Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “There is no way I’m going to chance losing another B-Two,” the general replied. “He’s hitting his targets as planned and going home.”

  Rios wouldn’t let it go. “The B-Two still has two bombs and can loiter for three hours.”

  “I’m aborting the rescue,” the general said. He picked up the microphone to radio Blue Chip and issue the command.

  3:09 A.M., Friday, July 30,

  Wadi Rahad, The Sudan

  The first telephone call drove a spike of fear into Jamil bin Assam. His laboratories and all the defenses around them had been destroyed. The caller claimed it was a massive attack with intercontinental ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, weapons of mass destruction, and over a hundred aircraft. The gallant defenders had been totally overwhelmed. The second phone call drove Assam over the edge. Four helicopters were reported to have landed seventy miles to the southwest.

  “They are coming after me!” Assam shouted. He ripped off his uniform and pulled on a dirty robe and sandals as a disguise. He gathered up his bodyguard and left for the airstrip a half mile away. Outside, the compound was surrounded by a growing crowd of people waiting for the coming festivities. Assam’s small convoy barreled through the crowd, running over six unfortunates who could not scamper out of the way.

  Kamigami shut the compound’s gates as Assam disappeared into the night. He walked calmly across the fresh sand that had been spread to absorb blood and stopped by the iron cage holding Terrant and Holloway. He unclipped the cellular phone from his belt and extended the antenna. He punched in a six-digit code without turning it on and pushed it onto the flat roof of the cage. The homing beacon was on. “What’s happening?” Terrant asked.

  “It’s going to get very interesting here in a few minutes,” Kamigami said. “Get down and stay down.”

  3:16 A.M., Friday, July 30,

  Over The Sudan

  Jim West’s fingers danced across the data entry panel as he called up his sixth bomb. “A guy could get to like this,” he mumbled, loud enough for Battle to hear. He reached for a water bottle and took a long drink. Then he called up the forward-looking infrared scope. The high walls of the compound came into view at max range. A half mile closer to them, he could see the image of an aircraft moving on the ground.

  “I think that’s a C-130,” West said.

  “Is it one of ours?” Bartle asked.

  “According to Intel, the black hats got one. Besides, our guys aren’t supposed to land.” He considered his next action. The image cleared as they approached, and he could see the C-130 was at the takeoff end of the runway. “Too bad he’s at the right place at the right time.” West allowed a tight grin and he called up the radar for a snapshot. This time, he placed the cross hairs at the exact middle of the runway and the system went through its update sequence. He took the second snapshot. The C-130 was still sitting at the end of the runway. “Bomb gone,” West said.

  Bartle flew an arc around the airfield while West watched the infrared scope. “If he rolls now, he just might make it,” West allowed. Still the C-130 didn’t move. West had no way of knowing the American pilot was trying to fly the C-130 solo and had to accomplish both the flight engineer’s and copilot’s checklists by himself. He could have done it quickly with the flight engineer, but like the copilot, Murray was dead, and the screaming Assam at the pilot’s back was not helping matters.

  “He’s rolling,” West said. He checked the time-to-go counter. “I don’t believe this.” The C-130 was lifting off as the bomb exploded in front of it. The big cargo plane disappeared in the fireball. “Son of a bitch!” West roared. “He was airborne!”

  Bartle shook his head in disbelief. “Four more and we’re Aces!”

  “We’re not going to hang around to try,” West said. “Time to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  3:20 A.M., Friday, July 30,

  Wadi Rahad, The Sudan

  The explosion and fireball at the airfield did more than create confusion. Flying shrapnel from the bomb and the wreckage of the C-130 cut into the bivouac where al Gimlas’s soldiers were camped. Fortunately, a low ridge deflected most of the blast and debris over the heads of the crowd nearest the runway, otherwise, the carnage would have been horrific. But the bomb had its intended effect. Panic gripped the people, and they turned into a stampeding mob. Those nearest the compound stormed the gates, demanding sanctuary. But most scattered into the desert, certain that more death and destruction would rain down from the skies. In the grand scheme of things, it was grossly unfair. They had come to view an execution, not be part of it.

  Kamigami crouched in the shadows of the compound, counting the seconds. Come on, he thought. Where are you? He knew how special operations worked and the window of opportunity was rapidly closing. The secondhand of his watch started its second sweep. Outside, he could hear the mob banging on the gate. How much longer will it hold? The secondhand started its third sweep. He listened. Only the howling from the mob outside the walls reached him. He waited. The secondhand started its fourth sweep. The window was closed. He slung a full ammunition pouch over his shoulder and picked up the AK-47 beside him. He chambered a round, selected short burst, and flicked the safety off. He ambled across the open compound to the cage.

  Without a word to the two pilots, he retrieved the cellular phone from the roof, collapsed the antenna. The homing signal used a lot of juice and he hoped it still had some useful life left.

  “What now?” Terrant asked.

  “It gets interesting,” Kamigami answered. Al Gimlas was walking across the compound with a squad of his men, the short executioner’s sword cradled in his arms.

  Al Gimlas stopped short of the cage, in the middle of the fresh sand. “It is time,” he announced.

  8:28 P.M., Friday, July 29,

  National Military Command Center, The Pentagon

  “Blue Chip, Striker One. How copy?” Jim West’s voice was loud and clear as he reestablished contact with the airborne command post. Art Rios listened as West relayed the results of the mission. All the targets had been successfully struck and Striker One was headed for home-plate, Whiteman Air Force Base. Rios checked the master clock on the wall and came out of his seat. The B-2 was still over the Sudan.

  “Sudan’s air defenses must be in shambles,” Rios said, “for him to break radio silence this early.”

  “That’s an affirmative,” the general replied. “If Baghdad in 1991 was any indication, there’s not a radar operator or gunner on the ground who wants to draw any attention to himself.”

  Rios’s mind raced as he considered their options. “Can Striker go back in?”

  The general shook his head. “We’re quitting winners on this one.”

  “We haven’t won yet,” Durant replied. He knew how Rios worked. “What’s on your mind, Art?”

  Rios flipped open his mission folder and extracted a satellite photo of the compound. “This was taken yesterday” he said. He pointed to the cage in the compound. “Under magnification, you can see two people—Terrant and Holloway. I don’t want to let them die in there. We can’t give up yet, not when we’ve got everyone in the area.” He glanced at the master clock. “Gillespie should be airborne in six minutes.” He ran the times and distances in his head. “Look, Gillespie can put it all together, but we don’t got time to discuss it here. It all hinges on Striker. Can he go back in and create another diversion for Delta?”

  The general shook his head. “You’re winging it. I can’t think of a faster way to lose another B-Two.”

  Durant decided it was time to use some muscle. “General, you don’t know who I am but think about it for a moment. How many civilians, at the direction of the President, have you had in here during an actual operation? Art, here, was the man who planned the mission. He’s run three successful rescues for me. Listen to him.”

  The general had not made four stars by being slow or stupid. Then it clicked. “Iran in 1980, Iraq in 1990, and Syria in 1993, right?” Durant nodded
. The general paused for a second. It seemed forever. Then, “Lay it out.”

  “Gillespie knows this mission better than anyone. Get him. Striker, and the Combat Talons, all talking together. Let them make the decision.” Again, he checked the wall clock. “We’re out of time, General.”

  “This violates every rule in the book,” the general grumbled. He reached for the microphone on the console and called Blue Chip. “Transfer operational control to the Air Boss,” he ordered. Gillespie was the Air Boss. “Have Striker and the Combat Talons coordinate directly with the Air Boss to determine if the raid can continue.” He dropped the mike on the table and looked at Durant. Waving his hand at the NMCC he said, “You realize that if this works, we’re out of a job.” He really wanted to say that if they lost another B-2, he’d probably be court-martialed. “What the hell,” he mumbled. “I was looking for a job when I found this one.”

  3:31 A.M., Friday, July 30,

  Wadi Rahad, The Sudan

  Kamigami stalled for time and made a show of checking his watch. “The execution is scheduled for noon. General Assam will have to approve the change.”

  “Assam is dead,” al Gimlas said. “As well as over a hundred of my men who were at the airstrip.”

  Kamigami heard the anger in al Gimlas’s voice and he understood. Al Gimlas cared little about Assam, but his men were another matter. That was what made the captain such a rarity in his country. “Ask Khartoum for instructions,” Kamigami said.

  Al Gimlas spit in the sand. “They are raging idiots.” He fingered the sword and looked at the sky. An image of what would happen to his family if he failed to carry out his orders filled his mind. “The Americans are coming and there is nothing I can do to stop them now. But it will be a hollow victory. They will have come for nothing and my men will have been avenged.”

  Kamigami tried to reason with him. “Let’s take the prisoners back to El Obeid. This is not a good day to die, my friend.”

  “When we die is for Allah to decide. Unlock the cage.”

  Kamigami had used the brief delay to size up the opposition and had counted forty-one soldiers and guards in the compound. He needed help and room to maneuver. He unlocked the cage and threw the door open. “Open the gates and let the people in,” he said. “They have also paid a price to see this.”

  Al Gimlas barked an order and the guards rushed to open the big gate while two soldiers dragged Terrant and Holloway out of the cage. Holloway butted at one with his head. Another soldier smashed the butt of his rifle into the pilot’s back, sending him sprawling into the sand. People surged through the gate and crowded into the compound. The more the better, Kamigami calculated. The mob’s confusion grew worse. They only wanted protection and now they were looking at the execution.

  “Clear a circle,” Kamigami said. Again, al Gimlas gave the order and his soldiers rushed to form a human barrier, keeping the surging mob at bay. Two soldiers grabbed Terrant, each holding an arm. They straightened out his arms and twisted viciously, forcing him to his knees. He looked up at al Gimlas who was holding the sword with both hands. He raised the sword above his head.

  “Fuck you!” Holloway yelled.

  Al Gimlas paused. Kamigami raised his AK-47 and squeezed off two short bursts, cutting into the soldiers holding Terrant. Al Gimlas swirled and faced Kamigami, relieved that he was confronting an armed enemy. He charged. Kamigami repeatedly mashed the AK-47’s trigger and swept the compound as al Gimlas rushed at him, the sword above his head.

  The scene dissolved in a blur of action as Holloway threw a full body block at one of the soldiers holding him and rolled free. The other guard was swinging his AK-47 onto Holloway when Kamigami’s fire cut him down. Holloway’s manacled hands grabbed for the AK-47. The people who had been streaming into the compound scattered like leaves before a tornado, spreading chaos with them.

  Al Gimlas was four steps away from Kamigami and bringing his sword down when Kamigami lowered the muzzle of his AK-47 and fired a three-shot burst. Only one of the slugs cut into al Gimlas. But at close range, the impact was overwhelming and literally blew al Gimlas off his feet. Kamigami kicked the sword away, jammed a fresh magazine into the AK-47, and again swept the compound with fire. He fell to the sand and rolled toward Terrant, reloading yet again. He shot away the pilot’s leg chains. “The wall!” he yelled, pointing at the rock monolith in the center of the compound. “Run!”

  Kamigami fired again, indiscriminately cutting into the crowd trying to escape. It had the effect he wanted and the confusion was complete. Gunfire kicked up the sand between Kamigami and Holloway. Surprised that he was still alive, Kamigami squeezed off a short burst in that direction as he ran after Holloway, whose leg chains hobbled him so that he could only hop. Holloway kept trying to fire his AK-47 with both hands manacled together. Kamigami shoved him to the ground as bullets split the air where he had been a moment before. Kamigami jammed the muzzle of his AK-47 against Holloway’s leg chains and fired. “Follow Terrant!” he shouted.

  Holloway came to his feet, his leg chains severed, and ran for the low wall, still firing his AK-47. Again, Kamigami fired, making a rear guard action. He turned twice to fire, discouraging anyone who was thinking of following. He dived over the low stone wall that surrounded the monolith and fell to the ground, taking what cover he could.

  Gunfire from a submachine gun raked the wall, sending a shower of rock chips over the three men. Kamigami rolled over to the opening and shoved the muzzle of his AK-47 around the edge. Using one hand, he fired blindly. The gunfire stopped. He heard a yell, counted to three, and chanced a quick glance. The young soldier from the cave-in was running and weaving toward the low wall. Kamigami fired just as he lobbed a grenade. The soldier collapsed to the ground as the grenade bounced past Kamigami. Holloway grabbed it and threw it back. The grenade exploded harmlessly, its shrapnel pitting the low wall.

  “What the fuck, now?” Holloway shouted in the sudden silence.

  “We hold,” Kamigami replied.

  3:36 A.M., Friday, July 30,

  Over The Sudan

  The four Pave Lows lifted off in pairs and headed to the southwest, retracing the route to Bangui. Gillespie leveled off at four hundred feet and handed the controls over to his copilot. His wingman, Chock Two, joined on the right, exactly three hundred feet abeam. Behind them, and further to the right, the second element fell into place. The desert floor flashed beneath them, its hostile terrain hidden in the night. Behind them, a quarter moon lifted above the eastern horizon and cast a soft light over the retreating helicopters.

  “This sucks,” Gillespie muttered, the order to abort still fresh in his mind. “And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon,” he said.

  “Say what?” his copilot asked.

  “Shakespeare,” Gillespie said. “It helps when everything is turning to shit.” He was about to quote the entire passage from As You Like It when the SatCom radio squawked. The two pilots listened, not believing what they were hearing. Gillespie had the airborne command post authenticate the command. He looked at his copilot when the two-letter response matched his. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. Almost immediately, the lead Combat Talon C-130 checked in on the radio.

  Then, “Striker One is with you.”

  Gillespie allowed a satisfied snort. Someone had a clue.

  Bartle firewalled the throttles as the B-2 headed back for the wadi at 42,000 feet. The pilot was about to learn why standard operation procedures only allowed max throttle at altitude for thirty seconds: the airspeed kept building and showed no signs of tapering off as they approached Mach. Finally, Bartle had to inch the throttles back to keep from going supersonic.

  The threat display came alive and. chirped at them. A bat wing, the symbol for a fighter interceptor, flashed on the scope at their four o’clock position at seven miles. “Talk about luck,” Bartle said. The lieutenant colonel grunted an answer. But logic told him it was not pure luck. The fighter had probably been v
ectored by ground control to fly a point defense over the wadi after they had announced their presence by blowing up the C-130. But chance had played a role. The pilot had been looking at the rising moon when a dark shadow had flown across its face. The B-2 had been briefly silhouetted. It was enough to get the interceptor pointed in the right direction. The pilot had turned on his radar and probed for the bomber. He had gotten two brief hits before losing radar contact. But he was persistent and he was in the area.

  West took his first snapshot of the compound and drove the cursors over the open, but now deserted, area in front of the gate. They altered course forty degrees for the second snapshot. “Bomb gone,” West announced. His fingers danced on the hand controller and he took a third snapshot of the area, this time behind the compound. They were going to blow down some walls.

  “That son of a bitch is still on us,” Bartle said. “He got a brief lock on when the doors were open. Broke lock when they closed.”

  West ignored him. He would solve that problem later. He took the fourth and last snapshot. Again, the system did its magic. “Bomb gone,” West said.

  “Shit!” Bartle roared. “He’s got us!” The threat display showed a fighter with a radar lock on less than four miles at their three o’clock position.

  “Turn into him,” West ordered. It was a standard defensive maneuver: when in doubt, turn into the threat. But West was not suffering from any doubt. Bartle stood the bomber on its right wing, making it perform like a fighter, which it definitely was not. But Lockheed’s engineers had designed it well, and it maintained controlled flight as it flew a knife edge in the night. The fighter’s radar broke lock. But West was not done with him. He reached out and hit the trigger button on the stick in front of him. The bomb bay doors banged open and a HARM missile was ejected. The fighter’s radar immediately locked on the doors. The HARM’s rocket motor fired and it homed on the only radar signal it could detect, the fighter that was now less than two miles away. The HARM left a bright pencil beam of light in its wake as it streaked to its target. But the HARM’S warhead didn’t have time to arm before it speared the fighter. It was enough.