War isn’t pretty—it’s not the way you see it in the movies, where Sly, Steven, Chuck, Jean-Claude, Arnold, or some other asshole manages to take down 150 VC with a thirty-round mag while flexing his pecs and grimacing for the camera. But it’s real—and it can hurt you bad. Believe me, war is hell.
The great Marine sniper and a true American hero, Gunnery Sergeant Carlos N. Hathcock, who had ninety-three confirmed kills in Vietnam, tells a story about a VC bitch he named Apache, whose habit was to skin Marines alive as she interrogated them. She sent one back to Hathcock’s unit still alive—the kid died as he crossed the outer perimeter wire.
Apache had worked him over pretty good. Among the nasty things she’d done to him was cut off his eyelids. Cutting off a prisoner’s eyelids was her trademark.
Hathcock hunted Apache. It took a while, but he finally sniped her. He says he had to kill her—because she’d murdered and tortured kids he’d known. But he didn’t kill her just to get even. That would have been enough, given her history. But Hathcock had a higher goal: he killed her in order to save Marine lives.
Now, the powers that were, back then, didn’t much care for Carlos Hathcock, or for sniping in general. They felt that sniping was too nasty, too spooky, too dirty. It wasn’t gentlemanly—as if war is a gentlemen’s game.
But Carlos knew better. He knew that every VC he killed saved between five and ten American lives. That’s five to ten Marines who went back to their families—to their wives, their kids, and their parents. He sniped ninety-three (and had another four hundred probables), so at the very least, two thousand four hundred Marines who wouldn’t have gone home alive made it back.
So far as I’m concerned, we Americans owe Gunny Hathcock a debt that we can never repay.
What it all comes down to is that we must wage war to win, not to lose or to draw. We must wage war to save the lives of our men and the lives of our civilians at home—in this particular case, the tens of thousands of potential victims of Lord B’s biological warfare—while taking the lives of our enemies.
So I’m not above snatching a prisoner and then killing him. Unfair, you say. No problem. I can live with that. Unprincipled, you charge. I disagree. My primary principle is to keep my men alive any way I can, while fulfilling my mission completely.
Okay, you say, what about the Geneva Convention?
Well, gentle reader, the Geneva Convention doesn’t apply much these days anyway. Did it apply in Lebanon in 1982, where shot-down Israeli pilots were tied behind cars and dragged through the streets? Did it apply in El Salvador, Honduras, or Nicaragua, where tens of thousands of innocent victims died? Did it apply in Somalia, where the bodies of American soldiers were desecrated by mobs? Or in Iraq, where a captured SAS sergeant was ordered to wipe the excrement from a latrine with his bare hands, then forced to lick his fingers clean? Face it: nobody pays attention to the Geneva rules anymore if it isn’t convenient to do so. And for most of the Second and Third World, it’s just plain inconvenient.
If I ever fight the Swiss, then I’ll abide by the Geneva accords. Until then, I’ll do to tangos what they want to do to me—but I’ll do it to them first. With maximum prejudice and love of violence.
Endeth the sermon.
I bursted Mick Owen with the results of our interrogation and a request for intel. I needed to know what the hell was happening near Asadabad. I called Dick Campbell and—guardedly—let him know that we were about ready to move. He said he’d be ready when we were.
I got a return transmission from Mick half an hour later. According to the latest satellite snapshots, there were six camps within fifteen miles of each other, to the east and north of the provincial capital. All of them were active—that meant there were tangos in residence.
I knew about Asadabad. It was the nerve center for the Party of Islam, one of the four dozen or so splinter groups that was currently training Islamic fundamentalist foot soldiers to wage jihad against governments from Algeria to Egypt, from Bosnia to Bangladesh, from Yemen to the United States.
The entire jihad movement, built with seed money from Iran, was currently financed by Afghanistan’s flourishing opium business. The country where the CIA had spent more than $6 billion to fight the Soviets was now the world’s leading exporter of heroin to the United States.
You could argue that the fundamentalists had already won their holy war against the Great Satan. They were, after ail, pumping hundreds of metric tons of heroin into our country every year without our being able to stop them. Those drugs were killing us from within—ruining our cities, destroying our infrastructure, sapping our economy.
I was happy to have the camp locations, which I punched into our Magellans. Problem was, they were scattered over three hundred square miles of rural Afghanistan, and I hadn’t the vaguest idea which one Brookfield was going to. It could be any of them. There was also the possibility that he wasn’t heading for a training camp. He could be traveling to Asadabad to visit the province governor or to pay a courtesy call on the mullahs running the Party of Islam. He could be visiting the poppy fields and opium-processing facilities that dotted the inhospitable countryside. There was absolutely no way of knowing. I was goatfucked.
I thought about trying to plant a beacon, but it couldn’t be done—first of all, we didn’t have any beacons. Second, planting one would have meant getting inside the Iraqi consulate. I wasn’t about to lose a man trying to do that. The only other way to track Lord B would be for Mick to have the spooks at Cheltenham’s Division U play with their switches and dials and reroute one of the FORTE birds I knew they had flying overhead to track Pakistan’s nuclear weapons program.
We’d quietly sold the U.K. five FORTE—for Fast On-board Recording of Transient Experiments—satellites in the last days of the Bush administration. The president had completed the transaction by signing an emergency National Security Finding, so that the birds could be delivered without having a congressional debate on the subject. That way, the Brits would gain a tactical advantage, and FORTE’s capabilities would remain more or less secure.
The precursors of FORTE satellites, known as INDIGOs, BYEMANs, and Lacrosses, were first put up by the National Reconnaissance Office, or NRO, in 1983. The first generation were equipped with cameras and simple sensors—enough to give the West a technological advantage during the Cold War, but generations behind today’s sophisticated, miniaturized imaging capabilities. The second generation added computer-based imaging. After BYEMANs and INDIGOs came Lacrosses, which are still in use by the NRO. Lacrosse satellites use radar and infrared imaging systems, and laser-based target acquisition. The latest versions, flown just before the Gulf War, were equipped with CW/BW (Chemical Warfare/Biological Warfare) sensors. They had a .23-meter resolution. That means they could see things as small as eight inches from their 155-mile orbit track. Using the computer enhancement equipment that’s readily available, you can literally read a license plate from 155 miles in space.
An interesting sidelight about the names of these birds: all these satellites were originally developed under the administrative ticket of BYEMAN. When that was compromised by the Walker spy ring, they became known as INDIGOs. When Jonathan Pollard leaked both the INDIGO technology and its ultrasecret code word to the Israelis, they became Lacrosse. In 1992, the Lacrosse designation was augmented with a new code word: FORTE. Who knows what they’ll become now that you know about FORTE.
The reason for the augmentation was a generational increase in intelligence-gathering capacity. FORTEs have all the capabilities of Lacrosse, which means they can produce photographic images (currently they have a . 15 meter resolution), as well as use radar and infrared to peer through heavy cloud cover. But that’s where the similarities end. FORTEs have tremendously advanced nuclear-warfare-sensing features. The version we gave the Brits uses a highly sophisticated sensor—its formal designation is the DS21 Multi Spectral Thermal Imager—that can spot anything from chemical residue released during plutonium reprocessing
to the distinctive heat signature of a nuclear weapon on ready alert. FORTE’s sensors can detect heat fluctuation from reactor cooling towers and even identify the sort of characteristic vegetation damage that normally occurs at weapons-grade radwaste sites.
Mick answered my request with a hearty “Fuck you.” But I knew he’d be busting his butt to convince the computer dweebs to help us out. In all honesty, it wouldn’t be much of a job—the difference of perhaps a couple of hundred miles in the bird’s sweep area would cover us.
In the meantime, God helps those who help themselves. So we helped ourselves to as many of the supplies Dick Campbell had brought back from Darra as we could cram into battle bags, rechecked our chutes, loaded magazines, stripped, oiled, and reassembled our weapons, fused ten hand grenades per man (five frags, two white-phosphorus willy peters, three concussions), and divided twenty-two pounds of Semtex plastic explosive, 20 M60 detonators, ten time fuses, and twenty igniters between us. If somebody didn’t make it, I didn’t want us to lack for firepower.
Iqbal was late. The SOB was supposed to drive me to the gold market, where I wanted to exchange two thousand pounds for gold coins. Believe me, it’s easier to trade gold than it is to ask some AK-47-toting guerrilla if he has change for a fifty-pound note. Now I was an hour and a half behind schedule, which was an unacceptable margin even in Karachi, where split-second timing is measured in ten-minute intervals. Well, fuck him—I’d go anyway.
I slid into one of the Land Rovers. Tommy T jumped in, too. “Where to, Skipper?”
I told him.
“Great. I’ll come along for the ride.”
I waved at the guard standing next to the villa gate. He lifted the bar, swung the gate, and we nosed into the street. We turned left, then worked our way through the streets, heading southeast, toward the jeweler’s market just north of the river. In the distance, I heard a car bomb go off. That was business as usual—there was at least one a day in Karachi. It kept the cops busy and made parking a game. Yeah—a game. Russian roulette. A second bomb exploded. This one was larger, and closer—we could sense the concussion. I found an alley close by our destination and stashed the wagon. We walked the last five-hundred yards, completed our business with a minimum of haggling, and headed home. As we drove, we heard two more car bombs. They sounded as if they were coming from the south—Faisal Colony maybe, or Sadat Colony. The cops were gonna be real busy today. So were the hospitals.
We were just pulling through the gate when some asshole rear-ended the Land Rover, pushing us clear through the gate. I was about to say something nasty when the son of a bitch interrupted me by shooting our gatekeepers and firing through our rear window.
I ducked, but not before I saw two pickup trucks pull up and disgorge a dozen nasty-looking assholes dressed like mujahideen. Where was the old Muslim hospitality? Obviously, these guys bore us no goodwill at all. I guess I realized that because they were carrying automatic rifles and ammo bandoliers.
I may be slow, but Fm not stupid. “Shit, Tommy—” We rolled out of the Land Rover and took cover behind the hood. I pulled the Glock out of my belt and dropped the asshole closest to me with three rapid shots that walked up his torso as he charged—damn, I was heeling. Well, he dropped anyway.
Tommy’s pistol was already in use. Of course, he’s younger and faster than I am. He double-tapped a tango carrying an RPG. Fucking show-off.
“House,” he yelled at me. “You go, I’ll cover.”
I didn’t have to be told twice. I dodged and rolled left, zigzagged right-left-right, then hauled balls for the doorway. Bullets kicked up dirt all around me. A round went through the heel of my boot and knocked me over. I flipped, tucked, rolled, saw somebody move to my starboard, picked him up in my front sight, and came up shooting.
I was lucky and the sumbitch went down. No, I wasn’t lucky—I was practiced in stress shooting. I told my men that we had to be able to get it right the first time. I hammered them again and again. There’d be no warm-ups, no target practice, when we went to war. No matter how tired, how sore, how fucked up we were, we had to be able to kill the bad guy right out of the gate.
But it worked. We started with the basics, at a Virginia Beach shooting range. We dry-fired, using the old sight-acquire-fire technique. Then we worked with live ammo. Then we went outdoors. Rain, sleet, snow—we shot in them all. We combined target work with real-life situations. I called it stress shooting, because I induced stress, then we shot.
It works. I know, because here I was, under stress, and I was dropping these tangos.
I rolled against the door. It cracked. Wonder’s face emerged. So did his AK. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughed. He rolled out and sprayed the trucks across the courtyard to keep the tangos’ heads down. “Yo—Tommy …”
Tommy got the hint. He sprinted, rounds kicking around his heels. Tommy and I dove inside.
Wonder had things organized for defense inside the villa. But I wanted to take ’em on outside—I didn’t want to fight a holding battle. Car bombs or not, the cops would be here soon, and I didn’t need to explain myself to them. We were packed and ready to move out anyway—so we’d go early. We could hole up at Dick Campbell’s until he got the plane ready and I had word from Mick about our target site.
I made the assignments in less than half a minute. We’d KISS and kill. Rodent and Howie would go out the back door and flank to starboard, Duck Foot and Tommy would do the same and go portside, and Nasty, Wonder, and I would go hi-diddle-diddle, straight down the middle. We’d come back for the bags as soon as we’d straightened out the matter of these assholes.
I led the way out the front door. The tangos had massed, using their trucks for cover. Terrific. I lobbed a willy peter just behind the lead truck. I heard the screams as it exploded.
“Go.”
Nasty took point. On the run, he brought down a charging tango with a double-tap. Now I came through the door, charged ahead, firing as I went. Stevie had the AK burning—he actually cut one asshole in two. We set up a deadly field of fire, which got the bad guys’ attention fast. We charged toward the Land Rovers in the center of the courtyard, rolled behind them, and used them as cover. It was like target practice: a tango would pop up, we’d pop him.
So far so good. The firing at us was both sporadic and unfocused. Par for the course. I’ve learned that tangos don’t practice a lot of fire discipline. They like to shoot whole mags every time they pull the trigger. We shoot three-round bursts—but we hit what we aim at.
The bad guys were trying to withdraw. I guess they hadn’t expected such a violent reaction coming at them head-on. Well, doom on them, because they weren’t gonna get off that easy. The pincer was about to close.
Rodent and Howie had gone out the back, jumped the wall, and come around behind the tangos. I could hear them firing from the right. Then I heard three-shot bursts from the left side—Tommy and Duck Foot had arrived, too.
I winked at Nasty, who winked back. The big squeeze was on, and we were about to have some fun. He pushed forward, firing his AK from the hip.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Which was good because I heard sirens and horns in the distance. That was the stage manager’s cue to exeunt left. Translation: it was time to get the hell out of there.
I backed the Land Rover against the truck that had rear-ended me and pushed it out of the way. Tommy got behind the wheel of the other LR and swung around. The rest of the guys hit the door and grabbed luggage. We were clear in less than two minutes. I wheelied in the courtyard, floored the accelerator, and came out of the gate, churning gravel as I threaded the needle between the tango pickups and swung into the street. Tommy was right behind me. We hadn’t gone three blocks when we saw two fire trucks and three police cars heading toward the villa, lights flashing and Klaxons blaring. Good—they could pick up the pieces.
We checked each other over for dings, bumps, and bruise
s over cold beer at Dick Campbell’s palace. He played mother hen, clucking over us and wagging his finger under my nose. “There goes your fucking OpSec, Marcinko.”
He had a point, although I was upset that Brookfield hadn’t taken the bait and come after me sooner. No, he’d waited me out, dammit. And they’d probably grabbed Iqbal to find out what we were up to. At least that’s the way I had to look at things.
I ran a mental list of what Iqbal knew and didn’t know. He knew I’d discovered Lord B was going to Afghanistan. He knew that Dick Campbell had volunteered to fly us wherever we wanted to go. But he hadn’t any idea how we planned to hit Lord B or when or how we’d extract. Those elements of our plan we’d fortunately kept to ourselves.
I bursted Mick Owen requesting an update and got back some good news. The FORTE he’d requested was being shifted. Now, it was simply a matter of fixing Lord B’s position. And how did I propose to do that?
Good question. You can’t track a plane with a satellite. The satellite moves on a fixed orbit, passing over a location every four to five hours. It has no more than a few minutes of picture capability. The bird can be programmed to look for specific things—terrain or buildings or vehicles. But it can’t track them, unless they move very slowly (you can track a ship, for example, as I did in Rogue Warrior: Red Cell). So I had to tell Mick what to program the FORTE to look for.
Except I had no idea what to say.
I discussed the problem with Wonder, whose knowledge about these sorts of things far exceeds my own. Wonder played with his Howdy Doody hair and pondered the problem.
“What’s he got that could give him away?”
I shrugged. I had no idea how he was traveling. The only thing about which I was reasonably certain was that he had six canisters of BA-PP3/I that he’d removed from Numéro Douze. But they were sealed—no way to sniff them out. Besides, FORTE wasn’t built to sniff BW/CW material.
RW03 - Green Team Page 28
