“How we going to hit this bitch, Skipper?” Kossens hand dropped as he asked the question I knew was on everyone’s mind.
“Like a fucking freight train,” I replied. “The assault team splits into two elements. I’m on the first bird; the lieutenant here is on the second. Six shooters go with Dahlgren on the ’47. They will cover our asses as we go in. Their job is to take on Nemesis if they try to dee-dee mau by rubber raiding craft once the Wind Storm comes under fire.
“We’re fast-roping onto the foredeck’s helo platform. This is a fucking luxury boat so the landing point is going to be mighty fucking tight quarters! I’ll kick the first rope and secure the deck with my team. Helo number two will be flying right up our ass and Lt. Fletcher will have to get his team on the deck most ric-tic so we can begin clearing the topside of Tangos.
“From that point on it’s just us and them. Intel says there’s no civilians on board so collateral damage is a nonissue. You see it, you kill it. I don’t give a fuck about the boat, either! We’ll have to move fast and that means we break any and everything in our way. The objective is the device. You all know what it looks like. Do whatever is necessary to gain control of it. Once one of us has the fucking thing, don’t you dare give it back! Questions?”
A sturdy older operator in the back spoke up. “What if the motherfucker has armed the nuke, Dick? What’s our contingency plan if the damn thing is wired hot?”
“Good question, sailor!” I responded. “We’re not going to waste time checking the fucking case. Once we have control, the ’47 is coming in and setting down just above the surface of the river next to the Wind Storm. I’ll take the case and transfer to the Chinook. You bastards on the SAR team will stay aboard and act as a security element in case the ’47 has problems and we go down somewhere between the Wind Storm and the mouth of the Columbia. There’s a Zodiac aboard the helo. One sixty will take us at least twenty-five miles out to sea and then drop me and the nuke off in the Zodiac. Twenty-four hours later, if the bastard hasn’t detonated and blown my sorry ass off the face of the planet, the Coast Guard will zero in on a signal from my Saber and we’ll all enjoy a happy fucking ending.”
“Who’s staying with you on the water, Skipper?” asked Fletcher.
“Me, myself, and I, Sir. It only takes one to baby-sit a SADM, armed or otherwise. If it goes off, it’ll make a helluva bang but loss of life will be kept to a minimum. Clear?”
“Clear, Captain,” replied Fletcher. “But if you want some company…”
“No need to say it, young man. Message received. Now let’s get moving, shall we?”
Someone pushed the massive hangar doors open and moving like one soldier my sixteen headhunters and I headed for where the helos were preparing to launch, their rotors spinning in the night, the sound of their powerful turbine engines washing over us with a hot wind. I bent low as I began jogging for the lead ’hawk. Behind me five other SEALs did likewise. As my team swiftly loaded our bird I watched as Fletcher’s people clambered into the second ’hawk. The six-man SAR team swung around behind the CH-47 off to my right. The team struggled up its lowered rear ramp one at a time, the weight of their weapons and equipment making the short climb a challenge in itself. Danny waved at me from where he was sitting in the copilot’s seat of the second helo. I waved back and gave the big bastard a thumbs-up. I then caught sight of Trace’s lean, full figure. Her form made her distinct even in her flight suit, accessorized by the cross-slung M4A1. I watched the she-commando quickly kneel on the tarmac next to the Chinook and raise both hands skyward in an ancient prayer to her gods. A strange power surged through me as she lowered her hands and climbed aboard. In an instant she’d disappeared into the hull of the twin-engine assault chopper and its ramp gracefully swung upward and locked into position.
Son of a bitch, I thought to myself, that is one scary woman!
Two of my shooters scooted aside as I climbed into the ’hawk’s main compartment. I took the headset handed me by the crew chief and tugged it on.
“Ready, Mr. Marcinko?” the pilot asked.
“Roger that,” I replied. “Let’s do it!”
“Tower, this is Red Flight Leader requesting permission to depart.”
As the ’hawk began slowly moving forward I adjusted my ass on its aluminum plate deck. The pilot gave the bird its head and I felt a hard rush of adrenalin hit me as we gained altitude. I settled back and closed my eyes for a moment, taking it all in. There was no going back, no backing down, no giving up.
“Sir? We have the target’s position locked in. The AC is race tracking at 4000 feet AGL. Wind Storm is ten nautical miles out from the city. I’m taking us down over her deck. Hold on, it’s going to be a fast ride from here on out!”
Chapter
18
“…to suspend a successful general in command of an army in the heart of an enemy’s country…is to upset all discipline, to jeopardize the safety of the army and the honor of the country, and to violate justice.”
AL KALTMAN, The Genius of Robert E. Lee—Leadership Lessons for the Outgunned, Outnumbered, and Underfinanced
“Clay? Can Marcinko actually pull this off?” From behind his desk in the Oval Office, The president of the United States swung around in his comfortable leather chair to face the two advisors sitting across from him. The famous room was softly lit and its curtains were drawn to shield this daybreak meeting from the always prying eyes of Washington’s competitive press corps. A gentle sprinkling of rain had accompanied the quiet, early morning arrival of Karen Fairfield and Clay Mulcahy at the White House fifteen minutes earlier. They’d gone directly to the president’s office at his request.
Clay Mulcahy weighed his answer carefully. He’d been working frantically for eighteen hours straight and the pace he was keeping was beginning to take a toll on the veteran crisis manager. “They’re airborne right now, Mr. President. We redirected an AC-130 gunship from Travis Air Force Base in California up to Portland earlier in the day. The AC is over the target at this time and vectoring in the assault force. It’ll paint the Wind Storm with infrared light so the helo pilots can make their final approach with as much visual clarity using NVGs as possible. Marcinko has sixteen operators from SEAL Team SIX, plus his own team and a fully armed CH-47 from the 160 SOAR. He’s got the assets and the balls, that’s for certain.”
A former Air Force pilot, the president knew full well the air-to-ground support capabilities of the AC-130. Its twin Gatling guns mounted off the port side of the aircraft could lay down a cone of fire capable of devastating an entire football field in less than three seconds. Its 105-mm cannon was accurate enough to take out individual enemy vehicles and bunkers from 7000 feet, night or day, good weather or bad, thanks to its highly sophisticated computerized targeting and firing systems. Very little survived an aerial attack by an AC-130. It was the ultimate flying machine when you wanted something—or someone—on the ground turned to mush. “Thank you, Clay. I’ll take your answer as a qualified maybe. Karen, your opinion?”
Karen Fairfield shifted slightly so she could try and get a better read on the president’s mood in the dimly lit room. She’d been fending off interagency attacks on OISA’s ability to manage the situation in Portland ever since Blanchard’s video-recorded statement had been televised. The string of public gun battles her team in Portland was responsible for had not helped her from a political or public relations standpoint. The Army’s senior leadership was pressing the president hard to allow DELTA to take over the operation, and the Navy’s leadership was screaming to get its most elite platoon away from “Demo Dick Marcinko” and safely back under the authorized commander of SEAL Team SIX. Even the CIA was lobbying to get involved, although its paramilitary assets and track record were better suited to causing wars of ethnic cleansing than stopping them.
In light of the president’s sarcastic response to Clay’s hedging, Karen chose to tackle the question head-on and speak her mind. “Dick will pull through for us. B
lanchard is reported to be within ten miles of Portland,” she began. “Even if he detonates the device where he is now, the results will be catastrophic. However, we have no hard indicators he is aware of the air assault Dick is leading against him. Our security on the ground in Portland and here in Washington has for once been effective in this regard. I say odds are good that he and his force can accomplish the mission—if we don’t interfere unnecessarily.”
“Good odds, eh? You’ve seen the news I take it. Portland is a basket case! There are literally hundreds of thousands of Americans trying to get out of the city. The mayor is dead and its emergency services are useless. FEMA is fucked, if you’ll pardon my French. They can’t get close to the problems at hand.
“Worse, general panic is spreading throughout the Pacific Northwest. Seattle is reporting they’re having problems keeping order, and San Francisco is even crazier than usual. My question for you is what’s our backup plan if Marcinko fails? How do we stop Blanchard from setting off the damn nuke if he successfully evades Marcinko’s assault team?”
Before Karen could reply, Clay spoke up. “We’re monitoring the assault effort from the command node at OISA. If the assault looks like it’s falling apart, the gunship will be given instructions to sink the Wind Storm. We’ll drop the vessel to the bottom and send in the Coast Guard to secure the site. I have a team of Navy hardhat divers standing by at the naval facility in Bremerton to recover the SADM from the river’s bottom if we’re forced to exercise this option.”
Karen turned to Clay, but he continued to stare straight ahead at the president, refusing to meet her eye.
“Just who will give that order?” demanded Karen, unable to keep her astonishment and fury out of her voice. “And why wasn’t I informed of this before now, Clay?”
“Like you, I work for the president, Karen. You know that. There are some things I am not able to share with you and this aspect of the operation is one of those. If the order needs to be given, the president will either issue it himself or delegate it to me. You are not, and need not be, in the loop on this one.”
“Dammit, Clay! Does Dick know you’re setting him up like this?”
“Control yourself, Ms. Fairfield!” ordered the president. “Mr. Marcinko knows what he needs to and nothing more. Thanks to you he’s been well compensated, even given a presidential pardon for his past crimes as well as his current escapades. I’ve been told about the poor bastard he and that woman operator gutted just blocks from here. And I am aware that he beat the ever-loving shit out of a defenseless prisoner as well as the FBI agent responsible for protecting him! Between this renegade Blanchard and Dick Marcinko, I’m hard-pressed to decide which one should be put in front of a military tribunal first! Besides, with over thirty years in this business, I damn well think Marcinko understands his current position as well as ours. If it appears the raid isn’t getting the job done, then we’ll do the job another way, period. On some level, Dick and his people know that and expect it. I can get new SEALs. I can’t get a new Portland or prevent widespread civil war as easily.
“Understand this, Karen. As president, I will not allow a racist maniac to use nuclear weapons against his own country. According to the FBI, their intelligence sources in the violent patriot and militia underground communities are reporting some pretty scary stuff is already taking place around the country. The radical agitators on the other side of the fence are likewise arming themselves and telling their people to get ready to fight in the streets against the white oppressor, whoever the fuck that’s supposed to be. And in case you forgot, all our internal distracting chaos provides a great window of opportunity for some outside nation to strike a blow against us.
“Dick either pulls this off with a clear win or I will personally order the entire area to be sanitized with everything and everyone that gunship has onboard. I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it, but I will. Am I understood on this?”
Karen nodded curtly. “Yes, Mr. President.”
He turned his attention back to Clay. “Have the FBI immediately begin detaining anyone we’ve identified as an extremist leader, regardless of race, color, or creed. We’ll have to move quickly to take advantage of this situation, no matter how it ends out in Oregon. I’ll announce a declaration of martial law only if it becomes absolutely necessary within the next twenty-four hours. I doubt that Colonel Blanchard considered that turnabout is fair play when it comes to cleansing the country of its undesirable elements, do you? He’s given us the perfect opportunity to crack down on the radical fringe without having to ask ‘Mother, may I?’ of the courts.”
Clay Mulcahy smiled. “No, sir. I’m sure he never considered it. We’ve needed a reason to go after our domestic problem children for some time now, and the colonel’s extraordinarily good timing has provided it. We can begin sending the detainees to ’Gitmo within twelve hours of arrest. Per your directive, the Marine Corps has dramatically expanded Camp X-ray to absorb the anticipated additional population. We’ll put the base off-limits to the press in the next twenty-four hours. National security concerns, et cetera.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Karen gave the president her most winning smile and began to stand. “Mr. President, I need to get back to OISA. I have an operation to oversee. With your permission?”
“Of course, Karen. I’m glad we’re all back on the same page. Trust me, Dick Marcinko will be given every opportunity to do his job. But it’s only prudent to have a ‘Plan B’ in the wings, in the event he can’t pull it off.” With a casual wave he dismissed her.
After she’d left the room, Clay asked, “And what about Marcinko? I mean, what if he is successful?”
The president shrugged as he lit a cigar from the elegant wooden box on his desk. “I’ll invite him out to Camp David for a weekend. There’s nothing like a BBQ and a walk in the woods with the president of the United States to make a man feel appreciated. Afterward he goes back under glass, where all good rogue warriors should be kept until they’re needed. I’m sure I don’t have to say this to you, but keep an eye on Karen, won’t you? Don’t want any of Marcinko’s bad habits rubbing off on our good girl.”
Chapter
19
“I’m coming out so you’d better get this party started!”
PINK, “Get This Party Started”
My fucking stomach was in my throat as the ’hawk dropped like a gut-shot pigeon toward the darkness of the Columbia River. The pilot pulled the airframe up hard and leveled her out less than twenty-five feet above the water. The ’hawk’s nose dipped slightly and I felt the helo picking up speed. We were now hauling serious ass toward where Wind Storm was reportedly making her way upriver. I knew Lieutenant Fletcher and his crew of pirates were stuck to our ass in the second ’hawk. Danny would be coordinating our assault as well as getting the ’47 with Trace into a tight racetrack 500 feet above us and over the target. Barrett was also in contact with the AC-130, now code-named “Heavy Dancer.” Given the fucking Wind Storm cost about umpteen million dollars (to be precise) and made international trips year-round, I’d had a hunch the company responsible for leasing the boat might have had a worldwide tracking device secretly built into her hull. A honey like this was a prime target for high seas pirates and dope runners looking for an expensive cargo carrier to use, abuse, then pillage and sink at sea. An insurance carrier would want to save or recover the fucking thing if at all possible under such circumstances. With satellite tracking and GPS as sophisticated as it is today, I’d sure put one in. Hell, even piece-of-shit rental cars were getting planted with this technology these days.
Dickie’s hunch paid off. Before we left the PANG, the boat’s owners confirmed there were actually two such devices onboard. The first was standard issue and easy to find if somebody was looking for it. Apparently somebody had, because it was no longer operating. However, the second device was a sleeper and was actually built right into the hull itself. Only the owner and leasing agent of the Wind Storm knew of its
existence. This device, the redundant system, was still operating perfectly. I’d shared my new intel with Danny who passed the information to the gunship, which in turn dialed in the homing device’s radio frequency on the pilot’s deck. This allowed the AC to vector our fast-flying asses right into the target zone with hair-splitting precision. Murphy was now fucking with Blanchard and I wasn’t complaining a bit. Make a note! What goes around comes around in the Rogue Warrior’s Book of Truths. Rogue Karma, you might say.
“I have her just off our starboard side! One minute!”
I pulled my headset off and handed it to the crew chief. Craning my neck, I could see the Wind Storm coming up fast. We were lining up with her bow for the final approach. The boat was lit up like Christmas. And why not? When I ran Red Cell and penetrated supposedly heavily guarded military bases, I’d soon learned that making a brazen and bold entrance was often a more effective strategy than trying to sneak in. Most people assume anything being done in broad daylight in the middle of the road is by definition not suspicious. Who would suspect a brightly lit, wildly expensive pleasure craft was the device smuggling in a stolen nuclear bomb? In the movies, it’s always men in black in a rubber dinghy on a moonless night. Besides, I’d certainly learned Blanchard had a taste for the finer things, and the Wind Storm was a beauty.
There were a couple dozen other boats in the immediate vicinity, all heading away from Portland at varying speeds and degrees of maritime competence. I hoped none of these fleeing skippers got themselves right in the way of our landing party. We wouldn’t be able to stop to explain to Popeye and Olive Oyl why they were suddenly getting pounded with more artillery fire than Omaha Beach. Why a boat like the Wind Storm would be heading toward a city about to be stirfried into black glass might have raised an eyebrow or two, but we all know rich fuckers are crazy about how they get their kicks. Most regular blue-collar assholes were more concerned with saving their own asses than fretting over a pleasure cruiser chugging toward the City of Roses on an apparent sight-seeing tour.
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