Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

“Yes, sir.”

  General Gramps Morgan leaned forward. “Let me move it, so we don’t have an accident.” He clicked the banner. “Oops … now, how did I do that?”

  Gramps turned toward the JAG colonel. “Colonel Mccormack, seems that I have accidentally launched the attack. My, my,” he said, shaking his head. “What a shame. Why don’t you go to my office down the hall and call Lieutenant General Smitters and tell him what happened. Sergeant Major Adams, have someone escort Colonel Mccormack to my office, where he can remain until I am through here trying to stop this inadvertent action. Make sure he has plenty of coffee.”

  Colonel Mccormack jerked forward and grabbed the mouse, sliding it around. The Army captain sitting at the console grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away from the mouse. “Sir!”

  Sergeant Major Jonathan Adams touched Colonel Mccormack on the shoulder.

  “Colonel, if you would come with me, sir?”

  The screen blanked out for a fraction of second, and series of ones and zeros began to scroll at unreadable speed across the face of the display.

  “We have to stop it!”

  Gramps shook his head. “Too late, Colonel.”

  Sergeant Major Adams motioned two military policemen over. “Escort Colonel Mccormack to the general’s office so he may use the phone.

  General Morgan turned to the Army lawyer. “Colonel, you wait there until I send for you. We’re going to be busy here trying to stop this accident.”

  “Sir, I do not for one moment believe that this was an accident.”

  General Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “And I do not believe innocent lives should be sacrificed for the sake of judicial expediency.”

  The duty operations officer and Major General Gramps Morgan watched the lawyer for a few moments until they were sure he was out of the operations room.

  “Sorry, Colonel. Seems I have accidentally initiated the action.”

  The colonel grinned. “Yes, sir. Seems you have. Captain,” he said to the officer in front of him. “Switch to phase II.”

  The colonel straightened and turned to the general. “Sir, it is a pleasure to fight with you.”

  The young soldier standing behind Sergeant Major Adams answered the telephone and nervously interrupted the general and colonel to announce that the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was on the other end, asking for General Morgan. Gramps knew what Jeff was going to tell him even before he took the receiver of the STE secure handset. A minute later when he hung up, he turned to the two men and told them their computer network attack timing was impeccable. He stepped away and slid into one of the twelve observer chairs above the room, leaving the colonel to run the show. He knew his limitations.

  Satisfied that everything was going according to the plan, he shut his eyes and silently said a short prayer for the brave soldiers who were hurrying into harm’s way: May they survive with few casualties. No one believed they would escape with no casualties.

  What is brown and black and looks good on lawyers? Dobermans.

  He smiled and shut his eyes. The game was afoot and out of his hands.

  Sergeant Major Adams walked up beside the general, leaned down, and whispered, “Sir, you know the telephone doesn’t work in that office.”

  Without opening his eyes, Gramps smiled and took a deep breath. What a great day to be alive.

  TWELVE

  Duncan raised his third finger. The door jerked open, snatching the doorknob out of Bud’s hand. An Algerian rebel stepped out, nearly tripping over Duncan. The rebel shouted. Reacting instinctively, Duncan slit the man’s throat, changing the shout to a gurgle to silence. The dying Islamic fanatic grabbed his throat in a futile attempt to stop his life’s blood from flooding away. Duncan shoved him back into the room.

  Monkey jumped around Duncan and brought the barrel of his heavy weapon up, catching one of the rebels under the chin. The sound of the bone breaking punctuated the noise of the SEALs scrambling to get inside the small room. Beau and Bud followed Monkey, separating right and left. HJ dove up the center, pushing Monkey to the side, and jumping over the moaning rebel who had dropped like a rock. Duncan pushed himself up and rushed in after the four.

  “Hell!” Beau shouted, jerking his knife from the scabbard as he ran alongside Bud toward two rebels at the far end of the room who were fumbling for their weapons. HJ rushed a wide eyed rebel standing in front of her, frozen as if paralyzed from the sudden attack. The cup of her hand hit the man’s chin, knocking his head back. Simultaneously, her foot hooked around his right ankle and jerked forward. The rebel’s neck stretched involuntarily. The knife came easily into her hand and whipped through the neck of the Arab. She quickly shoved the dying man away.

  A cut throat does not kill instantly. The arteries are severed, quickly flooding the throat with blood. It takes a couple of minutes for a person to die from such a mortal wound. The blood flows from the brain, soon killing this vital organ, while the blood filling the throat causes the victim to drown in his own blood. Some gain a few more minutes of life by leaning downward so the blood flows away, but eventually, one of three things kill someone with a properly cut throat. The victim becomes brain dead from lack of blood, drowns in his own blood, or bleeds to death. Whatever happens, the victim is no longer a threat. HJ was getting more practice than most in her first two months in the SEALs in this deadly technique.

  A huge rat scurried from behind a counter one of the rebels fell against and dashed across the room to disappear behind the bed.

  Beau and Bud were several feet away from the two at the far end of the room when one of them brought up an AK-47, aiming the Russian weapon directly at them. HJ drew back and hurled her bloodstained knife at the one with the AK-47. The knife buried itself in the man’s chest, causing him to fall across the table in the center of the room. The AK-47 clattered harmlessly to the floor. Duncan was thankful the weapon, notorious for its feather trigger, failed to go off. Beau stabbed the remaining rebel in the stomach, jerking the knife up and to the side, slicing through vital organs. Blood gushed out of the wide wound, washing over his right hand and soaking the sleeve of his filthy cammie shirt. If the cut didn’t kill the man, the filth from the sewers that covered Beau’s glove and knife would.

  The woman in the room was tied naked to a bed where the men had been torturing her. A host of medical tools nearby showed the instruments of torture. A fifth man standing over the woman dropped the scalpel and raised his hands. A neat circle of blood surrounded the nipple on the woman’s left breast, where a scalpel had been pulled round and round it.

  The American woman whimpered softly, her eyes glazed from shock as they darted between the Navy SEALs and the rebel standing in front of her.

  Beau grabbed the rebel prisoner and shoved him to the floor.

  Why? Duncan asked himself.

  HJ began to untie the woman, continuously whispering, “You’re okay.

  We’re United States Navy SEALs. You’re okay, now.” “Go relieve Gibbons,” Duncan said to Monkey. Gibbons was their nearest thing to a trained corpsman. He had had a little more than the basic medical training all SEALs received. Gibbons was a SEAL of many important skills ranging from radioman to personnel man to corpsman, with corpsman being the most important. Monkey dashed out the door and down the hallway to where Gibbons squatted, guarding the exit door.

  A few seconds later, with the woman untied, Gibbons arrived and began dressing her wounds. “Boss, she’ll live, but she needs a doctor.”

  Monkey and Bud tied the prisoner to one of the chairs, his arms strapped tightly behind him and each leg tied to one of the front legs of the chair. The man was scared. A dark stain spread across his trousers when Monkey slowly ran his finger along the sharp edge of his knife. “I think I should,” he said to Bud, staring intently at the helpless rebel.

  Duncan overheard him. “No, we don’t do that stuff. Moral standards.

  International convention. The CNN factor. All that bullshit, Monkey.”


  “Yes, sir, Captain. I know that, but he don’t.” The woman continued to whimper as HJ helped her put some clothes on.

  Cigarette burns traveled up and down her arms. HJ knew that regardless of how long or short the time the woman had been with her torturers, it would have seemed an eternity. Duncan had tuned out the crying, whispering conversation between HJ and the woman. He wanted to know where the hostages were. They had to be here someplace. Where else would this American woman have come from?

  “Bud, you and Monkey search the other offices and make sure they’re empty. See what you can find. HJ, see if you can calm the lady enough so she can tell us where the other hostages are.”

  HJ nodded and, in a soft, comforting voice, began questioning the woman, afraid to go too fast for fear of frightening her. She pushed the sweaty, dirty hair out of the woman’s face and wiped it with a wet washcloth from a nearby sink. She wiped a few tears from her own eyes, keeping her back to Duncan and the others to hide the anger threatening to overwhelm her control. He saw the woman point toward the door and make a motion to the right as she talked softly with HJ.

  Bud and Monkey eased out the door. Monkey leaned a few inches from the prisoner and ran the back of his knife along the man’s throat as he walked out. Even from Duncan’s position across the room, he saw the man’s throat constrict and his eyes turn downward in an attempt to assure himself that his throat had not been cut.

  HJ breathed deeply several times, bringing her anger under control. She knew what she had to do, and if an opportunity permitted, she would.

  HJ patted the woman on the arm and walked to where Duncan stood near the door. “Captain, she says the others are here with her. She thinks this is a warehouse and that we are in an office at one end of the building.

  The large, open warehouse is where the hostages are being kept. They were all together when she was taken away. And they are guarded.” She pointed to where Monkey squatted, guarding the far door leading from the hallway. “She said she came through that door.”

  “What happened here?”

  “They were going to kill her and hang her body for the Marines to find.

  She was to be the second victim. According to her, the first American died from an apparent heart attack, and they mutilated his body in front of the hostages. Sort of an incentive to behave. They found out the Americans knew the hostage was dead before being cut up, so this time they were correcting their mistake.”

  “Then we arrived in the nick of time. I am going to shoot Bashir when we see him again. His promises of them not wanting to kill the hostages and just wanting us out of Algiers seems misplaced,” Duncan said through clenched teeth. “God, this makes me angry!”

  “What are we going to do with her?”

  Duncan looked at the woman and shrugged his shoulders. “We can’t take her with us, and we can’t leave her here, because I’m not sure this is the way we will be going out. What do we have?” he asked and then continued, not expecting an answer. “About fifty hostages who have no idea we are this close to rescuing them.” Three beeps came through his small earpiece.

  “What the hell?” Then he remembered the urban warrior outfit the Marines gave him.

  He pulled the small computer screen down in front of his left eye.

  “We’ll have to take her with us. Tell her, and make sure she understands she’s to follow our instructions to the letter and keep absolutely quiet while she’s doing it.”

  The words, “We have contact with you,” came across the screen. Duncan raised his left arm and typed back. “Good. Where are we?”

  “We are working the location. What is your situation?”

  He typed back. “In a warehouse somewhere within a few miles of where we entered. One hostage rescued. Others in main warehouse. On way to effect rescue. Would appreciate backup.”

  “We have you. You are in the old Algerian grain and storage warehouse six point five miles from where you entered. Estimate twenty minutes to on scene. Can you wait?”

  “We will try, but we are going forward. If hostage rescue feasible, will execute.” Six and a half miles! He was getting old.

  “Bulldog sends well done.”

  “I want Bashir.”

  Several seconds passed before the screen lit up again. “Impossible. Has vanished.”

  “Roger, out,” Duncan typed.

  HJ came back. “She is shaken but young. She knows what to do.”

  “HJ, did they …?”

  She nodded. “They all did. They’ve had her down here all day, and looks like they got tired of her — like those temporary marriages Bashir told us about — and were getting on with their business.” She looked at the prisoner, her eyes narrowing. She spat on the floor. “Ought to kill them all.” Her voice trembled slightly.

  “No, he surrendered. He’s tied up and can’t hurt anyone now.”

  “Boss, this is a war against terrorism. We can’t fight it on normal terms. It’s dirty, and we need to show them we can be as—”

  “No. I don’t want to hear another word. Just get her and let’s get moving.”

  HJ’s eyes narrowed, and her tight lips showed him she was fighting the temptation to argue. She turned away toward the victim.

  HJ grabbed the woman under the arms and led her through the door. The woman staggered, moaning several times, causing HJ to realize how tight her grip was and to relax it. The woman walked with her legs far apart, each step gingerly taken, her face grimacing as she tried to stifle the moans.

  Duncan nodded at HJ and put his finger to his lips.

  HJ nodded, leaned down, and whispered to the woman, encouraging her to keep quiet. If the other rebels heard the noise, it wouldn’t be long before they were discovered.

  Beau and Monkey returned, blocking the doorway. “Other offices empty, Captain. Nothing in them except a bunch of papers written in Arabic.”

  Duncan nodded. “The Marines are on their way. We’ve got twenty minutes to get in position where we can protect the hostages until the Marines show up. The American hostage— What’s her name, HJ?”

  “Pauline King of Washington, D.C. She says the others are here in the main warehouse below these office spaces.”

  “Does she know how many guards?”

  HJ stepped back and held a hurried conference with King. “She’s not sure, Captain, but has counted as many as ten and as few as four.”

  “Okay, listen up, everyone. We plan for ten and hope for four. We want a quick resolution. Take out the guards, and take possession of the hostages. Then we go to ground and hold our position until the Marines arrive.”

  “We’re not going to try to get out of here, Captain?”

  Duncan shook his head. “Chief, I don’t think we can take fifty hostages out safely. For all we know, there may be hundreds of Islamic fanatics out there who are just aching for a chance to kill more Americans.” He tapped his helmet. “We’ll be all right. I have comms with Colonel Stewart. The Marines are on their way. All we need to do is tuck the hostages safely inside a defensive perimeter and hunker down until they arrive.”

  HJ braced Pauline King against the wall. “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” she whispered. HJ glanced toward Duncan and the others and saw they were facing away. She quietly moved down the dim hallway.

  Duncan moved out, he and Beau discussing quietly how they would split into two teams for the assault. Unnoticed, HJ opened the door and reentered the room where the prisoner was tied up, his mouth taped over.

  The rebel’s eyes grew large as HJ unsheathed her knife. “My moral guidance changed a few weeks ago, asshole.”

  She placed the knife against the man’s neck. He began to struggle against his bonds, pulling his head as far from the knife as possible.

  As she shoved the knife into the rebel’s neck, a hand whipped around from behind her and jerked the knife back, pushing HJ away, causing the SEAL lieutenant to fall on the floor.

  HJ rolled twice and came up in a crouch. Standing ne
ar the rebel was Chief Wilcox. “Sorry, ma’am. I thought you were going to execute a prisoner. My mistake,” he said, wiping the blood on his trouser leg.

  He reached forward and held his hand out to help HJ to her feet. She ignored the hand, standing to her taller height. Without a word, she glared at Chief Wilcox for several seconds. Then she cast a quick glance at the prisoner as if to say she’d be back. She turned to leave the room.

  “Ma’am,” Chief Wilcox said, causing HJ to stop and turn around. “Your knife, Lieutenant. You may need it.” He held the knife by the blade. HJ took it, nodded, and shoved it into the scabbard.

  Chief Wilcox looked at the rebel. A slight stream of blood ran down the man’s throat, but he’d live. He grabbed the half eaten loaf of bread off the table and reduced it to crumbs, covering the prisoner’s lap.

  Smiling, the chief hoisted his carbine and followed the lieutenant out of the room, turning the light off and pulling the door shut behind him.

  Hungry rats have been known to gnaw through wood when eating. It wouldn’t take them long to discover the bread.

  “Where is HJ?” Duncan asked as they reached the end of the hall. The woman stood by herself, where a minute before Lieutenant Heather J.

  Mcdaniels had been beside her.

  “Right here, Captain,” HJ answered as she appeared from behind the woman.

  “HJ, keep up. Gibbons, take point.”

  Gibbons nodded and moved to the front of the formation.

  Duncan looked at Mcdonald and made a downward motion with his finger.

  The second class petty officer reached over and flipped off the hallway lights.

  Beau squatted and slid the spy camera under the small space between the door and the floor. He twisted the cord so the camera gave a quick view and then, after several seconds, Beau pulled it back inside. He gave a quick nod to Gibbons. “Balcony, Gibbons. Exit to the left. Looks like open space five to six feet ahead.”

  Mcdonald pulled the door open. Gibbons stuck his head out, looked both ways, and crawled through the doorway. Mcdonald eased the door within a few inches of being closed. The dark-haired New Jersey native slid down the wall until he squatted on his haunches. He stuck his M-60 heavy machine gun through the door, ready to jump to the middle of the hallway if Gibbons shouted.