Chopper Ops co-1

by Mack Maloney

  Jones’s face was blown away in an instant. The man next to him took a bullet behind his ear. The third man got it right between the eyes. Everyone spun around. The Marines all went down to one knee. Only one man was left standing in the onion field, a smoking M-16 in his hand.

  It was Smitz.

  “Fuck all three of you,” he said, staring at the dead men. “No one told me….”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Norton, Delaney, Chou, and Smitz were huffing and puffing, climbing a steep hill about a quarter mile from the onion field.

  Everything that had happened in the past hour had been Angel’s doing. He had saved their lives by tipping them off about the pending gunship attack. They had had to scramble so quickly getting out of the hangar and into the sky, there had not been enough time for him to tell them all he knew or why he had decided to spill it to them in the first place.

  So he told them he would met them on the highest piece of climbable ground nearest to where the C-130 came down, twenty minutes after the event.

  And now, here they were, climbing up the steep, sandy hill just west of the onion field. They finally reached the top and sure enough, Angel was waiting for them.

  “I’ve got about ten minutes,” the mysterious man told them straight out. “Then I’ve got to be somewhere else.”

  “Tell us everything you can in ten minutes then,” Norton urged him. “And start with what you told me and Slick on the mountain the other night.”

  Angel did just that, relating his suspicions to Chou and Smitz about the failed raid and why he thought the mission had been doomed from the start.

  Then he elaborated further.

  “But not only were you guys patsies,” he went on. “The genius behind it all was willing to kill you, simply because you became an inconvenience. A holdup in a business transaction.”

  “Business transaction?” Delaney asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “They were in the process of buying the gunship back for the U.S.,” Angel told them starkly. “Covering the deal like they were actually buying some old Fulcrums from Monrovia.”

  The four men were stunned.

  “Buying it back?” Norton couldn’t believe it.

  Angel just shrugged.

  “What better way to get it out of circulation?” he asked. “The enemy you own isn’t your enemy anymore.”

  “But buying it back?” Chou asked again. “After all the misery it caused? Man, that’s cold….”

  “True,” Angel said. “But it’s also business.”

  “How much were they going to pay for it?” Delaney asked him.

  Angel just shrugged again. “Hundred million,” he said simply. “Give or take. I mean, it’s an old airplane. Who knows if anyone would have ever used it again. But that’s why the people behind all this made sure it was never shot down by our fighters. They knew it was much too valuable for that.”

  “A hundred million dollars,” Delaney said with a whistle. “I guess it’s good to know what my life is worth these days. Me and a hundred and forty-six others.”

  There was a very long silence. Finally Chou said: “So, what do we do now?”

  “Well, that’s up to you guys,” Angel said. “You’ve got two injured men. And all of you almost got killed at least once before. There’d be no shame that I can think of if you just split now. Fly over the next hill, get back to the real world.”

  The four men didn’t say a word. Delaney was looking at the lights over the hill. Norton was staring up at the stars. Chou was looking down at his men and the choppers.

  And Smitz?

  Smitz was looking east.

  “But if it’s revenge you want,” Angel went on, “I can tell you where you have to go, how to get there, what you can expect on arrival.”

  He paused. A light wind blew across the hilltop.

  “Now, I can’t push you one way or the other,” he warned them. “I’ve already overstepped my bounds.”

  Another pause. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

  They all looked up at him. “And that is?”

  “I’d go after the bastards,” he said quietly. “Why let them get away with it? Why should they sleep well at night? They’ll just do it again. Somehow, some way. There will always be people on this Earth whose sole purpose in life is to fuck things up for everyone else. That’s how these people are. Now you guys are in a position to do a little housecleaning, if you will. And do a big favor for the rest of us.”

  A very long silence now.

  “And I have one more piece of evidence, something that might help you make up your minds.”

  “Show us,” Delaney told him.

  “Not all of you,” Angel replied. “Just him.”

  He was pointing at Smitz.

  The CIA man laughed out loud. “Me? Why me? If anyone is low man on the totem pole these days, it’s me. That’s pretty clear now. I’m the one who got everyone into this. I shouldn’t have any say in any of it.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Angel said. “It really will be up to you what to do next. Only you know the person who is behind the worst part of this.”

  Smitz just shook his head in bafflement. None of this made sense to him.

  That was when Angel walked over to him and pulled a small, computer-generated photograph from his flight suit pocket.

  “This is a picture of the guy who started it all,” he told Smitz. “He’s the guy who set you up and nearly got you killed. You sure you want to see it?”

  Smitz nodded, though timidly. “Yes…” he replied.

  Angel held the photo up to eye level.

  “Do you recognize this man?” he asked Smitz.

  Smitz stared at the photo for a very long time. His face turned several shades of red. His eyes almost teared up in disbelief. Then his teeth clenched. Then his hands rolled into fists.

  Then it all sunk in.

  “Yeah, I know the bastard,” Smitz said, his voice guttural, deep, sounding like something from a horror movie.

  “Well, he’s your boy,” Angel said. “The guy who has been doing the dirty work. Playing both sides. Collecting a ton of dough for his trouble too.”

  That was enough for Smitz. He began walking very quickly back down the hill towards the choppers.

  “Hey, Smitty!” Delaney called after him. “Where the hell you going, man?”

  Smitz turned around. He was absolutely on fire now.

  “I’m going to personally kill that son of a bitch,” he said. “Even if I have to fly one of those fucking choppers and do it myself.”

  Chapter 30

  The mountain on which Zim’s palace sat had three layers of defense.

  The road leading up to it was about a half mile long, and it was covered with motion sensors, remote-controlled mines, and automatic-machine-gun nests. All of this was watched by an umbrella of hidden TV cameras that left no part of the winding mountain passage uncovered.

  Anyone intending on getting to the palace without using this road would have to scale the sheer rock face that led up to Zim’s lair via the western side of the peak. Even a military alpine unit would have a tough time climbing this hazardous 2,500 feet.

  But to make it even more unapproachable, Zim’s defensive specialists had installed a variety of bizarre but effective weapons up and down the rock face. Many of these Zim’s people had bought at bargain-basement prices from various warring factions in central Africa. Most were of homemade design but ingenious. Most prevalent was an exploding glass bomb, a devious device that when set off by a trip wire, sprayed up to five hundred shards of glass in a depressed 45-degree conical sphere. This was enough to shred anyone within fifteen feet. There were nearly two hundred of these mines hidden among the steep rocks.

  There were also five remotely controlled gun emplacements tucked away in the cliffs, each one packing a 30-mm cannon. These guns had a full range of fire at anyone coming up the mountain’s west side. They were worked by an operator s
tationed up above, using a fire-control system taken off an Iranian destroyer and sold lock, stock, and barrel to Zim.

  The third and final line of Zim’s defense protected the palace’s east side. This had not cost Zim a thing. Rather this barrier came courtesy of a massive land shift eons ago that left a peak soaring about 750 feet above the highest point on Zim’s domain. No mines were laid on this enormous, jagged piece of rock. No automatic guns or TV cameras watched over its approaches. There was no need to. The peak was absolutely impossible to scale.

  Or so everyone thought.

  * * *

  The 150 mercenaries guarding the interior of Zim’s palace were broken up into four squads, each with approximately three dozen members.

  The so-called Red Squad was responsible for patrolling the high outer walls of the compound. Specialists within this group also operated and maintained the Rapier antiaircraft systems found in the palace’s four minarets. Most of the Red Squad soldiers were white South Africans, veterans of many African conflicts.

  Yellow Squad patrolled the interior of the compound itself. They were like the local police force. They responded to anything from a broken door lock to complaints of rowdy guests inside the “Hotel.” Like Red Squad, they were mostly South Africans, and carried Uzis or elderly but effective Bren guns.

  Green Squad was responsible for protecting the grounds outside the palace. They maintained the weapons imbedded in the roadway and on the cliff face. They frequently patrolled all the way down the mountain, to the flat desert valley beyond. They were a mix of former East German and Swiss mercs.

  The fourth squad was called Black Squad, and they could usually be found lounging in their luxurious barracks located near the rear of Zim’s main residence and hard up against the 750-foot peak that looked out over them all. Black Squad did not walk patrol or maintain weapons. Black Squad did only special ops. Favors for Zim, the orders for which came from his lips alone.

  The people in Black Squad were all Muslim fighters, veterans from various wars, arrogant with power, and usually disparaging of the other mercenaries on-site. They were, however, the toughest of the bunch and the highest paid, simply because they had no qualms about doing the dirtiest jobs for Zim. In fact they enjoyed many of them.

  Black Squad also functioned as Zim’s personal body-guards. It was they who stood watch over the doors leading into his chamber, they who stood guard outside his bedroom, his kitchen, his bathroom, his sauna, wherever he was at any given moment. All of Black Squad carried AK-47’s and long Sherpa knives usually honed to a razor-sharp edge.

  * * *

  There was not a red alert per se that could be called inside Zim’s palace.

  If an emergency arose, which had never happened, Zim’s orders would filter down to Black Squad, who in turn would inform the other three squads of the situation and then instruct them what to do about it. But because the palace was deemed impregnable and since no enemies had ever dared come near, there had never been any drills or any rehearsals, not even a lengthy discussion about what to do should an adversary approach the compound in force.

  That was why even though Zim had given the order for the compound to prepare for attack, no one among his security forces really knew what that meant. Usually in times like this, the squads would have looked to Major Qank, the intelligence chief, for guidance. But it was well known by now that Major Qank was not among them anymore.

  So for what was about to happen, the mercs were on their own.

  * * *

  The first sign that things were not right came just before midnight.

  There was a shift change on the outer parapets among the Red Squad members. Those soldiers charged with watching the Rapier radar-acquisition screens had spotted two dots out on the very fringe of their missile system’s operational range.

  This was not unusual. Iraq aircraft could be seen on their radar screens occasionally—Iranian aircraft too. But these two blips were acting very strangely.

  They were moving back and forth, on the edge of the screen—appearing here, disappearing there, then reappearing way over there. The Rapier’s electronics told the operators the blips were not airplanes. No, the way they were flying, they could only be one thing: helicopters.

  Again, to see Iraqi military helicopters passing by the Qom-el-Zarz palace was no big deal. But these helicopters were not acting like typical Iraqis. Their pilots must have known they were being painted by the Rapier long-range radar system, this the first step in being shot down by the highly accurate SAM system. Even friendly airplanes were always reluctant to get tangled up inside their own SAM webs. Accidents happened, and Rapiers rarely missed their targets.

  Why then were these helicopters playing such a dangerous game?

  Things had been weird around the compound in the past couple of days; that was probably the only reason why the Red Squad commander was called to look at the radar screen just as the midnight shift change was about to take place.

  His name was Bumpin Slakker; he was a former South African military officer. Slakker understood Rapiers. He knew what they could do and that it was highly foolish for anyone to play tag by passing in and out of their fields of fire. Yet that was exactly what these two blips were doing.

  At first, Slakker wasn’t sure what to do. It was late, he was tired, and he certainly didn’t want to go around yelling that the sky was falling just because of two weird radar blips. However, he was concerned enough to decide that he would pass this information on to the Black Squad. He would explain the helicopter situation as best he could to the Black Squad’s CO, and let him decide whether or not to bring it to the attention of the Great Zim.

  And because it was the end of the shift, and Slakker was due to go off duty anyway, he would deliver the message to the Black Squad CO himself.

  It was exactly midnight when he started making his way across the vast compound. Down from the outer wall, through the inner perimeter, towards Zim’s chamber itself. He nodded to a pair of Yellow guards on patrol near the inner gate, and finally reached the alley that led to the Black Squad’s barracks. His immediate plans after passing on the information to the Black Squad were to inhale a plate of food, then drink a bottle of wine, and then go to sleep. He’d worked three shifts in a row and was dead-tired.

  He deserved a little shut-eye.

  * * *

  Slakker reached the huge black ornamented door that led into the Black Squad’s billet and pounded on it three times.

  There was no answer.

  He pounded three more times. Again, there was no reply.

  There was a window next to the door, but it was made of thick yellow glass and only the barest of shadows could be seen through it from the outside. Slakker rapped on this window several times, but saw no movement inside.

  Now this was odd. The Black Squad had little to do with the palace security, except to guard Zim himself, and they did this just two at a time. Even in a shift change, that would mean only four men could be out of pocket at any given moment. So where were the other thirty-two members of the squad? Asleep? Drunk? Both?

  Slakker considered just forgetting the whole thing and simply retiring to his billet. Choppers out along the radar perimeter? What was the big deal?

  But something was stuck in his craw about this one, and it wouldn’t let go. So he decided to take one last step to pass the information along.

  He began walking around the back of the small villa that housed Black Squad. Here, he knew, was a secret, emergency exit through which the Black Guards had been known to take delivery on drugs, booze, girls, and other very non-Muslim temptations usually supplied on the sly by the less-than-savory guests at the palace’s Hotel.

  Slakker figured that a knock at this hidden door was one the Black Guards would always answer.

  But when he made his way to the back of the barracks, he was surprised to find this secret door unlocked and wide open.

  Now this was getting very strange. He knew the Black Squad was ver
y careful about this rear portal. He’d seen the myriad of locks on the door from the inside. Why now had it been left so carelessly ajar?

  Slakker went through the door slowly, his hand on his pistol. The first thing he saw was a pool of blood gathered around the billet’s refrigerator. He slowly pulled the pistol from its holster. He took one step forward, followed the stream of blood with his eyes, and made a shocking discovery.

  Thirty-four members of the Black Squad were lying facedown on the floor of the barracks mess hall. They were lined up so neatly, it was obvious great care had been taken in leaving them just this way.

  They were all dead.

  Each one had been shot in the back of the head.

  * * *

  Slakker ran across the compound, out the inner gate and across the courtyard, reaching his squad’s position in thirty seconds; it was a trip that would usually take about two minutes.

  His mind was reeling. What he’d just seen in the Black Squad billet had not yet registered fully in his brain. But he was relying on instincts. He was a soldier, he’d been in combat before. The Black Squad was dead—their killers unknown. His job now was to get to his own position and make sure it was secure.

  That was why he made it back to the first minaret in one quarter of the normal time.

  But another nightmare was waiting for him there. He burst into the Rapier control hut only to see yet another pool of blood. Two of his men were still in their seats, heads hanging back, throats slit from ear to ear.

  Slakker lost his poise at this point. A bunch of guys from Black Squad getting killed was one thing. He’d just talked to the men in front of him not five minutes before. Now their heads were hanging off their bodies in the most ghastly fashion. Slakker threw up in the corner and then staggered outside.

  The compound was eerily quiet. He could see no one moving about. This was not all that unusual. The palace was usually sedate, especially at night. Yet amidst this deathly silence, three dozen men had been very quietly killed.

  Slakker was convinced the bloodbath was the work of Zim—a coup pulled off by the palace king himself. But then Slakker heard a low growl coming from off in the distance. Suddenly his mind switched back to the matter at hand: the mysterious helicopters orbiting just beyond the Rapier’s missile’s range.