Z

by Bob Mayer

  As if sensing Riley’s thought, Dorrick turned toward the team sergeant. “Each member of the detachment will introduce himself, and then the detachment’s acting intelligence sergeant will brief the intelligence preparation of the battlefield.”

  Lome snapped to his feet and his deep voice boomed out. “Master Sergeant Lome. Detachment operations sergeant and senior noncommissioned officer.” He remained standing as the introductions went down the line.

  “Sergeant First Class Comsky, senior medic and acting intelligence sergeant.”

  Riley surpressed a smile as he looked at the squat, barrel-chested medic. Comsky and he had served together back in 1989 on the same team in Korea. They’d participated in a mission into mainland China that was still highly classified. It was a mission during which Riley had been shot and Comsky’s medical skills had saved his life. Riley had felt great relief upon entering the briefback area when he’d spotted Comsky seated among the team members. There was at least one man present he knew he could trust.

  “Sergeant Hoight, junior medic.”

  “Staff Sergeant Oswald, senior weapons.”

  “Sergeant Byers, junior weapons.”

  “Sergeant First Class Pace, senior communications sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Hampton, junior communications sergeant.”

  “Staff Sergeant Brewster, detachment senior engineer.”

  “Sergeant Tiller, junior engineer.”

  Lome executed a right face. “Detachment. Take seats.”

  All except Comsky sat down. Captain Dorrick joined them, sitting next to Lome. Comsky walked up to the maps at the front of the room and picked up a pointer.

  “I will be doing the intelligence portion of this briefback. Operational Area Parson is in the northeast corner of Angola. It is bordered on the north and east by the international border with Zaire. On the south by Route 2, the major east-west highway in Angola, which is also the line of demarcation between American and Pan-African forces. Our western boundary is the Cuango River. Total area is approximately four thousand square kilometers.

  “The land is primarily plateau grassland with rolling hills. In the river valleys and other low areas, particularly the northeast part of the AO, the terrain is heavily vegetated jungle.

  “The immediate threat in the area is the UNITA rebels, under the overall command of Jonas Savimbi.” Comsky slapped the pointer onto the map. “Savimbi is headquartered in Huambo, which is not in our AO. The chief rebel stronghold in our area is in Saurimo.

  “This area, while not on the front lines between UNITA and the MPLA, is critical. Lunda Norte and adjacent Lunda Sul are the center of the diamond-mining area in Angola. Illegal exportation of these diamonds is UNITA’s primary source of monetary support. There have been reports that UNITA representatives have directly traded raw diamonds for arms on the international black market.

  “Intelligence analysis at Special Operations Command places control of the diamond mines as the third priority for our forces, after the destruction of the UNITA armed forces and neutralization of—”

  “Excuse me, Sergeant,” Colonel Waller, the group S-3, quickly cut in. “But, please, confine yourself to your team’s area of operations and missions.”

  Comsky stared at the colonel. His bushy eyebrows turned in the direction of Conner, then back to Waller. “Yes, sir. To continue.” He walked over to the map and dropped an acetate overlay down over it. “The rebel order of battle in the area is very incomplete.” Comsky scratched his head. “I suppose that it’s our job to figure it out when we get there. The AOB is working on several initial targets that we will designate for air interdiction upon arrival in country. After that, we will be searching for the enemy.”

  Riley smiled. Sergeants often had a way of saying things blindly, and it cut against the formal grain of language in mission letters and operations orders. From his time serving with Comsky, he knew that the man would probably summarize their mission in one sentence and that would be that: We go in, eyeball the place, and report what we see.

  “Although we don’t know the disposition or strength of the rebel forces in our area, we do know their capabilities. They have individual and crew-served weapons, to include heavy machine guns and mortars. Hand-held air-to-ground missiles of the SAM-7 type are common throughout the country. There have been no sightings of armored vehicles in our area, but the rebels do possess various types of armor and contact cannot be ruled out.

  “The local population...” Comsky paused and shrugged. “We don’t really know what the local population thinks or feels. The indigenous population is most likely concerned with survival. There are numerous smugglers and black marketers in the area working the mines. There is no doubt they aren’t going to be happy to see us show up. In some cases these criminal elements are armed as well as, if not better than, the rebel or government forces.”

  Captain Dorrick stirred and made a small hand gesture, indicating for Comsky to stay with the planned briefing and cut his editorial comments.

  Comsky coughed and looked at the map, re-railing his train of thought. “Uh, the effect of terrain and weather on our operations.

  “Movement by air should be unrestricted, and we expect to have complete air superiority. However, if our air assets are not available, movement on the ground will be difficult at best. Maps show few roads, and the reliability of the roads marked is questionable.” Comsky smiled. “We always have our feet, of course.”

  “You’ll have air assets,” Colonel Burrows growled. “You won’t have to worry about that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Comsky said, throwing a glance toward Riley at the back of the room. They’d both been on board the Black Hawk that had gone down on their way out of China in ‘89. They’d done a lot of walking there after having been assured they would have air support.

  “This time of year is winter in Angola, but since the country is so close to the equator, the temperature is mild at best and hot at worst. It isn’t the monsoon season, so rainfall won’t be a major problem.”

  Riley listened with only half his brain as Comsky droned on about Angola and the intelligence the team was supposed to gather on their reconnaissance. Riley was troubled. Comsky had yet to say anything that Riley and Conner didn’t already know from their research on a computer database available to any citizen. That meant, as usual, that the intelligence people in the Pentagon didn’t know squat about the situation on the ground in Angola. Of course, Riley reminded himself that was the whole purpose of these advance teams going in. To gather intel before the 82d Airborne, the big force, came in and cleaned things up.

  It was better than the way the military had gone into Somalia and Haiti. In one case they’d been unlucky. In the other, lady luck had smiled on them. Obviously, the army didn’t want to trust to luck in Angola. Riley had accompanied Conner to Washington, and he’d listened and watched. This Angola mission was a gigantic political gamble. If it worked, it would reverse the trend in the United States to back away from working in the international arena. If it failed, the administration would go down the tubes, not to mention the soldiers who would die as the down payment on the gamble. Operation Restore Life was being mounted against a massive groundswell of isolationism in the country.

  The point that had allowed the president to sell the mission to Congress was the modified chain of command. At no time in the operation would U.S. troops work under UN command. There was a UN mandate authorizing the mission, but both the UN and Pan-African forces would be answerable to their own governments.

  While that made for good home-front politics, Riley wondered what would happen if something occurred to make the coalition unravel or if different countries developed different objectives during the course of the operation. There would be no overall commander to coordinate things.

  Riley knew from talking with men he’d served with who had done some UN duty that by far the biggest complaint military personnel had with working under UN command was not what civilians and politicians
would expect or understand. The media made a great issue out of the lack of resolve by the UN Security Council to employ force in such places as the former Yugoslavia, but the soldiers were much more concerned about the lack of logistics support and expertise shown by the UN Security Command. Modern warfare demanded a high volume of logistical support, and the UN had neither the resources nor the expert personnel to do it anywhere near adequately. United States forces working under U.S. command could at least count on their own logistical support. Without beans and bullets, the best-trained army in the world was worthless.

  Comsky wrapped up the intelligence portion and Master Sergeant Lome replaced him at the podium. Lome went through the team’s deployment from Fort Bragg through arriving at the AOB in Cacolo. Riley tuned back in when Lome outlined the rules of engagement. Lome’s deep voice calmly enunciated orders that made it clear that the team was going to shoot first and ask questions later. They’d come a long way from marine guards standing outside a compound without a magazine in the chamber while a suicide truck bomb drove by.

  The rest of the briefing told Riley little more other than to show that the team had done its homework and was prepared to deploy. Unlike a normal mission briefing, this one was short because no one really knew what was going to happen until they arrived at the AOB and the commander on the ground there gave them their specific mission taskings.

  At the end, Captain Dorrick stood back up. “Sir, as you can see, ODA three one four is prepared to conduct any and all missions it might be assigned. What are your questions?”

  Colonel Burrows nodded. “It sounds like you have prepared well, Captain. I notice you’re short a team executive officer and an intelligence sergeant. Will that affect your ability to perform your mission?”

  “No, sir. Sergeant Comsky is qualified to act as the team’s intelligence sergeant.”

  “What about the possibility of contact with rebel armor that Sergeant Comsky mentioned?” Burrows asked. “Are you prepared for that?”

  Staff Sergeant Oswald, the senior weapons man, popped to his feet before Dorrick could answer. “Sir, we will be carrying AT-4 antitank rockets. I have trained every member in the use of the rockets, and it will stop the types of armor we have been told the rebels might possess. Every member is also trained on laser designation of targets for air interdiction and how to call for fire support from air assets.”

  Burrows opened the floor up to the rest of the staff, and they asked several questions. Riley could tell it was mainly a show for Conner’s sake. He wouldn’t be surprised if the team hadn’t done a briefback earlier in the day for Colonel Waller to make sure that they didn’t screw up in front of the reporter.

  By the time it was over, it was past eight at night, and Colonel Burrows escorted Conner out of the isolation area, back to Group headquarters. Riley waited as the rest of the hangers-on filtered out, until only the team was left. Comsky walked over and gave him a bear hug, lifting him off his feet.

  “How the hell are you, Dave?” Comsky asked.

  “I’m doing good, Ape Man. Nice show,” Riley commented. The nickname was one that Riley’s team in Korea had given Comsky. Both for his looks and his attitude. “I can’t believe they’ve got you as intelligence sergeant. Talk about a contradiction in terms there.”

  “Keep it up, smart-ass. I can call you that, now that you’re a civilian puke.”

  Riley pointed at the maps. “Sounds like you all are squared away.”

  Comsky grimaced. “Shit, you don’t know the half of it. This is the biggest jug-fuck I’ve ever been associated with.” Comsky scratched his underarm idly. “Well, maybe not the biggest,” he amended, “but close to it. It sounds good but this place—”

  “Comsky!” Lome was suddenly there, towering over the two men. The team sergeant looked at Riley. “We’ve got some things to go over,” he said, pointedly shifting his gaze to the door.

  Comsky slapped the senior NCO on the arm. “Hey, Top, Dave here was my team sergeant in Korea. He’s all right.”

  “He’s not wearing a uniform now, as far as I can tell,” Lome said. He stared at Riley and the other returned the look. They remained like that, visually locked together, until Captain Dorrick walked up and stepped between them. “You’ll have to leave now,” he told Riley. “We may have had to let you civilians into our briefback, but we don’t have to let you hang around.”

  Riley broke his gaze away from Lome and looked at the captain. “All right.” He tapped Comsky on the shoulder. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sure thing, Dave.”

  Riley walked out of the isolation area deep in thought. The SNN van was waiting for him, Seeger at the wheel and Conner in the back. She was looking at the screen of her laptop. Sometimes Riley wondered if she wasn’t surgically attached to the computer.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Come on, Dave.” Conner turned off her computer. You’ve attended a lot of those briefbacks. What was your feel?”

  “I think the team is screwed up,” Riley said.

  That wasn’t exactly what Conner had expected. “The team?”

  “That Captain Dorrick has his head so far up Colonel Burrows’s butt that he can’t see the mission ahead. I don’t know about the team sergeant. The team seemed well organized. I just didn’t like what they were saying, but I think they were censored. Maybe by Dorrick, more likely during an earlier run-through by the Group S-3.”

  “Censored?” Conner repeated. “About what?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Riley said. “I hope they were censored.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they weren’t, they don’t know diddly-shit about where they’re going or exactly what they’re going to be doing when they get there.”

  “Hell, Dave, we’ve been researching Angola for the past two weeks with all the resources SNN has available and we don’t know too much, either, about what’s going on in that country right now.”

  “Yeah, but no one was shooting at you.”

  “Besides the team,” Conner said, “what do you think of the mission?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when we get on the ground. I’m going to pump Comsky for more information on the flight going over. At least we’ll hit the ground running with those laser targets from the AOB as soon as we arrive.”

  Riley remembered the other parts of the censored operations plan he’d been allowed to read. Apparently the idea was to get the SF troops on the ground on day one of the air war. Take out all known targets before the rebels were ready or could hide in the countryside. After those initial targets, the teams would scour the countryside in conjunction with air surveillance, searching out new targets while the regular ground forces came in country.

  It was this sequence of events that the military wanted to keep under wraps. They hoped to eliminate most of the MPLA armor and aviation on that first day, along with all fixed bases and lines of communication. That, hopefully, would prevent major, pitched battles as the 82d hit the ground. It actually wasn’t a bad concept, in Riley’s opinion. After Haiti and Somalia, everyone who watched SNN expected the military to move slowly and with great preparation. This fast knockout punch might just do the job. Then again, Riley knew, it might not.

  Conner closed her eyes and leaned back. “Talk to Sammy lately?”

  “Yeah, last night,” Riley said.

  “How is she?”

  “The same.”

  Conner’s sister, Sammy Pintella, had been the one who had brought Riley in contact with Conner the previous year, when she’d discovered information about a secret military base in Antarctica and they’d gone south to investigate. The three of them had been the only survivors after a run-in with North Korean commandos on the ice pack.

  Conner’s stock with SNN had risen greatly, based on the story that came out of the whole episode with Eternity Base, to the point where she now was able to pick and choose her own stories and investigate them
with her own team. Sammy had stayed at her job at the National Records Center in St. Louis, where she had discovered the information. Riley saw her every once in a while and talked to her on the phone when the schedule permitted.

  While Sammy was slow and steady, Conner was fast and brilliant. Technically, Riley knew he was being paid as a security consultant, but Conner had come to rely on his common sense more and more to balance out her driving instinct for the story that sometimes blinded her to other realities. This mission especially, because it was in Riley’s area of expertise, she was counting on him. He didn’t plan on letting her down.

  Chapter 5

  Luia River, Angola, 12 June

  The patrol looked like a party of ghouls as the sun revealed details. Most of the men were splattered with dried blood, and all were covered in mud. They’d made good time in the darkness, following the riverbed away from the site of the ambush. Steam was rising off the surface of the river, mingling with the trees that hung over it. The foliage almost touched in the middle overhead, making the band of water a dark tunnel with splotches of light playing along the surface.

  “All right. We’ll break here,” Quinn called out. Daylight revealed him to be more than just a voice in the dark. He was a tall, thin man, his hair completely white, unusual for a man of thirty-six, but not for someone in his line of work.

  Trent placed outflank security on either side and the rest of the men slumped to the ground, exhausted. Trent was the opposite of Quinn in body type: short and stocky with heavily muscled arms and legs. He’d been the heavyweight boxing champion of the regiment before Quinn and he had been cashiered after the episode in Somalia. His nose and ears showed the results of those fights, squashed and battered up against his skull.