The BMP came to a dead stop and black smoke began pouring out of the grills.
The rest of the BMPs halted and began firing their cannon and machine guns at the rocks near the top of the road.
Magic smoothly worked his bolt, sliding a new cartridge into the chamber. He made a small adjustment to his scope, and his next round punched into the engine of the very last BMP in the column. That BMP lurched forward a few feet and then stopped, also shedding smoke.
Murdock watched in amazement as the BMPs stayed frozen on the road. No one emerged, even from the smoking vehicles; the troops inside weren’t as stupid as their leaders. But none of the other BMPs tried to push their way either up or down the road.
And so they wouldn’t get the idea, Magic put his next round through the vehicle commander’s hatch of the company commander’s BMP.
The other vehicles continued to fire rapidly, but at the wrong place.
Magic’s fourth shot went into the engine of the second vehicle in the column.
His fifth round took out the third vehicle. Scratch one platoon. Not to mention creating a nice set of obstacles for anyone trying to come up the road in the future. Magic paused to reload.
His sixth shot, into the engine of the first BMP of the second platoon, triggered the stampede.
BMPs had the capability of making their own smoke by injecting diesel fuel into the exhaust manifold. Billowing white smoke gusted from the BMPs spinning around on the road.
Murdock heard Razor say scornfully, “Of course they’re running away.”
The mountain wind was dissipating the smoke as fast as the BMPs could generate it.
Magic kept working his bolt, firing, reloading, picking his spots through gaps in the smoke.
The rear BMP that Magic had killed was blocking the way of the others. Murdock watched in amazement as two BMPs of the same platoon rammed the disabled vehicle off the road so they could escape. Panic was contagious.
The disabled BMP slid sideways down the slope, and then hung up on something and stopped. Murdock was almost glad.
Their way now clear, the BMPs roared down the road a lot faster than they’d come up. Magic didn’t want to waste any of his scarce.50-caliber ammunition.
The smoke cleared and seven BMPs sat immobilized in the road. Three had managed to escape.
Murdock could imagine what was going on inside those immobilized vehicles. But he didn’t want any of the Syrian troops suddenly growing themselves a set of balls and deciding that charging up the road was better than sitting around and waiting to get killed.
“Let’s get it done,” he said.
Magic called out range and windage numbers, then asked, “You all ready?”
Murdock was peering through his scope, the crosshairs settled on the rear of the first BMP. He thumbed off the MSG-90’s safety. “Flush ‘em out.”
Magic fired a single round into the troop compartment of the first BMP. Murdock could imagine it punching through the roof armor and exploding inside.
The rear doors swung open and the troops rushed out. At that range, even with a 10-power scope, the intersection of the crosshairs was as wide as the human figures.
Murdock knew that when shooting downhill it was important to aim low. The pad of his forefinger flattened against the wide trigger shoe. He took a deep breath, let it out halfway, and held the rest.
The rifle bounced against his shoulder, surprising him. That was good; the trigger break should always be a surprise. When the scope settled back down he saw his man on the ground. Magic’s firing dope was right on the money, as usual.
Murdock shifted to another target, a Syrian trying to hide behind the BMP, and fired. He could hear Razor’s MSG-90 hammering away.
Their fire drove the Syrians down the road. Magic put a round into the back of the second BMP, then the third.
The Syrians in the other BMPs didn’t wait for the Raufoss rounds to come smashing in. Those who weren’t dead or wounded were charging down toward the valley in a tight, screaming mob. They could have saved themselves by jumping off the road and taking cover behind the slope. But the Syrians were beyond reason, and therefore playing follow the leader. Murdock and Razor helped that happen by concentrating their fire on anyone who looked like they might shoot back or try and rally the others. Wounded fell. The lucky ones were abandoned by their comrades. The unlucky ones were trampled underfoot by their fellow Syrians running from behind.
One of the BMPs was still defiantly firing its cannon, though nowhere near the SEALS. Murdock admired the gunner. Magic fired a round through the turret roof and the cannon fell silent.
For the life of him, Murdock couldn’t understand why the Syrian commander down in the valley didn’t crank up his mortars and fire some smoke shells onto the road to screen his retreating troops.
In any case, Murdock kept on firing. Every man he killed was another less that would be shooting at him later.
Soon the mob was out of range. The BMPs sat quietly smoking. The road down the mountain was littered with tiny brown figures. Some were still moving, crawling slowly down the hill. The SEALs let them go, but not out of any misplaced chivalry. The wounded men were already out of action, and any more firing would be a waste of ammunition. SEALs had no illusions about fighting fair, as if there was such a thing. They were coldly professional warriors, and if they had a chance to kill an enemy by shooting him in the back they accepted it eagerly, because then there was less chance of being shot themselves.
40
Saturday, November 11
1820 hours North central Lebanese mountains
The bottom edge of the sun was just touching the western horizon. And not a moment too soon, as far as Murdock was concerned. It had been quite a day, and was not over by any stretch of the imagination.
“Hey, Boss,” said Razor. “Remind me to kiss the Master Chief’s ass for making us bring these long rifles along.”
“You’d better think of another way to express your appreciation,” said Murdock. “Otherwise you’ll never kiss anything again.”
They did owe their survival to Mac. It wasn’t every day that three SEALs took on a ninety-man company and rendered it completely ineffective.
Razor leaned back against his rock. “If I just had a six-pack and a lawn chair, I wouldn’t mind hanging around to see what else these hammerheads have up their sleeves.”
Murdock could recognize false bravado when he heard it. “Okay, you can stay here. Be sure and drop us a postcard.”
“It’s like I said, Boss. I don’t have the lawn chair and the six-pack.”
“Well, these boys aren’t done,” said Murdock. “They’re determined, I’ll give them that.”
“Oh, we pissed them off good,” said Razor. “And we just keep pissing them off. They ain’t going to be happy until they have our heads up on the wall. I’ll really be upset if we don’t get out of here tonight.”
“We don’t get out of here tonight,” Murdock said coldly, “there’s some CIA sons of bitches who better hope I never make it back.”
“The kind of mood I’m in?” Razor growled in agreement. “If they did it again I’d walk all the way to the coast and swim to Cyprus with Higgins on my back just for the pleasure of getting even.”
“Speaking of getting out of here,” said Murdock.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t like the idea of tackling those rocks in the dark, but each time we’ve pulled off a score, the Syrians made me glad we left right afterward.”
A creaking, clanking sound rose up from the valley below. The dusk had deepened, and it was hard to see the road. Murdock removed his night-vision goggle from his jacket pocket. Three tanks were coming up the road. From their shape they looked like T-72’s. Through the NVG Murdock could see the beams of the tanks’ active infrared driving lights and main gun searchlights sweeping the road ahead.
“Man,” said Razor. “They’re going to drive right over their wounded in the dark.”
Murdock slid his MS
G-90 back into the drag bag. “All Magic’s.50 could do is scratch the paint on those things. Let’s get saddled up.” He slung the drag bag across his back and carefully made his way across the rocks to where Doc was attending Higgins.
“How’s he doing?” Murdock whispered into Doc Ellsworth’s ear.
“Not good. His vitals are all dropping.”
“Can we move him?” Murdock asked, that familiar sinking feeling returning.
“Only to a helicopter.” Doc paused. “Or only if it’s the difference between everyone else making it.”
Murdock got the Doc’s meaning. If they bounced Higgins around any more he was going to die. Murdock wasn’t prepared to give that order — yet. Only if, as the Doc said, it meant saving the lives of the rest of his men. He hoped it didn’t come down to that. Sacrificing his own wounded was something he never dreamed he’d have to do.
“Everyone else is shivering,” said Doc. “Dehydration’s making it worse. I don’t think we could stay tactical and still live through the night up here. I don’t want to step on any toes, sir, but …”
“You’re doing what I want, Doc,” Murdock assured him. “Your job.”
He made his way back to Razor. “Change of plans. We’re staying.”
“Higgins?” Razor asked.
“Not good. He can’t take another move.”
“Then we stay,” Razor said flatly.
“I was going to move and then get on the radio,” said Murdock. “Now I think I’ll just get on the radio.”
“I’ll rub my nuts for luck,” said Razor.
“You rub your nuts for fun,” Murdock retorted. He’d been carrying Higgins’s radio pack. He took it off and began unfolding the satellite antenna.
Just then there were a series of quick flashes along the valley floor.
“Uh, oh,” said Razor.
Murdock began to count off in his head once again. Just under a minute later there were a string of explosions farther up the mountain range, near the top of the road.
“Mortars,” said Razor. “Big ones, sounded like 120mm.”
“Late in the game,” said Murdock. “I’d rather it be never, but I can live with late.”
“As long as they don’t work the fire down the ridgeline once they get the range,” said Razor.
“Wait a minute,” said Murdock. He thought he heard something.
They were quiet, and during a gap in the explosions the faint sounds of helicopter rotors could be heard.
“Those aren’t Gazelles,” said Razor. “And they sure as shit ain’t ours.”
“Heavy rotors,” said Murdock. “Russian Hips, sounds like about four. Twenty, thirty troops in each. Mortars are firing cover for a landing up north of the road. When the troops don’t find anything they’ll keep sweeping down. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, our bet canceled out.”
“That and it’s time to get the hell out of here.”
“I concur,” said Razor.
Murdock deployed and aligned the antenna, then powered up the radio. The mortar bombs were exploding in a steady rhythm.
“Hope they don’t put up flares,” Razor murmured.
Murdock didn’t like to think about bringing the pickup helicopters in under flare light. He tapped out a message on the keypad, dispensing with code words. He pushed the SEND button.
41
Saturday, November 11
1833 hours Aboard the U.S.S. George Washington Eastern Mediterranean Sea
“Sir, message,” the communicator announced.
“God,” Miguel Fernandez moaned. He’d been sitting in that room for more than eighteen hours straight. The CIA men and the Army aviators had only dropped in occasionally during the day to check the message traffic. They’d only filtered back into the room as dusk approached.
Fernandez had remained, as if his commitment would will a successful conclusion. The other SEALs had brought him food and drink. One of the communicators, accustomed to standing late watches, had helpfully informed him that Mountain Dew contained the highest percentage of caffeine of any soft drink. Fernandez had pounded down cans of it. He’d been stepping out to make quick calls at the nearby head ever since. His stomach felt as green as the beverage, and he was like a single pulsing nerve ending, only precariously contained. One of the SEALs suggested he take a break. No one made any suggestions to Fernandez after that. Clean-cut young sailor types like the communicators and intelligence specialists were intimidated by SEALs under the best of circumstances. Now Fernandez had them so freaked out they shied like ponies every time he shifted in his chair.
Everyone crowded around the terminal. The message read:
E70 STOP REQUEST IMMEDIATE EVAC STOP CONTACTS ALL DAY STOP CONTACT BROKEN FOR NOW STOP ONE WIA STATUS EMERGENCY STOP LZ ROCKY REQ LADDERS STOP LZ SECURE FOR NOW STOP ENEMY APPROACHING STOP LZ GRID 843591 END
One drawback to print transmission rather than voice was that it was difficult to convey a sense of urgency. Fernandez thought whoever had typed out the message, probably the lieutenant, had managed to do it just fine.
Fernandez rushed over to the map on the wall and plotted the grid coordinates. Damn, they were right on top of the mountain range. They’d covered one hell of a lot of ground. And “contacts all day.” Knowing the SEAL habit of understatement, in official communications at least, Fernandez could easily imagine what it had been like. And emergency was the highest of the three evacuation categories. One of the boys was hurt bad.
Don Stroh immediately got on the satellite hookup to CIA headquarters to report the message. After the fiasco of that morning, he’d spent over an hour explaining to his superiors that the Army Blackhawk helicopters, with long-range tanks and flight-refueling probes removed, were indistinguishable at night from the carrier air group’s Navy Seahawk helicopters. After wasting the better part of the morning, he’d finally convinced them. Just another in a long, dismal line of examples of people in power insisting on making military decisions even though they had next to no real understanding of weapons, tactics, or strategy. Except in their own minds, that is.
Even so, the George Washington had spent the entire day sailing back and forth across the eastern Mediterranean. Now they were charging toward the Lebanese coast, and would be in range to launch helicopters in fifteen minutes.
“Yes, sir,” Stroh was saying into the handset. “Yes, Sir, there may be enemy contact at the pickup. The fact that the Syrians are on alert and have presumably been pursuing the SEALs all day will most likely complicate the extraction. No, sir, I’m not being facetious, I’m simply stating fact. Yes, sir. Then we are clear to launch, sir? Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, I will keep you informed.” He set the handset down. “We’ll launch as soon as the ship is ready.”
The Army major commanding the 160th task force slapped his palm down on the table. “Finally! You people were about to give me colitis or something.” He picked up the phone to the ready room. “We’ll be in range to launch in fifteen minutes, and I want to go as soon as possible after that. LZ grid is 843591. Rig the short caving ladders and a stretcher on the hoist of each bird. One friendly WIA, emergency. No, I’m not going to send a message asking the SEALs to clarify the enemy situation. Why make the poor bastards lie to us? Look, I’ll be right there.” The major slammed the phone down and stomped out of the compartment, grunting, “Finally!”
Miguel Fernandez thought that all the major needed was a cigar butt between his teeth. He picked up the phone, got the ready room again, and had them put Radioman First Class Ron Holt on the line. “Ron? Yeah. I want to go with me and Red on the lead bird, you and Scotty on the number-two. Right. SAWs for everyone. And trauma kits. One emergency, I don’t know who. Have Red grab my gear and weapon, and I’ll meet you down in the hangar deck ASAP. No, fuck that; we’re going up the elevator with them. I don’t want anyone screwing up and leaving us behind. Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Fernandez charged out of the compartment. When the door slammed beh
ind him all the sailors, even the officers, let out an audible sigh of relief.
Don Stroh almost broke out laughing. He picked up his pen and wrote quickly on a message pad. He ripped off the sheet and handed it to the communicator. “Send this now.”
The hangar crew rolled the lead Blackhawk onto the starboard aft elevator. They set the second Blackhawk beside it. The horn sounded, the gate rose, and the elevator whirred up to the flight deck. Once it was there, two carts swooped in and hooked onto the helicopters’ nose wheels, dragging them out on the deck.
The pilots boarded and started working through their checklists. They loaded the route and landing-zone coordinates into the navigation systems. There was an electrical whining as the main rotors unfolded and locked into flight position.
The two crewmen were checking out hydraulic lines and systems in the cabin. They were using the ANVIS-6 night-vision goggles attached to their helmets and infrared filters on their flashlights. Once in flight they would take up positions behind the two 7.62mm miniguns mounted in the port and starboard windows just behind the cockpit.
The two SEALs in each helicopter were dressed the same as the crew, in unmarked sage-green flight suits. But instead of helmets they wore intercom headsets. Gunners’ belts were buckled around their waists, with the long webbing safety straps snapped onto tie-down rings on the cabin floor. The belts would keep them inside no matter what violent maneuvers the pilots put the aircraft through. The SEALs were all armed with the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, as the Belgian Minimi light machine gun was called in U.S. service. It was chambered in 5.56mm, the same as the M-16, weighed fifteen pounds, and fired seven hundred to a thousand rounds per minute at the cyclic rate. A plastic box holding a two-hundred round belt clipped underneath the weapon. The SEALs were wearing night-vision goggles and had laser sights attached to the SAWS. They wore body armor and assault vests with two additional two-hundred-round belt boxes, grenades, and medical trauma packs attached to the back.
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