pintar immediately checked his handgun; Lopez felt for his knife. The others found their own way to toughen up.
“That is your mission. Are you ready?” Zimmer asked.
“We’re SEALs,” offered Showalter, without regard to rank. “God help anybody who gets in our way.”
Lamden heard exactly what he needed. “EAGLE CLUTCH is go.”
The Essex came dead in the water and a series of ballast tanks in the stem flooded down. A rear gate lowered and the two Mark VIII Swimmer Delivery Vehicles, essentially sub-surface “wet” submarines, floated out of the well deck. The SEALs were all on board.
“Ready, Nolt,” called out to the members of the Alpha Detachment.
“Ready,” reported Shaughnessy, Pintar, and Lopez. Nolt would take the lead submersible with them. He received a similar acknowledgment from Bravo Detachment—Harold Chaskes, Todd Roberts, Mark Polonsky, and Brian Showalter. Four men in each SDV, along with the pilot and navigator.
The Mark VIII’s computerized mixed-gas on-board breathing systems were already fired up, and the canopies were closed. The crew reviewed their checklists, engaged the Doppler navigation systems (DNS), the obstacle-avoidance sonar subsystem (OAS), and tested the ballast and trim systems and the horizontal and vertical planes. These were controlled through a manual stick to the rudder, elevator, and bow planes.
All of the electronics of the SDVs were housed in airtight, dry canisters, designed to withstand seawater pressure to a depth of 500 feet. Today, they’d shuttle to Haruku at a maximum depth of thirty feet, less for the last 100 yards.
With the signal from the pilot of Alpha, all was set. The first Mark VHI’s five-bladed propeller began turning. The 254-inch-long craft moved forward. The pilot flooded all of the compartments and began a slight descent. The Bravo SDV followed.
The sea was still rising to swells of fifteen feet, but below the surface, all was calm. The eight SEALs got into a relaxed breathing pattern. This was the last time for private thoughts and personal prayers. In another few minutes they’d be on the clock.
Washington, D.C.
the same time
He relaxed in the hotel’s luxurious bathtub, clearing his mind and thinking through the details. Success always depended on the right state of mind.
Except for the crowd, there wasn’t anything especially difficult about the job. People might see him move about, but they’d take little notice. Their attention would be elsewhere—to the podium or the TV projection screens placed at intervals down the Mall.
Once he accomplished his assignment, he’d simply become one in a million of confused, perhaps riotous marchers, hiding in plain sight.
He rarely liked to be told exactly where, how, and when to perform an assignment, but the instructions had been specific.
In another two hours, he would leave Washington a far richer man than when he arrived. He slid his torso under the bath water and held his breath. He kept his eyes open. It was a comforting sensation. He saw everything through a slowly shifting, thick, out-of-focus lens. So peaceful. It cleansed him, not that he needed it. He felt no guilt.
The Banda Sea
Off Saparua Island
Lt. Commander James Nolt knew very little about the enemy. More time, more recon would have been extremely helpful. For now, he had only his intuition and textbook analysis.
Guerilla fighters. They had weaknesses, he thought. The SEALs would have to take advantage of them. They have a loose organization and possibly a poorly trained command. Next, he put himself in their position. Arrogant. Self-deluded. Fanatical. Strong belief in their political and religious cause. Willing to become martyrs. Capable of taking the hostages with them.
To successfully complete the mission, Nolt and his men needed to remain stealth, maintain the offensive, and operate in a limited-visibility environment.
Raid, kill, gain ground. The team leader ran the playbook in his head. He was 100 percent certain that each of his SEALs was doing exactly the same.
The two jet-black SDVs slowed and finally came to a stop. The navigator delivered them to the precise coordinates, about 900 yards off the rocky shore.
Nolt’s squad unhooked from the Mark VIII’s breathing apparatus and engaged their own tanks. They opened the canopies and silently floated above the submersibles. When they were at a depth of fifteen feet they swam toward land.
The SDVs would stay in place until 0700 hours, or later, if ordered by C2. They were the backup means of exfiltration, should EAGLE CLUTCH go wrong. But like the trip out, the Mark VIIIs could only transport the SEALs. A lot had to go right before they’d be safely on their way home.
The SEALs swam in pairs. One diver-buddy held a board, which included a compass, as well as depth and watch gauges. The basic equipment kept the teams on course. Meanwhile, the other partner held onto his arm just below the triceps. He served as the lookout and counted kicks calculated to get them to the shore. The pairs communicated in non-verbal codes, consisting of squeezes and alternating pauses. The swim represented the fundamental of SEALs training: Teamwork is everything. Seemingly impossible tasks are made possible by working together.
Everything they needed for the ops was attached to their wetsuits: grenade and ammo pouches, secondary magazines, medical kits, helmet radios, night vision equipment, and their weapons. They chose Heckler & Koch MK3′s, Sig Sauer 9 mm automatics, Beretta M92-Fs with slide locks and Qualatech silencers, and K-Bar survival knives.
Pintar and Shaughnessy also carried their Knights SR25 sniper rifles, critical for the first phase of the mission.
Lebanon, Kansas
“How many times can the presidency be stolen?” Strong asked his listeners. “This amounts to a coup.” He read from the wire service report about Lamden’s return. His real information came from an e-mail on the Hill. “So they trot Henry Lamden out so they don’t have to swear in the Speaker of the House.”
Strong had to be careful; he hadn’t laid the groundwork on why Patrick, a Democrat, would be better than another Democrat. He decided to give it a more politically motivated spin.
“They know that Congressman Patrick was coming out in support of General Bridgeman—that he was all set to introduce him today. So, rather than make him president, they punish him. They bring out an invalid instead of naming Duke Patrick the rightful president.” He slammed his hand down hard.
“How do I know this? Because I’ve been told by my sources in Washington.” Patrick. “Conspiracy at the highest level. Congress must open an investigation immediately. This is the last straw!”
Strong thought he turned the negative into a true positive. More for Bridgeman to talk about today. More to anger the crowd. More reason to incite….
Haruku Island
They quietly emerged from the sea, timing their run to shore—two SEALs at a time—with the crashing of the waves. They regrouped fifty yards inland at the base of a cliff—their first obstacle.
The clouds obscured the moon, which cut down on the enemy’s ability to see them. It also made their passage more difficult. They had a 100-foot slippery vertical surface to climb and no time to waste.
The SEALs continued to use hand signals. Nolt indicated where they should ascend. The first men up had the hardest job—finding the best place to grip. Each footing was marked with luminous powder, visible through the night-vision goggles.
Alpha took six minutes to scale the rock face. Bravo needed an extra ninety seconds, which put them behind schedule.
Speeding up could be dangerous, but they were on a timetable, which was out of their control. Nolt pushed his men through the underbrush due north for a quarter of a mile, then northwest until they came to a thick bamboo forest. They made up two minutes. The next 200 yards would take additional time. They had to navigate around gullies and swamp.
“Shit!” Showalter cursed. He slid knee-deep into a bog. The more he tried to pull himself out, the harder it became to move.
Polonsky avoided the same mistake, stopping short of the mud. Roberts came to Showalter’s aid. Chaskes circumvented the area, but doubled-back.
Polonsky motioned for Showalter to stand still. He looked overhead. Bamboo branches shot through the jungle canopy. “Push that one down,” he signaled Roberts. If Showalter could grab hold of the branch, then at least he’d stop sinking.
Roberts shimmied up the tree, high enough to reach a point where he could force down the trunk and get it within reach of Showalter.
All of this was accomplished silently, but it was taking too much time.
“Got it,” Showalter whispered. He reached as high up the curved wood as possible and slid the top of the trunk between his legs. The flexibility of the branch worked in his favor. But there wasn’t much he could do yet.
Roberts then bent over another trunk, a few feet from the first. The trapped SEAL grabbed the second shaft and forced it under him as he had done before. The two trees effectively created a ladder. With a combination of pulling and climbing, Showalter cautiously inched out of the mud that had trapped him.
Polonsky checked the time. Two minutes behind schedule.
Nolt looked at his watch. The massive batteries of the USS Cowpens, an Aegis cruiser off the coast, were loaded and ready to fire. According to the GPS direction finder on Nolt’s wrist PDA, they still had another fifty yards to go. He waved Alpha forward into their attack position.
Shaughnessy identified nine targets on the perimeter. He rolled on his stomach and showed Pintar, who was behind him, nine fingers. The word went back to Lopez, and ultimately to Nolt.
The nine were only the first kills they’d have to make. Beyond them, the rest of the militia. Shaughnessy panned his night-vision sight across a grove, which abutted a cliff. He could see three encampments. Each housed at least 100 troops. The men milled around. The light from their cigarettes created hot spots on the infrared goggles. Another, smaller group gathered around a camouflaged tent. It was large enough to hold a dozen or more prisoners.
Shaughnessy looked at his palm device. He was receiving LINK 16-type data, down-linked and culled from intelligence sources including AWACS telementiy, a RC-135 Rivet Joint ELINT/SIGINT/COMINT aircraft, and an E-8B/C J-STARS ground surveillance plane. With it, he had a solid lock on the primary objective: the tent and a pulsing beacon from within.
Lt. Nolt gave his watch one more glance. Forty-five seconds. He inched forward through the underbrush toward Shaughnessy, careful not to show a profile to the enemy. The two men would come in from the southwest. Pintar and Lopez to their left. Bravo Team—Chaskes, Showalter, Roberts, and Polonsky—would circle around from the north. Twenty seconds.
Ten seconds. Nolt steeled himself for his first kill. Five seconds. His target stood twenty feet ahead. His automatic weapon was down at his side.
Suddenly and without warning, the sky brightened to the south. Flashes of light, all coming from one point well off shore, illuminated the night sky. Trails of fire streamed across the horizon.
The guerillas watched, mesmerized. Then they realized they were under attack. With nowhere to run, they fell to the ground and covered their heads waiting for the explosions.
The explosions came, but not at their encampment. They were a few kilometers away, at a neighboring island.
Gradually, the troops rose to their feet and cheered at the stupidity of the Americans.
Now.
The targets closest to Alpha Team had their weapons down. They were pointing to the destruction of the island in the distance.
Nolt stepped out of the shadows. Shaughnessy was by his side. The SEALs moved in perfect synchronicity. They approached from the rear, stretching a thin cord into a wide noose. In one quick, stealth move, they slipped their devices over the unsuspecting victims’ heads. The rebels’ hands reflexively went up, but there was nothin
g they could do. Each SEAL kicked his target’s knees. The victims were thrown off balance. Neither man could steady nor protect himself.
Nolt and Shaughnessy drew their nooses back under their victims’ chins until their work was done. Their first kills went down without a whisper rising above the explosions. Nolt and Shaughnessy slowly lowered the bodies to the ground.
Three men, barely fifteen feet in front of them, paid no attention. Nolt again took the lead and flared to the target on the left. Shaughnessy would take the man on the right. They counted on Lopez to drop the target in the middle.
This time, they’d use their UDT knives. Again, as in a mirror image of one another, the two SEALs advanced from behind. Their blades came up as they grabbed their targets heads with their left hands and quickly slit their throats. Simultaneously, the guard between them crumpled to the ground, felled by a bullet from thirty yards away. But death would not be so immediate for Nolt and Shaughnessy’s two, unless they ended it with a back-entry slash to the kidneys and another front plunge into the heart. It took all of another second.
Now Pintar did more of the cleanup. He fired four perfectly aimed shots through his noise-suppressed SR45.
Plus thirty seconds. On schedule, Nolt reported to himself. Two more men at the edge of the guerilla’s compound. He signaled Shaughnessy. Suddenly, the man on the right stepped forward, then turned to address his compatriot. He spotted Nolt.
“Kunjungi!"—Look! the sentry exclaimed. His automatic instantly came up. The other Indonesian guerilla whipped around.
“Apa?” he asked. What? His confusion bought Nolt his life. The first guard started to explain rather than fire a round.
From his blind side came Lopez. He slammed the butt of his Sig Sauer up and under the skull of the combatant. He dropped him with the other end of his weapon, plunging his K-Bar into the man’s heart. This drew the second man’s attention, which prevented him from detecting Shaughnessy. He worked his knife in around the front of the Indonesian’s chest and dropped him with one blow.
Executive Treason Page 52
