As he jogged beneath the whirring blades of the helicopter, he saw the tired faces of the Rangers. They had saved him, but lost Cassie.
Mahegan always found on the ground leadership to be the most effective, like Patton at the crossroads. It was early morning, men were tired, the mission was stressful, all of which were important.
However, he had been unable to reach Kandahar Air Base via the Blackhawk communications and knew that the MC-130 would have a better chance with higher frequency equipment. Mahegan continued through the airplane, beyond the fuel bladder, and up into the cockpit, all the while, something from the helicopter registering in his mind.
It was just a glimpse, but it was there. Something significant he needed to remember now as opposed to later. The need to let General Savage know about Cassie overrode that instinct for the moment. The co-pilot handed him a microphone and said, “Make it quick. We’re rolling in under sixty seconds.”
“Roger.” Then into the microphone: “Jackknife Six, this is Tribal Six.”
Savage’s response was immediate. “Status.”
“Mission accomplished, but one friendly captured.”
Savage heard the subtle tone in Mahegan’s voice. “Charlie Bravo?” Cassie Bagwell.
“Roger. At the pick-up zone.”
Savage, usually quick to reply, paused. “Roger. Just get everyone else back safely. Will meet you at RP. Out.”
RP. Rally point.
The helicopters would be lifting off momentarily for a one hundred and fifty mile race to Farah Airfield, the westernmost U.S. forward operating base in Afghanistan. The U.S. military built a two mile runway there, mostly for logistical purposes, but also in the event of a war with Iran. An intermediate staging base from Afghanistan would be necessary.
The grasshopper! Mahegan remembered seeing it attached to the frame of the helicopter that had just ferried into position for refueling. He ran from the cockpit, down the ramp, followed the hose through the swirling fog of sand and dirt and found the hose operator holding the six inch diameter hose that was pushing gas into the helicopter. “Shut it down!” Mahegan ordered.
The man looked at him through thick dusty wind goggles propped beneath his helmet. He had an olive kerchief around his nose and mouth and was mouthing something to Mahegan. The words were drowned out by the kerchief and the rotor wash.
“Shut it down! There’s a bomb!”
Mahegan wasn’t sure there was a bomb, but he assumed the functionality could include that scenario. He turned to the troops in the helicopter. “Out! Out! Now! Now!”
The men began piling out of the open cargo bay doors. Because the mission had called for more troops than a Blackhawk can carry using seats, the bays were simply open spaces and the Rangers exited quickly. Mahegan climbed into the helicopter, eyeing the small device, watching it glow, something he hadn’t seen it do when it was in the objective area.
He grabbed the crew chief in the starboard seat and said, “Tell the pilots there is a bomb on board. Shut down the engines and get out, now!”
To emphasize his point, Mahegan squeezed past the radio console and tapped the pilots on the shoulders and used the universal thumb hook over his shoulder to say Bomb. Get out!
He watched the pilots’ heads nod up and down. He felt the deceleration of the rotors above him and watched the pilots quickly exit through their doors. He dragged the loadmaster away from his machine gun, shoved him outside, turned and lifted the wounded dog, and dove to the ground.
The refuel operator shut down the gas flow and detached the nozzle from the aircraft fuel port. He was running with the hose toward the aircraft when a bright spark erupted from the frame of the port side of the helicopter where the device had secured itself. Mahegan handed the dog to the loadmaster and then leapt onto the hose as he retrieved his knife and sliced through the rough material, aviation gas showering him. He then stuffed the severed end leading back to the bladder into the sand and placed his body atop as much of the hose as possible.
The detonation was small by any measure, though not without consequence. The red light must have been a countdown light of sorts. Mahegan watched as the refuel operator ran toward the MC-130, carrying the cumbersome hose nozzle in the crook of his forearms, as if he might carry a baby. The nozzle was leaking a steady stream of gas, a product of the inflated hose having been shut off at the outlet and not the source, the fuel bladder inside the aircraft.
The spark from the explosion sent fragments of the aircraft frame whizzing through the air, some stinging him in the back. The refuel operator seemed to get the message and was running away from the helicopter and the MC-130, toward the gaggle of Rangers who had dropped about fifty meters away. A piece of shrapnel sparked on the metal nozzle, wet with aviation gas, which caught fire. The fire spread quickly onto the operator who looked like a Hollywood stuntman running through the desert. And while he wore flame retardant clothing, the fire appeared to be consuming him until a group of Rangers ran toward the man and jumped on him, smothering him.
After a few seconds the fire was out. Mahegan felt the stinging sensations in his back, but seemed to have prevented the major catastrophe that he was sure the enemy hoped to achieve—to kill everyone in the refuel area. He rolled in the dirt to prevent the hot fragments from igniting any of the jet fuel that had sprayed on his clothing.
The loadmaster was wheeling the hose into the aircraft and pumping his arm up and down, the universal symbol for Haul ass!
The helicopter buckled, its blades still spinning at a rapid, but reduced rate from full idle. The port side caved and the frame of the helicopter began to collapse on itself, the blades inching closer to the ground.
Mahegan shouted, “MC-130 now!”
The Rangers from the disintegrating helicopter bolted up the ramp into the refuel airplane. Mahegan lifted the dog from the confused crewchief, ran into the MC-130, and grabbed one of the Rangers. “Got everybody?”
Another Ranger came up to Mahegan and shouted, “Counting the last two in now!” Up the ramp came two Rangers carrying the charred refuel operator.
Mahegan turned to the loadmaster and shouted, “Lift the ramp now!”
As the hydraulic arms pulled up the ramp, the MC-130 began rolling. It turned hard right and then began to bounce across washboard terrain at take-off speed. Once airborne, Mahegan looked down at the dog, as if he’d forgotten she was in his arms. He laid her in a litter and strapped her securely for the flight. He went to the cockpit, eyeing the Rangers as he said, “Good job, men.” In the cockpit he borrowed the radio handset again and talked to the pilot of the last helicopter.
“Head to RP now,” Mahegan said.
“Already OTW,” the Blackhawk pilot said. “Saw the cluster unfolding and repositioned away with the gunships. Everyone okay?”
“Maybe.”
Through the narrowing gap in the cargo ramp, Mahegan watched the helicopter blades bite into the ground, disintegrating into small chunks of shrapnel, and then ping off the MC-130 fuselage like ninja stars.
CHAPTER 14
FROM HIS LEATHER SEAT, GORHAM WATCHED THE CHAOS AT THE REFUEL point, the latitude and longitude of which he passed rapidly to Iranian special intelligence.
“Get a bomber over them. Do something!” he shouted as his ManaBlade exploded but did not achieve the desired effect.
The big man had blocked the shrapnel with his own body. How stupid was that man to risk his life that way?
It was a simple tactical maneuver that did not pay off. That was okay. Gorham had fired a nuclear device from North Korea into the heart of Tokyo. What was one minor setback? Not a setback at all, he figured.
“Relax,” Stasovich said. “They’ll be lucky to make it back alive. And they will come for the girl.”
“I don’t know,” Gorham replied. His plane was making its descent into Amman, Jordan where they would be met by the Iranian commander. The commander would then usher him to the command post for an update on how the ManaSats were
working in concert with the equipment Manaslu had helped develop over several years.
“They will come,” Kal said evenly.
They landed on a dimly lit runway, dawn still a distant echo to the east. As they deplaned, Gorham noticed black SUVs move silently into position. Soldiers dressed in black uniforms secured his passage from the airplane to the vehicle.
“Welcome, Mister,” said General Solhami, the commander of all forces on the Arabian Peninsula, which was basically the entire Iranian military. He was a tall, broad man with olive skin, a trim mustache and beard, and a scar that ran across his nose and left cheek. It was almost certainly from a downward slash of a knife.
Gorham must have stared at it too long, because Solhami said, “Combat. This is what you want to see, right?” The general touched the scar on his cheek and smiled.
Combat was what Gorham wanted to see—real soldiers in action on his behalf, as if he were the commander in chief of these men. Soon, he would be. His global empire would include Iran and every other country.
“Thank you, General. I know you have a fight happening. We are here to make sure that all is functioning smoothly with ComWar and RAIL,” Gorham said.
“I see you have another guest,” Solhami said when he saw Kal walking down the airplane steps.
She turned and looked at him, smiling. “Hello, General. We meet again.”
Who was she, Gorham wondered?
“It is very good to see you, as well. I’m glad you are still alive after the last incident.”
“Did you ever seriously doubt? Plus, they’re not getting rid of me, yet. I’ve got Mr. Gorham to take care of for the time being,” Kal said. “We have a world to conquer.”
Gorham watched the interchange and began to suspect that she was a shadow in plain sight.
Solhami turned back to Gorham. “Okay. We do this my way.”
As he ushered Gorham and Kal into the armored car, Gorham noticed the disapproving look on Solhami’s face when he saw Stasovich hustling Captain Cassie Bagwell out of the airplane.
“You have an American prisoner?”
“That’s right. We captured her prior to coming here.”
A loud explosion rocked the ground beneath Gorham’s feet. Several more followed in succession. His throat clenched and he wondered if he really wanted to taste combat. Bright fireballs erupted in the distance, painting an orange glow on the horizon.
“The Israelis are firing artillery, but this is good. We can find them and kill them using your radars,” Solhami said. “Thanks to the virus your engineers placed in the missiles and artillery systems, their fire is mostly ineffective. Our advance has been rapid, as you can see. The Israelis are firing missiles over Amman, and the missiles are landing short, in the city. It appears as if we are allies, Iran and Israel, attacking Amman in a classic pincer movement. Of course the missiles are intended for us, but your hackers have done good work.”
Everything was mostly working as it should. The remote access Trojans that Manaslu had pushed into the defense industries of all American allies had infected many of the weapons systems so that they were inaccurate. In this instance, the Israeli rocket systems were bombing Amman, an unintended but certainly acceptable consequence.
Persi stepped from the airplane.
Solhami stopped and stared. “Where is the president, Alexander?”
They had a personal relationship. Persi was most likely a special forces soldier. Gorham chided himself for not using his time to create dossiers on Kal and Persi. Everything was harder without Shayne.
“He was killed, General. I came to the front lines to inform you.”
“Your job was to protect him,” Solhami’s scolded. “Without our president, who will negotiate the spoils of victory?” He retrieved his pistol and aimed it at Persi.
“Do as you must, General. I accept my failure.”
“Do you want to describe the conditions? Are there mitigating circumstances?”
“The conditions are irrelevant. The president is dead at the hands of American Army Rangers. I deserve whatever punishment you decide.”
“Rangers?” Solhami looked at Captain Bagwell laying inert on the tarmac. He turned the pistol toward her.
“No,” Gorham said. “She’s a trade for the bigger picture. I can tell you that Persi did everything possible to protect your president and it is important that he stay alive. He is the biometric key for Iran. If someone hacks Iran’s nuclear arsenal again, you need Persi to open it back up. He must live.”
Solhami stared at Persi, then at Gorham. “I know this, but the question is, why do you know this? Kal? You’re the only one I trust here.”
“He lives, General.”
“Very well. But he stays here in a protected spot. Have your big man there keep watch over him,” Solhami said, pointing at Stasovich.
They rode in the Suburban until they stopped in front of a Russian helicopter with blades spinning. Stasovich, Persi, and Bagwell were in the trail car.
“Tell me, Mister. Do you want your prisoner with us at the front lines? Or would you prefer my interrogators . . . question her.” Solhami smiled.
Gorham considered the question. The sneer on Solhami’s face told him that there would be more liberty taking than questioning of the captain. He was unconcerned about that, but she was his leverage to get the cook and possibly Shayne back into his custody. He considered that there was a fifty-fifty chance he would get her back alive if he left her with the Persians. Maybe less than that. On the other hand, she may cough up something useful besides blood. Solhami’s men were most likely experts at interrogation and he needed to know where Spartak was. Did he need the Iranians to help him?
“The prisoner stays here. Stasovich will keep guard on her and your man, Persi. Plus, she needs medical attention. I don’t need your men to question her. We won’t be long,” Gorham replied. The risk was too great for him to lose control of the woman.
“As you wish. You are missing a good opportunity,” Solhami said.
As are your men, Gorham wanted to say.
They stepped out of the armored car, more explosions lighting up the Amman skyline like the flicker of a movie stage sunset. Fear rattled through Gorham, but he was determined to confront this deficiency in his character so that he could speak of combat with authority.
“She needs medical attention,” Kal said. “That should be the first priority. I’ll travel with you, Gorham.”
Preferring to have Kal with him, he nodded in agreement. Stasovich, Persi, and the woman were led away in the armored car after Solhami spoke in Farsi to the driver. Then, they ducked as they boarded the helicopter. It lifted off quickly. Solhami sat facing Gorham, handed him a headset, which he placed over his ears.
As they rose above the Amman skyline, the world looked as if it was on fire. Rocket launchers were firing pods of lethal munitions into the Jordanian Army’s front lines. Counterfire was inaccurate or nonexistent. They flew over tanks racing at ten to twenty miles per hour as their main gun bores slewed and laid accurate fire on Jordanian targets. Bright orange and green tracers lit the black sky like a rock concert light show. The lights were arcing in both directions, meaning that the Jordanian army machine guns were fully functional, as Gorham had expected them to be. There was little that could be done to the low-tech weapons such as rifles and machine guns, rendering the infantryman perhaps more relevant in this conflict than some might have thought.
The only thing that slowed the advance was the incessant machine-gun fire and random mortar and artillery fire, much of which was rendered inaccurate by the ManaSats targeting the mortar ballistic computers the Jordanians had purchased from American defense contractors. By targeting the small handheld devices and scrambling the data the operators had entered, the ManaSats were rendering the Jordanian defenses nearly ineffective.
But not completely.
One bunker was barricaded inside an office building four stories high. Three machine guns appeared to be focusing
on the lead tank of the Persian formation. A rocket smoked from the fifth floor and struck the first tank, causing its turret to lift off the chassis and spin on the ground like a top. The secondary explosion seemed to Gorham to be a miniature nuclear explosion within the tank. It was impossible that anyone might survive that attack.
The advancing Zulfiqar Main Battle Tanks immediately spread from a single file to ten abreast, guns spitting flame and high explosive rounds at the machine-gun bunkers in the building. As the machine-gun fire lessened, the Iranian built Zulfiqar tanks formed in single-file again and led the advance into the city.
“If that tank two hundred meters ahead can be hit, that would mean we can as well, right?” Gorham asked Solhami.
“Of course. That is the nature of combat. Everyone can die. It is the great equalizer.”
The helicopter pilot flew cautiously behind the advancing armor unit. Two Hind attack helicopters flanked them, occasionally slinging rockets into the barricaded city streets.
“This is combat,” Solhami said. “Your technology has made it easier, but we still have men dying. Kal knows the taste of death, right?”
She nodded. Gorham looked at her wearing the headset. She was a natural. Her face was calm and unworried. Eyes set and mission focused. He looked out of the wind screen and watched the tank burn as they flew low above the flaming debris. Charred bodies were oddly frozen in place, the flames lighting their tortured death masks of bare teeth grimacing with the pain death delivered. The skeletal remains charred inside the tank hull chased away any romantic notions Gorham might have had regarding combat.
Solhami had been watching him. “Do not let beauty deceive you.”
Gorham was unclear if he was referencing the fireworks arcing through the skies or Kal.
Dark Winter Page 17
