by Mack Maloney
Smitz turned to the tanker pilots.
"You're here because you will perform the most crucial aspect of the raid," he told them.
Both men brightened immediately—a small coup of diplomacy for Smitz.
"Now, depending on how it goes, you two will have either one of two missions," he went on, turning everyone’s attention back to the satellite photo of the raid site.
"If the ArcLight is not airworthy, you will have to refuel the air assets once everyone has lifted off for the flight back to the ingress site. If the ArcLight is flyable, but is low on fuel, or if its tanks have been drained, then you will land and the fuel in your chopper will be pumped into the airplane. I've been assured it will be compatible. Now there's a list of other contingencies, but there's no question that fuel is the key to this whole operation. And you guys will have all the fuel."
Gillis and Ricco were smiling so widely, it was as if they'd won the Medal of Honor already. Delaney glanced at Norton, who did a mile-high eye roll. After all their bitching, now the tanker pilots were happy?
Smitz moved the pencil pointer further down the piece of scrolled paper.
"Now for the ingress site," he began again, pointing to another hazy photograph. This one was accompanied by several crude drawings. The photo showed a lone mountain at a location very different from the disguised air base. This mountain was a giant, so high there was even a wisp of snow at its peak. Yet it was a solitary place, surrounded by vast open desert. And it had an odd geological quirk to it. About halfway up on its southern side was a long, flat overhanging cliff. Looking from the south then, the mountain actually appeared to be half mountain, half mesa.
"This place is called Ka-el," Smitz said, rolling the Arabic name off his tongue with some aplomb. "It was last used as an advance base by British SAS prior to the Gulf War."
He pointed to the cliff. "You can see this area is flat as hell and long. We believe it's long enough to accommodate a moving chopper takeoff."
"You 'believe' or you're sure?" Delaney asked.
Smitz looked up at him. "We believe we'll find out soon enough," he replied, leaving Delaney to scratch his head.
Smitz went on: "We ingress to this site, set down, and wait for the Hinds to recon the gunship's base. Once we've determined the most opportune time to go in—that is, when the gunship is actually on the ground—then we saddle up and do the raid."
Norton studied the photo of the oddly shaped mountain.
"Won't we be very exposed up there?" he asked. "Anyone flying overhead will see us for sure. They'll have to think it's a bit strange that five choppers are sitting in the same place halfway up a mountain, even if we are painted like Iraqis."
Smitz just shook his head. "That's the beauty of this place," he said. "We don't have to be exposed at all."
He pointed to the crude drawings under the mountain photo. One showed a cascade of vegetation coming down the side of the mountain and ending at the flattened-out area.
"All this vegetation is fake," he said.
He pointed to the next drawing. "Behind it is this place."
The drawing showed what appeared to be an enormous cave. If the dimensions penciled in were correct, this cavernous maw was larger inside than Hangar 2 back at Seven Ghosts Key.
"Damn, who lives there? Batman?" Delaney asked.
"Close," Smitz replied. "Like I said, the SAS used this place as a forward chopper base during Desert Storm. Apparently it's been around since the First World War. The Brits had enough room inside for a chopper squadron and a company of men. Just about what we're packing. The Gomers never caught on.
"This is where we will go to first. We wait here until the right time arrives to strike, then we do the job. If everything goes according to plan, we'll be in-country for less than seventy-two hours. . . ."
A gasp went through the room. "You mean seven hours, I hope?" Delaney said.
"No," was Smitz's reply.
"Here's the reason why," he explained. "The cave is about a hundred klicks away from where everyone thinks the disguised air base is located. But that hidden base is in a part of Iraq that is so remote and the terrain around it so rugged and yet similar to everything else in the area, it might take a few recon flights just to find it and pinpoint its exact location. Then we have to wait until we know the gunship is there. Between the two, I believe we will have to reconnoiter the target at least a few times before we go on. This means we have to be prepared to spend some time in that cave. Maybe a few nights. Maybe a week. Maybe even longer."
A groan went through the chart room. But Smitz ignored it. He was used to that reaction by now.
"So here are the setups," he began. "Step one, we leave here. Step two, we reach the cave. Step three, we await word from my office that the gunship might be at the base while step four, the Hinds go out and recon its location. Step five, the Hinds return. Step six, the whole unit goes out, we hit the base, recover the crew, and, we hope, the airplane itself. Step seven, we egress out, fly the AC-130 to Al-Khadi, in western Saudi."
"The place from whence it came?" Norton asked. "Nice touch."
Smitz looked up from the document for a moment.
"I must emphasize one thing," he said. "Once we leave, we will be totally autonomous. We have to operate on our own, without expecting or getting any help from outside assets. That's how secret this mission is. After we lift off from here, it will be like we never existed."
This statement was met with nothing but grim stares and the shuffling of some feet.
Smitz returned to his missive. The scrolled paper was now totally flattened out and getting smeared from much use.
"Next item: code words," Smitz announced. "As usual, complicated. Let's see, the office wants the first Hind to be Delta Tango One. The second Hind will be Foxtrot Tango One. The Hook will be Alpha Tango Six. The first Halo will be Delta Tango Larry. The second Halo will be Delta Tango Curley . . . Jeesuz, who makes up this stuff?"
He read further down.
"The cave will be known as Target Point Zero. The objective will be known as Target Minus One Alpha. The—"
That was when Delaney interrupted him. "May I make a suggestion?"
Smitz looked up at him. "Sure, I guess . . ."
Delaney took the paper from Smitz's hands and to the astonishment of all, tore off the paragraph listing the code words, crumpled it up, and threw it out an open porthole into the sea beyond.
"We're going to have enough to worry about without trying to keep all that crap straight," he declared.
Then he turned to Gillis and Ricco and said: "You guys will be Pumper."
He pointed at the Army Aviation pilots. "You guys: Truck One. Truck Two."
He pointed at Norton. "Hound Dog One . . ."
He pointed to himself. "Hound Dog Two."
He pointed to the photo of the flattened mountain. "That will be the Bat Cave." He pointed to the hidden air base. "That's the Ranch."
Then he looked up at everybody. "Any objections?"
They all just stared back at him. Delaney really was a nutty guy, Norton thought. But there was no one better at cutting through the bullshit.
"Fine by me," Smitz finally replied.
A chorus from the others echoed that sentiment.
Smitz rolled up what was left of the scroll and stored it in his briefcase. He then passed out two-page sheets that he'd previously printed out of his NoteBook.
"Here's a bit of information on some of the Arc-Light's original crew," he explained. "It's very sketchy, but I thought it might be best to see who we are going in to rescue."
Once everyone had their info sheet in hand, Smitz stood up straight and stretched his back.
"We'll be taking off at 2100 hours tonight," he announced. "You should all get some sleep if possible. Any questions? Comments?"
Only about a million, Norton thought to himself.
But before he could say anything, there came a voice from the back of the small room.
"
Yes, sir. I would like to go on record as saying this plan is total bullshit."
Everyone turned.
It was Chou Koo—Joe Cool.
The room was suddenly very tense. Chou was the kind of guy who had never questioned an order in his life.
And now he was speaking up.
"Something to say, Captain?" Smitz asked him calmly.
"I think what you are proposing is impossible," Chou replied. "With all due respect, sir."
"Why is that, Marine?" Smitz asked sternly. "Share with us."
Chou stepped forward.
"Simple really," he said. "What if one of the Halos develops a mechanical problem? There are no backups. With everyone who is going on this ride, the air techs and so on, there probably won't be enough room on the other aircraft to bring everyone back home. What do we do then?"
It was a tough question, but Smitz had to answer.
"If that happens, the others continue on," he said. His words were absolutely ice cold.
Chou's jaw clenched.
"Well, what if we lose the fuel chopper?" he asked. "How will the entire unit proceed then? Or even get back to friendly lines? Or if we get stuck on that mountain and the Gomers get wise at some point, how will we get out?"
Smitz just stared back at him.
"We probably won't," he replied.
Chou stood frozen for a moment, then finally turned away.
Smitz looked at the rest of them. His eyes were narrow and absolutely dark. Yeah, he'd changed—a lot.
"Any more questions?" he asked.
There were none.
*****
Below the steering house on Heaven 2 was a room just big enough to fit a dozen bunks stacked three on top of each other. This was where the pilots were sent to sleep before the mission jump-off.
Norton climbed up onto his assigned bunk and collapsed. The cubicle was small and stuffy, but at least he didn't have to sleep inside his chopper as the Marines and the air techs were doing.
No sooner had he laid his head down when he heard Delaney in the next bunk over let out a burp and then a moment later, start to snore. Norton was simply amazed. Apparently Delaney could fall asleep almost anytime, anywhere, no matter what the circumstances. Norton envied him. Considering what lay ahead for him and the rest of the unit, sleep was the furthermost thing from Norton's mind.
He pulled out the two-page information sheet Smitz had given them on the gunship's original crew. The questions began flooding in. What had happened to them that night the plane went missing? What had they been going through ever since? Were they really still alive, as some in the CIA believed? Or had the Iraqis cooked and eaten them a long time ago?
He began reading the info sheet. It contained the names and rank of all on board the ArcLight plane that night, but only photos and detailed information on the pilot and copilot.
Both men looked just like hundreds of flyboys Norton had run into during his military career. Clean-cut, clear-eyed, rock-jawed, kinda dopey, but actually very smart, just in a very different way. Pilots were always easy to pick out of a crowd. That all had that same look.
Both men also looked like candidates for the pulpit. That was another thing about flyboys. They were always so Christian, so religious, so goddamn holy.
But what shape were these two in now?
The pilot of the plane the day it took off was a guy named Jeff Woods. He was a colonel in what the info sheet called "a U.S. Air Force Special Section." He was buzz-cut blond, late forties, a slight resemblance to astronaut John Glenn. Married, two kids, pretty wife, at least in 1991. Little League coach. Community volunteer. Deacon at his church. Whiter than Wonder Bread.
The second in command was an Air Force major named Pete Jones—could you get a more American-sounding name than that? He too was rock-jawed, poster-boy handsome, jet-black hair, worn a bit more stylish than Wood's. A rake. But a Christian one, according to his file.
He had no kids.
Very cute wife.
Something to come back for . . .
Where the hell was she now? What was she doing at this very moment?
*****
The next thing Norton knew, Delaney was shaking him awake.
Norton sat up with a start, drool rolling down his chin. Somehow nine hours had passed by. Delaney was dressed in his futuristic flight suit, helmet and all.
"C'mon, Jazz," he was saying. "Nappies are over. Time to go to work."
Chapter 18
It was dinner time at Zim's palace.
As usual, Zim was eating alone, perched high above his chamber on his mountain of pillows. There were no young Japanese girls around to watch him eat or to wipe his mouth clean after an exceptionally messy bite. There were some things the little nubile ones just would not do.
Even his personal guards preferred to wait outside the chamber while Zim was dining. He wasn't sure why. His fare was always so appetizing, if a bit regional and esoteric.
Zim had a huge bowl before him with two forks as his only utensils. In the bowl was a combination of raw lamb's brains, horse's eyes, and salmon guts, all mixed together in plain yogurt.
Truth was, Zim loved to eat alone and in peace, as he was loath to share his meal with anyone. That was why he was surprised when just into his second bite, the doors to his chamber opened.
Two guards came in, followed by a man on his knees. Zim looked up and immediately frowned.
It was Major Qank.
"I am eating," Zim said with a wave of his hand, dismissing his intelligence officer.
Qank bowed deeply and took a deep breath.
"A thousand pardons, sire, but . . . this is very important."
"What could be more important than my meal?" Zim asked Qank as if he was actually awaiting an answer.
Qank was stumped for an adequate reply.
"Well, this is equally important, my sire," he finally replied.
This answer gave Zim pause.
Finally he said: "OK, get up. And what is so urgent?"
"A note, sir, from the man in Room 6 . . ."
Qank tiptoed to the bottom of the pillow pile. He was just tall enough to hand the note up to Zim.
Zim finished chewing an elongated fish intestine, slurping the last few inches as one would a spaghetti strand, and finally opened the note.
Again the message within was simple. It read: "They are here."
Zim read the note several times, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared down at Qank.
"Is he being intentionally vague here, do you think?"
Qank just shook his head. "No, sir. I think he's being quite clear. The Americans have somehow managed to sneak by the Third Ring and they are now in the area."
Zim put his hand to his chin and pretended to be in deep thought.
"Hmmm, what shall we do then?"
Qank had anticipated this question. They actually had a contingency if the Americans ever got this close. He just hoped Zim's memory was as good as his.
"We do have a plan, sir," Qank started. "It involves a purchase. In South Yemen, I believe . . ."
Zim thought about this for a moment.
"Ah, yes!" he finally exploded with a laugh. "The Three-Card Monty plan . . ."
Qank rolled his eyes involuntarily. "Exactly, sir," he said. "Shall we proceed?"
Zim took another mouthful of his disgusting food. "Do we have the time, though?" he asked with a burp.
"I believe we do," Qank replied.
"Then make it so!" Zim called out with a laugh. The guards laughed too.
Qank looked around at them and wondered for a moment what was so funny. Then he began backing up.
"As you wish, sir," he said, heading for the door in reverse. "As you wish . . ."
*****
South Yemen
2200 hours
It was very hot in Sayhut-ru.
The sun had baked the city all day; the temperature at noon was 122 degrees. Now that night had fallen, it had cooled off—to 103. An
d more hot weather was expected for at least the next two weeks.
The small city was actually a military air base with a few hundred houses around it. The base housed one unit of the Yemeni People's Air Defense Force and functioned as a civilian port of entry as well. But civilian or military, there was no activity at the base on this sweltering evening. No flights were scheduled to fly into this little piece of Hell. No flights were scheduled to leave either.
That was why Captain Rez Bata was so surprised when he saw a Learjet land unannounced on the main runway. He checked the time. It was 10 P.M.; he was just getting ready to go home for a bath. Who was this coming to disrupt his plan?
Bata was the air base night manager, one of only twenty captains in the tiny YPADF. In addition to his duties watching over the civilian part of the airport, Bata also ran the base's air defense squadron, which consisted of exactly one rather broken-down airplane.
Oddly, it was that airplane that the man in the Learjet had come to see him about.
He heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and finally into his office. Bata took one look at the man and instinctively knew who he was right away. Though he had never seen the man before, his gut instinctively told him he was a representative of Azu-mulla el-Zim. He had that look about him. Bata straightened up; his heart began pounding. This was the Middle East equivalent of getting a visit from a lieutenant of a Mafia Godfather. Bata knew it would be important for him to say the right things, and do whatever this man wanted.
"My employer sends his greetings," the man said as Bata offered him a seat. There were no introductions; there was no need.
"And mine to him," Bata managed to croak.
The man put a briefcase onto Bata's desk and snapped it open. Inside the case were twenty packets of money held together with rubber bands.
"This is two million American cash," the man said. "We believe it is sufficient payment."
Bata was totally confused. "Two million? What for?"
The man pulled back the drawn curtain. In the fading light they could just barely see the base's one and only military plane. It looked very old, standing out on the tarmac, rusty, with pools of oil and other fluids dripping from it. It was obvious it hadn't been flown in a very long time.
