Trimler talked to Pogo Two’s leader over the FM radio and motioned for Mallard’s attention. “Our maps show an open area here,” he said, pointing at the chart. “They’ll be there.” His voice became very hard. “We’ve got a KIA and it’s slowing them down.” The impersonal acronym KIA, killed in action, helped them put aside the reality of the man’s death so they could concentrate on terminating the mission without further casualties. They would deal with Joey’s death later in their own personal terms.
Gillespie’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. “I don’t think we’ve got sixty-eight minutes to get Pogo out. I can land, drop off Anderson with half the men and go in after Pogo.” Gillespie did not elaborate—there wasn’t time for lengthy discussions. But for the young helicopter pilot, all doubt had been erased; they were up against a well-organized and competently led force of men. “I can be over Pogo Two in twelve minutes.”
The Beezer came on frequency. “Spectre can return to station.”
Mallard considered it. Hal Beasely was superaggressive and his fangs grew with each challenge. But flying an AC-130 gunship in combat on three engines and with a controllability problem was a high-risk venture. It was a risk Mallard did not want to take but at the same time he wanted to keep the firepower of the gunship in reserve in case it was needed. “Negative Spectre, remain in holding,” he commanded.
E-Squared sat in the left-hand pilot’s seat of the MC-130 wishing they had the latest Fulton surface-to-air recovery system that could snatch up to six men off the ground with one pass. He cursed his luck that they were only equipped with the older system that allowed them to snag the lift line that a balloon held aloft with a single person attached to the other end. He had enough recovery kits to get three men out, but it would take some time doing it one at a time.
Now it was up to Mallard and Trimler to put it all together. But when it came to the final decision, it was Mado’s to make. Mallard keyed his mike and outlined the options to Mado. He finished with a strong recommendation to go with Gillespie’s suggestion.
Mado was certain the mission was turning into a disaster. But he could see definite possibilities to save his career, if he played it right. “Colonel Trimler, what do you recommend?” Mado finally asked.
The Army colonel did not answer for a moment. “Pogo Two will reach the open area in thirty minutes. I’d like to extract them immediately.”
Mado made the decision. “I don’t see Pogo Two as being under direct pressure at this time. Further, we can’t be certain how soon they will reach the clearing. Rascal Three is now inbound and there will not be any appreciable delay in extracting them. Our objective was to rescue Anderson. Let’s not lose what we’ve got.” He double-checked to be sure the recorder was still on. There would be many Monday-morning quarterbacks in the Pentagon and Congress to replay this one.
With the decision made, Mallard keyed the Have Quick radio. “Rascal One, return to base. Repeat, RTB.” Gillespie acknowledged the order.
Trimler was on the FM radio, telling Pogo Two to press ahead to the landing zone and rendezvous with Rascal Three for extraction in sixty-one minutes.
The man carrying Joey’s body paused to catch his breath. The sounds of a helicopter passing to the north caught his attention. “He’s a persistent bastard,” he grumbled to his leader as he started to move again.
“Hammer, Pogo Two,” the team’s leader radioed. “A helicopter is in the area, doesn’t sound like ours.”
“That helicopter is hostile,” Trimler answered. “How far are you out from your objective?”
“Almost there.”
“Continue,” Trimler told him. “ETA for Rascal Three is now forty minutes.” The team had made better time than predicted and was going to have a long wait for the pickup.
“Roger,” the team leader answered. Then a new sound assaulted him. “Hammer,” he transmitted, “that helicopter is landing in the clearing.”
“Copy all,” Trimler answered. “Stand by.”
“Stand-fucking-by,” the team leader grumbled to himself.
Trimler’s voice came back on the radio. “Hold your position. Spectre is inbound to clear the area.”
Pogo Two’s leader directed his men to take cover and the man carrying Joey gently laid his burden next to a tree before he disappeared into the underbrush. They could hear the drone of Spectre’s three engines as the gunship approached. But it was not loud enough to drown out new sounds coming from behind them—men moving through the jungle. “Spectre,” the leader radioed, “you’re passing overhead our position now. Gomers moving in behind us, estimate their position less than a hundred meters to the west.”
“Roger,” Beasely answered. “Gotcha. Stay put. There’s a chopper on the ground where you want to go. Will clear the LZ first and then do an attitude adjustment on your other guests.”
The spirits of five Americans soared when they saw the dark shadow of the gunship in the night sky set up a thirty-degree left-hand turn—the classic firing orbit for a gunship. A tongue of flame belched from aft of the left main gear wheel well as the 105-millimeter Howitzer fired. Ten seconds later it fired again. Then the explosion from the first round echoed over them and they heard a secondary explosion. The first round had missed the helicopter but a shower of frag had cut through the helicopter and hit a fuel cell.
“The chopper’s dead meat,” Beasely told them, “but we’re monitoring movement in the vicinity.” Spectre’s sensor operator was feeding the Beezer a constant flow of information. The gunship’s highly sensitive infrared had picked up three men running away from the destroyed helicopter. “Hold on a minute while we have a come-to-Jesus-meeting and clear the LZ.” The Beezer descended and tightened his orbit, bringing his two 20-millimeter cannons to bear, pressing his three good engines past their normal operation limits, driving the turbine inlet temperatures well into the overheat range. Fortunately, he was turning into two good engines and the feathered engine was on the outside of the turn. The gatling guns gave out a loud buzz as the Beezer peppered the area around the helicopter, saturating it with high explosive rounds. “Looks quiet now,” he told Pogo Two.
Faint sounds of movement kept Pogo Two from answering. Then a uniformed figure emerged from the underbrush, saw the American, and yelled a warning. The American reacted automatically and blasted the man with his MP5. Another soldier popped out from behind a tree with an AK-47 and squeezed off a short burst, only to die as a hand grabbed his hair, jerked his head back and a knife flashed across his neck.
The fight was short, intense and impossible for one man to follow. The sharp staccato bark of AK-47s mixed with the faster and smoother, more rolling sound of MP5s. A frag grenade exploded.
“Fuck! I’m hit!”
“Stan! Where are you!”
A loud scream—not an American. More shouting and gunfire. Then someone tossed a smoke grenade, adding to the confusion. Pogo’s leader cleared an empty magazine from his MP5 and jammed a fresh clip into the weapon. A burst from an AK-47 cut across his stomach, throwing him into the brush. He rolled over and shoved his left hand into the gaping wound, trying to stop the bleeding. A hard silence came down.
Four soldiers stepped into the killing ground and looked around. One was heavily bandaged and half-carried by a comrade. Pogo Two’s leader tried to focus through the fog of shock and approaching unconsciousness. He had a sense that the wounded man was in command. One of the soldiers pointed to Joey’s body and jabbered in a language the American did not recognize.
The wounded man was helped over to Joey’s body. “Americans,” he growled. One of the other soldiers poked at the body with the toe of his boot before he drew his machete and gave it a hard cutting blow in the neck, almost decapitating it.
Anger flashed through Pogo Two’s leader and a killing urge swept over him. Caution and survival were not part of the game and a primordial thirst for blood and revenge ruled. He readied a target flare and mashed his transmit button for one last radio call
. “Spectre! Hit my flare!” He fired the flare at the soldiers, barely five meters away, as they raked the underbrush with long bursts from their AK-47s. He never heard the cascading sound of the twenty-millimeter high-explosive rounds that walked over the killing ground.
“Hammer,” Beasely transmitted over the Have Quick radio net, “we’ve lost contact with Pogo Two. No movement in the area.” The metallic sound of his voice carried its own message of defeat.
“Copy all,” Mallard answered. “RTB.”
The National Military Command Center,
the Pentagon
The mission controller in the NMCC flicked the transmit toggle on the console. “Udorn, this is Blue Chip. We understand the mission is terminated.”
“That is correct,” Mado replied. “All elements are returning to base at this time.” The satellite relayed communications between the NMCC, the National Military Command Center, in the Pentagon, and Mado had a slight tinny sound owing to computer-driven encryption, but were otherwise crystal-clear. Mado could have been in the next room.
The mission controller swiveled her chair to look at the four-star general sitting in the rank behind her before she spoke into her boom mike. “Sir, the reconnaissance platform is on station and ready to launch a drone to sweep the area.”
The general stared at the big mission boards and video screens on the wall in front of him. “Launch the drone,” he ordered. The mission controller turned back to her console and keyed another circuit. Halfway around the world, an Air Force sergeant aboard a matte-black RC-130 orbiting near Chiang Mai, Thailand, went through the routine to drop a multisensor drone off the RC-130’s wing and send it over the last-known position of Pogo Two. A lieutenant colonel sitting at the console beside him gave the order and the sergeant punched the launch button.
In the NMCC, a light on the general’s communications panel flashed. Someone in the Command and Authority Room wanted to speak to him—probably National Security Adviser Cagliari. The general reluctantly picked up the receiver and listened. The serious Monday-morning quarter-backing had begun.
Mackay sat quietly in the chair he had drawn up alongside Mazie Kamigami’s position in the far corner of the NMCC. He had monitored the mission with her and was still digesting what he had learned. It had been a revelation. Mackay had toured the NMCC and the other command facilities of the Pentagon in the past, but he had never been on the floor during an exercise or actual mission. It was not what he had expected. The atmosphere had been businesslike and calm when things started going wrong, with none of the frantic shouting and gesturing conjured up in the public’s mind by the entertainment media. Mackay’s overwhelming impression had been one of professional competence and, for the first time, he sensed the extent of the resources commanded from this room. It was a sobering experience.
His relentless mind probed into the mission—what had they learned? General Chiang Tse-kuan had created a well-trained, well-led, well-equipped, and well-motivated force. Too many “wells” on the wrong side, he calculated. What did all that mean for him? Cagliari had been very specific in telling the CAT that this was not the end of it even though they had lost the element of surprise. Chiang would be an idiot not to be expecting a follow-on mission to rescue the remaining hostages now. Mackay drew deeper into himself. An image of a football game played out. The other side is always expecting a pass, he thought. So what do you do? Pass anyway. But it helps to fake it first. What had Cagliari said about losing the element of surprise? Mackay recalled the national security adviser’s exact words: “Now how do we get around that problem?” Mackay explored the possibilities in front of him and started making connections with what Mazie had extracted from the NSC’s System 4. How fortunate, he thought, that she knows how to read between the lines of a computer data base. I’ve got to get out of this place, Mackay warned himself. Too much politics and not enough reality. This isn’t for me. But, he finally decided, there were things he could make happen before he left.
Mazie Kamigami shoved the pile of papers and hastily scribbled notes she had been working on into a folder stamped “Secret” that would be hand-carried to her office along with a stack of other classified information from the mission. She was acutely aware of Mackay’s brooding silence next to her.
“Mazie,” he said, “I think there’s a way to get the others out.”
“Please don’t smile,” she told him.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Three men wearing Navy issue UDT shorts were running down Chicken Road when Trimler drove up to Delta’s compound. The colonel recognized them immediately as part of the team who had been on the helicopter that had made an emergency landing at Uttaradit and had returned the night before. He hadn’t heard the details on how they had shrugged off the local Thai authorities and only knew that they had not used any of the their gold Krugerrands for bribes. Sergeant Dolores Villaneuva, Delta’s unofficial chief of administration and controller, would have given them fits making them account for the gold. A jagged smile played at Trimler’s mouth. People normally don’t give receipts for taking a bribe. It was the first bit of humor he had experienced since the termination of Operation Dragon Noire.
Trimler glanced at his watch—6:15 A.M. Since he was early and dressed in sweats, he decided to do a quick stint in the weight room. For reasons that escaped him, pumping iron focused his thinking. Kamigami was already there, his T-shirt drenched in sweat, with seven other men. Trimler stepped up to the Nautilus machine next to his CSM, adjusted the weights, and grunted a “Good morning” at the men. He was greeted with vague responses and within minutes, he and Kamigami were alone in the room.
“Notice the tension?” Trimler ventured.
“They’re grim,” Kamigami answered.
“I expected that.”
Kamigami didn’t answer and pumped his arms, increasing the tempo of his bench presses. The veteran sergeant could read men who chose combat as their profession easier than most people can read a book. He didn’t like the message he was getting. The men should be reacting to the loss of six of their compatriots, but he sensed more to it than that. Hell! he raged to himself, six was a large number for a small unit like Delta. He had heard all the standard words and phrases that marked how men come to terms with combat losses: “For damn sure Joey didn’t go a virgin” “I prefer to go out with a bang myself” “You hear how they nailed a Gomer with a flare and turned him into a crispy critter?”
He knew what was wrong. Combat losses extract a hurt that is the price to be paid for being what they were. But at the same time, there should be a renewed commitment to their job. He wasn’t sure if the grimness that pervaded the compound was a mark of that renewal. Well, Colonel, he thought, we need to work this problem. He sat up and looked at Trimler. “We need to lay it all out for them,” he said in his soft voice.
“I was thinking about that myself,” Trimler said.
An hour later, the two men were closeted with Delta’s staff. They sorted through the mass of photos and reports that would eventually end up in an after-action report. At first, they had concentrated on the infrared photos taken by the reconnaissance drone. These were the safe pictures because they chronicled a scene of widespread death and it was impossible to separate the casualties. The bodies were all the same. Kamigami calculated an exchange rate of thirteen to one, thanks to the gunship. Finally, the Intelligence officer produced the report of a Thai ground team that had entered the area two days later. The Thais had found the killing ground, taken photos and brought out what was left of Pogo Two.
“These are grim,” Kamigami said, passing the photos around.
“That seems to be the operative word these days,” Trimler allowed. Silence. The photos and report told a story of viciousness that was beyond the experience of the men. The bodies of the Americans had been hacked to pieces and then scattered in the underbrush. The Thais had taken photos and collected what they could before leaving the area. They had not wanted to linger any longer than
necessary. Trimler was not a religious man, but he prayed the men had all been dead before they had been dismembered.
“What motivated the bastards to do this?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Do we show the men this?” Now he did expect an answer.
“Do we have a choice?” Kamigami asked. The silence came back down.
Trimler knew the answer. “We tell them,” he said. “Never hide the truth from a bunch of pit bulls like Delta. Let ’em know what they are up against. Give ’em more meat.”
“Will it affect their performance?” This from the lieutenant colonel who led A Squadron.
It was a question the men could not answer.
Late that afternoon, Trimler sat in his office, piecing together the day’s events. The men of Delta had reacted to the photos that detailed the fate of Pogo Two much as he had expected. If anything, their humor had taken on a more grim cast. Sergeant Villaneuva knocked on his open door and came in, cleaning up before knocking off for the day. “Are you finished with your classified, sir?” Trimler nodded an answer and she scooped up his folder marked “Secret” and locked it in the office’s safe. She waited, knowing he wanted to talk.
Trimler studied the sergeant for a moment, considering his words. “What is that sensitive antenna of yours telling you, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Mostly what you know,” she answered. “The prevailing attitude is grim but it’s business as normal. They’ll be okay”—she decided he was ready for the news—“in time.” Trimler’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t say anything. She took a deep breath. “Which we’re in short supply of.”
“Time?” he asked. She nodded an answer. “What makes you say that?”
“We’re going back in, Colonel. I just don’t see any way out of it.”
“Where did such a beautiful woman ever get so many brains,” he replied, not wanting to believe her.
Call to Duty Page 24
