Strike Force Delta

by Mack Maloney

  It was Bobby Murphy, here to thank an old friend for his help.

  Tarik greeted him warmly, with much hugging and cheek kissing. Murphy took it all in good humor, then followed Tarik back to his hut.

  They sat inside next to the small stove and Murphy accepted Tarik’s offer of one of the huge black cigarettes, not quite realizing it was stuffed with both tobacco and hashish.

  “We owe you more than before, my friend,” Tarik told Murphy. “Your men have removed the blight of Warlord Sharif and have put an end to the sinful enterprises in Khrash.”

  Murphy just took a long drag of the Afghani blunt. “We had our own reasons, our own motives. But I’m glad you will benefit from it all.”

  “Our fighters will remain in the city for as long as they are needed,” Tarik reported. “We will try to rebuild it. Try to make it a place where the innocent and the uninvolved can live in peace.”

  Murphy nodded solemnly. “That’s how it should be,” he said. “And you’ll have a lot of ex-Iranian equipment at your disposal should anyone seek to disagree with you.”

  Tarik shook his head slowly, then waved the smoke out of the air. It was clear he did not want to talk about what had happened in Khrash’s center square just after the Iranian brigade showed up. It was just too spooky for him.

  “As for whatever is down in those warehouses,” Murphy went on, “we’ll have to leave that to the brains in Washington. If what I suspect about some of the stuff is true, I’m sure they’ll be dying to announce they’d finally found what they’ve been looking for all these years. On the other hand, there’s a good chance they’ll want to keep the whole thing secret because they don’t want to admit that anything went on in Khrash and with Iran and Al Qaeda because they’ll never know what happened exactly. Could get confusing.”

  Tarik smiled. “Sometimes I’m happy I live high up in the mountains,” he said. “And other times I’m not sure if I live high enough.”

  “But whatever happens, you must remember,” Murphy went on, “the promise you made to me a long time ago. Peace and freedom for everyone in that city, in the entire Qimruz. If people want to sing or dance or fly a kite, they have to be able to. If they want to read a book, see a movie, praise Allah, or Jesus, or Yahweh—they have to have the freedom to do so.”

  Tarik was nodding in agreement. “The old times must pass,” he replied. “I’m smart enough to know that.”

  Murphy took another drag and then raised his finger to make one more point. “And no beating of women,” he told Tarik soberly. “Or children. Those things are the most important of all.”

  Tarik nodded again. “I understand and promise that to you, my friend.”

  “That’s good,” Murphy said. “Because I’ll be watching. And if things go wrong, or if they start to go backward. . .” He nodded in the direction of Khrash. “Well . . . you know now what we can do.”

  Tarik smiled again, but maybe a bit nervously. “Of all your points you’ve made today,” he told Murphy, “that one is the most clear.”

  They shook hands and then embraced.

  “And spend all that money wisely,” Murphy added. “You earned it.”

  Tarik looked back at him queerly. “What money?” he asked. “We didn’t do this for money. We did this for the spoils of Khrash and to rid this part of our world from that jihad filth.”

  Murphy was stumped. “You mean you weren’t paid, my friend?” he asked. “Two million dollars in American cash?”

  Tarik just laughed and took another long drag on his cigarette.

  “Two million dollars, American?” he said. “What would I do with that kind of money?”

  The battle for Khrash was over.

  For the first time in many hours, there were no sounds of gunfire or explosions. No clank of tank treads, or jet fighters roaring overhead. No B-52 strikes, real or imagined. Khrash was quiet. The only sound was that of many American flags whipping in the breeze.

  The city square was still filling up with Ghosts. Some of 1st Delta were now here; so was Kennedy’s entire 2nd attack squad. Many of the Zabul fighters were also on hand. The pair of tanks were here, too; they were guarding the two main approaches to the middle of town, guns locked and loaded. But no one was coming at them now. No one was left—at least not among the city’s once visible defenders and visitors. They were all dead, out on either the bridge or the mountain pass road, or within the city itself. That’s why it was so quiet.

  How many terrorists had been killed? It really didn’t make much difference to the Americans now lounging about the city square, many of them taking their first rest break of the night. If they’d gone through all this just to kill one Al Qaeda member, it would have been worth it. That was the measure of hatred the Ghosts had for the Islamic terrorist group. They had vowed to get them all, one by one, and all of the Ghosts truly believed that someday they would reach that goal. The fact that there were at least 10,000 dead mooks currently lying around and that many were hard-core Al Qaeda was just a small step in that direction.

  Gradually the civilians started coming out of their hiding places. Many were wailing, twirling kerchiefs over their heads. Happy and sad at the same time, the subtitle of this story. Once they got over the initial shock of seeing Americans standing in their city square, they began thanking the Ghosts and the Zabul for what they’d just done. The triple plague of the Taliban, Al Qaeda, and the religious police was now gone. The people had their city back again. They could sing. They could dance. They could fly a kite. They could read a book. They were free.

  They were also being frisked now for explosives before they were allowed to mingle among the liberators, offering them figs and much-appreciated cups of water.

  The only problem now was how and when were the Ghosts going to get out of here?

  Their work was done. It was time to go home.

  As if in answer to that question, one of the team’s helicopters appeared overhead, pulling up in a hover above the crowded city square. Many of the Ghosts started gathering up their equipment. This was the beginning of their transport line out; they were sure of it. It might take a while before they eventually made it back to the Ocean Voyager, but every happy journey has to start somewhere. . . .

  But suddenly everyone beneath the helicopter sensed something was wrong. The aircraft was not moving; it was just floating above them, maybe three hundred feet up, its nose pointing south. Those on the ground could almost see the pilots squinting, as if trying to see something farther down in that part of the city.

  Then one of the copter’s crew leaned very far out of the cargo bay door and started yelling down to the troopers below. But he couldn’t be heard over the sound of the rotors. He realized this—and in desperation started pointing wildly toward the south.

  The first he shell smashed into the city square a second later.

  With madness typical of this night, the shell blew up in the midst of the civilians who had gathered to thank the Ghosts for what they’d just done. The resulting fireball was tinged with blood—two dozen people, gone in a flash.

  The Ghosts actually had time to scatter before the second shell came crashing down. It hit the bottom of the Holy Towers, exploding in a gush of fire and concrete. Two more shells came in. More civilians were killed. Two more and the top floor of the Holy Towers was suddenly blown away.

  The Ghosts had no idea who was shooting at them—only that it was coming from the south. One of the Zabul tanks started to turn its gun turret in that direction. It was hit twice, simultaneously, before the turret got halfway around. The monstrous T-72 was lifted off the ground like a broken toy.

  Now the shells started raining down two and three at a time. The Americans began fanning out from the square, some carrying their rifles, some not. And those who were holding their weapons were very low on ammunition. Whoever this unseen enemy was, the Ghosts wouldn’t have very much to throw back at them once they came face-to-face. And they knew it was the same for their air assets. All
three copters and both jet fighters had run low on ammunition a long time ago.

  Finally they all heard the first real noise of their attackers approaching. It was the very distinct and frightening clanking sound made by only one weapon in the world: a tank.

  And as crazy and unreal and unbelievable as it seemed, there were two dozen heavily armored battle tanks rumbling into the city square. They were big ones: T-80s, ironically a souped-up version of the Zabul T-72s. And they were all wearing the battle colors of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

  There was never any doubt that Khrash was important to the twisted old men who ran Iran. It provided deniability on everything from WMD, to stolen aircraft, to hostages, to brand-new Russian weapons. That was the same French Bell-72 the Thunder guys had seen earlier in the night. It was dropping off the parcel of plutonium it had picked up in West Africa that it never disposed of. The Iranians were into nukes, too.

  So, what was lurking in the warehouses at the southern end of Khrash all this time? As it turned out, just about everything that couldn’t be found in Iraq—hostages, weapons, WMD—and a whole lot more. And to guard it all? An entire mechanized battalion of the Kvak, the Iranian Special Forces. Twenty-four tanks. Twenty-four armored personal carriers. Twelve mobile guns and more than 2,000 men. Very well hidden, from the Americans, even from the people who used to run Khrash. But now they were on the loose.

  Someone somewhere had decided the Americans had seen too much in Khrash and that there would be too many tales to tell. So they’d dispatched this column to make sure there weren’t any witnesses. And being just about out of bullets and bombs themselves, the Ghosts didn’t stand a chance.

  But that’s when the EC-130 Psyclops plane arrived over the scene.

  There was no CD they could blare through their God’s Ear speakers to stop this. The Iranian Special Forces weren’t going to fall for anything like that. They knew what had happened in Khrash, had watched it all. And they probably would have let it all go and never have revealed themselves if the Americans hadn’t started poking their noses around the southern part of the city. But of course that’s where they’d allowed the Patch to bring the Asian girl and to do his killings—and that had been a mistake. Thus the need to seal many lips permanently.

  Still the EC-130 started buzzing the Iranian column, this as the lead tanks continued bombarding the area around the Holy Towers, sending the Ghosts and the Zabul scrambling for any bit of cover they could find.

  The Iranians were quickly aware of the huge strange-looking plane. Soldiers began popping up on the tops of the tanks and APCs with heavy-caliber machine guns and shoulder-launched antiaircraft weapons. Any combination of these weapons could bring down the big propeller plane, especially since it was flying so low.

  The whole thing was madness—on a night filled with madness. The Ghosts were looking at the prospect of offering only a minor defense before being utterly wiped out by this overwhelming superior force. And it wasn’t like they could really call in a B-52 strike or expect the 4th Army to come to their rescue.

  The tanks continued firing even as the soldiers on top were shooting up at the EC-130. The sky above the main street was now crisscrossed with heavy tracer fire, yet the EC-130 came back again, this time lower and slower. What the hell was it doing? It wasn’t going to scare the Iranians away.

  But as it turned out, its crew had something else in mind.

  What happened next would be a matter of debate for some time to come. The Psyclops plane came back a third time—and on this pass it was flying even lower and even slower right over the top of the Kvak column. The sky was absolutely thick with tracer fire now; the EC-130 flew right through it, taking hits all along its wings and underbelly. But it was at this moment that some people who were there said they saw the igloo-shaped object attached to the Psyclops plane’s belly start glowing a very bright white. Then a noise like a very high-pitched siren went through the air.

  And just as suddenly the column of tanks and guns ground to a halt. All firing stopped. The Ghosts peeked out from behind their cover to see a very strange sight. The Iranians were abandoning their vehicles en masse.

  Here the stories would differ as well. Some on hand said the Iranians stumbled out of their trucks holding their ears. Others said they had their hands over their eyes. Still others claimed that many of the Iranians appeared to be vomiting or bleeding from the nose and mouth. Whatever happened, one thing everyone agreed on was that when the Persians bailed out of their vehicles, they weren’t carrying any of their personal weapons.

  And that turned out to be the end for them. Because at that moment, the helicopter that had been hovering above the square all this time was joined by the other two Blackhawks and they started firing the last of their ammunition down at the admittedly hapless Iranians. At the same moment, the Iranians began taking fire from the rear of their column as well. This barrage was coming from the ground and from heavy-caliber weapons similar to those carried in the copters.

  It took just three minutes for all the Kvak troops to be killed. By the helicopters in the air and, as it turned out, by a combined unit of Delta Thunder and the Ghosts’ SEAL team moving up from the rear.

  In that time, no one saw any of the Iranian soldiers fighting back.

  Most people on hand attributed what happened to something done by the Psyclops plane. The many witnesses to claim that the Snowball attachment to the plane was acting curiously bolstered this belief. A secret weapon of some kind and of some unknown capability. . . .

  That’s why it was so ironic that in the strange encounter it was the Psyclops plane that wound up getting mortally wounded. It had taken dozens of hits from the Iranian column, this before whatever happened, happened and the Kvak soldiers were firing just about everything they had up at the electronics-packed plane. By the time the big plane turned back over the city square, fire had broken out on both of its wings and down around its complex tail section.

  It was obvious to those on the ground, still dealing with the strangeness of what had befallen the Iranian column, that the EC-130 was in desperate straits. As it tried to climb for some altitude directly over the center of the city, its engines were heard coughing and cutting out. It seemed like the plane was going through its death throes, right in midair.

  But the worst was yet to come.

  The plane was beginning to turn over, very slowly. It looked like a maneuver that the plane couldn’t possibly recover from. Suddenly a massive whooshing sound was heard. A second after that, a huge missile rose up from the Old Quarter and began streaking right toward the severely wounded EC-130.

  Khrash’s most famous weapon, the SA-6 SAM, had finally made its appearance—and it was heading right for the Psyclops plane. If the SAM hit it, the EC-130 and everyone on board would be blown to a million pieces.

  But that isn’t what happened.

  Just as the missile was about to strike the ailing plane, there came another streak of light flashing across the sky. It managed to somehow get itself in between the missile and the big plane.

  It was Red Curry in his F-14.

  The missile locked onto his jet, forgetting about the Psyclops plane. The ghost pilot jinked one way as the EC-130 went the other. The SAM hit two seconds later, blowing the F-14 to smithereens. Those on the ground were stunned.

  Curry had taken the hit. And in the process, the Psyclops plane had been saved.

  For a few seconds, anyway.

  Captain J. C. Dow knew they were in big trouble. He was losing power in all four engines of the EC-130, and many of the electrical devices on the plane were blinking off or, worse, catching fire.

  Either they set down somewhere very quickly or they were going to crash. Simple as that.

  But where could they possibly land?

  Dow knew of only one place: the field near the Al Sharim berm. The place where Ryder had plowed his jet into the ground. With all their strength, he and Clancy turned the big plane over Khrash once again and started t
o fly east.

  The field they were aiming for was only about one thousand feet long. Once a soccer field, before the Taliban took over Afghanistan, it was overgrown with grass and a few small trees. But at least it was flat—somewhat—and some of 1st Delta were still in the area, should the Psyclops crew need help getting out of the wreckage. If anyone survived, that is.

  The field was in sight just seconds later. The crew of the EC-130 prepared themselves for a very rough landing. Dow did everything he could to slow the plane’s airspeed. Full flaps extended, wheels down, nose up. He even tried reversing two of his propellers, nearly impossible to do in midair. But the plane was burning on both wings and he could see the flames creeping closer to the engines. Hard bang-in or not, they had to get down on the ground in a hurry.

  Dow yelled for the crew to come forward and strap in as best they could up front. As they looked out the oversize windshield, the soccer field got bigger and bigger the faster they fell. The cabin was quickly filling with smoke. Their number-one engine was about to burst into flames.

  Still Dow and Clancy held the plane steady.

  They slammed into the ground a moment later. The first thing that happened was the right-side landing gear carriage collapsed, digging that side of the plane into the hard surface. They went screeching along the field, past Ryder’s wrecked F-14, decapitating trees and throwing great furrows of rocks and dirt into the air. The right side dragging actually helped slow them down. Still they skidded the entire one thousand feet before the huge plane finally began slowing. Then came a loud thump—the sound of the left side wheel carriage collapsing as well. It shook the plane from one end to the other. But then, finally, they came to a stop.

  The crew stayed frozen in place, jammed as they were up in the flight compartment. None of them quite believed they were still alive. A couple of the DJs checked their pulses, just to make sure.

  Then. . . someone just started laughing. It was strange at first, but someone else joined in, and they were joined by a third person and a fourth and before long they were all laughing wildly. It was funny. They’d made it. They were alive. And they had just had the adventure of their lives.