IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Kyle Swanson stood in the well of a portside gun turret next to the flight deck and let his thoughts roam away from the mission at hand. The irony of the job struck him. He was aboard the USS Wasp, a small aircraft carrier designed for special operations, sailing in the eastern Med beneath a massive umbrella of protection. It was part of an entire battle group that spread around the nuclear-powered carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, about a hundred thousand tons of steel and one of the biggest ships ever to sail the seas. Needle-nosed destroyers, daunting cruisers, and big submarines also were slicing the waters, and there were enough missiles, planes, bullets, torpedoes, and sailors on hand to take care of anything that any enemy could throw at them at sea, and also to strike deep into hostile nations. So if this mighty task force, the best the squids had, was so tough, why was he standing here, dressed all in black, his face smeared with grease, and decked out with his personal firepower, getting ready to head out once again on a raid against some low-tech ragheads not all that far from the shores of Tripoli? The Marines seemed to keep coming back to this part of the world that was part of their hymn, as if there was some magnet for them in the desert sands.
Swanson felt rested. He had caught a couple of hours of sleep following a late operational briefing, and then test-firing and cleaning his weapons for a final time. He rolled out of his rack at oh-dark-thirty and joined up with the Force Recon team that would be the assault force on the TRAP, the initialized way of saying “Tactical Recovery of Air Personnel.” A longer acronym labeled them as part of the Marine Expeditionary Unit, Special Operations Capable, or MEU-SOC. The mission was a frequently practiced operation designed to rescue a pilot downed in enemy territory and had therefore been easily adapted to pull out a hostage. Two helicopters would go in, and the first to land would have the mortar platoon aboard, which would spread out and secure for the landing zone. A TRAP moved so fast that heavy mortar tubes were not part of the attack, so the Marines normally assigned to them were free for other jobs like protecting the LZ. The second helo carried the attack force. This package was built for speed, not total firepower.
The mess table was crowded with young Marines packing in big, greasy breakfasts of eggs and sausage, biscuits and bacon, and bragging and shouting insults and curses to cover their pre-battle jitters. Kyle found a place on a bench and satisfied himself with cereal and hash browns to load up on carbohydrates, and some fruit. Juice instead of coffee, to avoid the caffeine. Then he went to the war room on the second-level hangar deck of the Wasp, found a soft chair, and fell asleep while the younger dudes, eager to rock and roll, continued their grabass. When the noise abruptly stopped, Swanson awoke and saw a cluster of officers filing in to conduct the confirmation briefing.
In moments the room was totally silent, and the briefing officers began flashing photo recon pictures on the screen and putting up transparent overlays of maps. Swanson perched on the edge of his seat, watching closely. Only a few hours ago, the mission had still been vague on many points, but now it had slammed together like the hatch of a tank. Kyle had been through many briefings, but never had heard such a rapid-fire discussion of precise targets, operations, and methodology for exactly who was to do precisely what. No significant opposition was expected, since surprise would be total and only two guards were with General Middleton. How the hell do they know that?
The intel geeks claimed to have pinpointed the exact location where Middleton was being held, right down to the specific house, had downloaded satellite pictures and maps, and even had a photograph of a local guide, some French Arab who was a veteran of the Foreign Legion. Small pictures of the man were distributed with both of his names, Pierre Falais and Abu Mohammed, printed on the back. Having an inside operator should certainly make the mission a lot easier. The briefer predicted a smooth snatch-and-grab with little action, if any.
Kyle never liked planning for the easy scenario. There were always sudden twists and turns in combat, the enemy never reacted exactly as predicted, and really good intelligence was usually bad. To top it off, Murphy’s Law always clicked in: If something can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time. A damned goat wanders into the wrong place, or a woman decides to string a laundry line across the landing zone, or somebody breaks a leg. He settled back into the chair. Sometimes it is best not to look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept what the man says. Occasionally, the bullshit works.
There was a stir among the senior combat-seasoned guys in the room, and Kyle exchanged a quick glance with the major who would lead the assault force and received a nod of silent agreement. Here we go again. No enemy on the ground. Don’t worry about it. Yeah, right. In the Middle East, land of fairy tales and mirages.
Judging by the briefers who were taking turns at the podium, every government and spy in the Middle East had been working to find General Bradley Middleton, because his death would bring down the wrath of this big task force on somebody’s head. For him to be executed in a television spectacular would make all Muslims appear to be savage maniacs before an unsympathetic world audience. Maybe some king or prince had dropped the dime on the bad guys, Kyle thought. Middleton was being held in Syria, and the leaders in Damascus well remembered the shock-and-awe campaign that opened the war with Iraq. Whoever these kidnappers were, their security sucked.
Still, this was a hell of a lot of information to have been gathered in such a short time in a part of the world where hostages and kidnap victims regularly were missing for weeks before any word surfaced about them.
The briefing done, Kyle slung Excalibur over his shoulder in a zippered drag bag and wandered up to the gun turret to find some privacy. Noise and movement assaulted him as soon as he stepped through the hatch, for it is never quiet on a ship. The pungent smell of oil, grease, and jet fuel hung over the carrier despite the stiff wind, and grease-stained sailors looking as dirty as coal miners were working everywhere. He punched the button on his cell phone for frequently dialed numbers, hit the SEND button, and listened as the beep-beep-beep sounded on the East Coast of the United States.
“Hey, you.” Shari Towne usually was annoyed if she received a personal call during working hours, but the incoming number showed it was Kyle.
“Hey,” Swanson said. His voice was soft, distant, concerned.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good. How was your trip home?”
“Quick and comfortable, but boring. Some kind soul laid on a little jet plane just for me. The movie was a chick flick that you would have hated.”
Kyle paused, visualizing her sitting in her tiny office, surrounded by papers while intel reports pumped out of the computers. She would speed-read them, unconsciously translating as she went, remembering almost everything. “What are you wearing?” Swanson asked.
“The shoulder boards of a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy, you horny jarhead.” She laughed.
“I just needed to hear you,” Kyle said, turning serious.
“I’m going to be gone for a little while.” The conversation was a struggle. They wanted to be intimate, but professionalism and the need for security would not let them. Just hearing her voice was the best he could hope for.
“I know.” Her mood shifted, too.
“You do?”
“Umm. Been working on it at this end. It’s a strange one.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I don’t? I’m supposed to know it all.”
“Well, you don’t. Trust me.”
“Kyle? What’s wrong?” Her voice was tinged with genuine concern. “Should I get involved here?”
Swanson caught himself. He had said too much, and telling her more might put her in jeopardy, since the letter containing what he considered an illegal order had come from her boss. “No, no. Absolutely not. Forget it, and please don’t say anything to anyone about my bitching. It’s just some Pentagon backseat driving, and nothing I can’t handle. That’s why I get the big bucks.”
&nbs
p; “But you’re okay?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. All dressed up for the prom, and the limo is waiting.”
He ducked below the level of the flight deck as the launch crews moved an AV-8B Harrier II Plus attack jet into launch position, their purposeful ballet underscored by the plane’s two screaming engines. Tongues of blue-white fire spit back from the exhausts and illuminated the darkness. Kyle told Shari to wait a moment while the plane built to a thunderous roar and lifted straight up from the deck, its exhaust rolling out in an engulfing cloud of heat. The plane hovered and changed the position of its wings and engines, then thundered away. Two Harriers, loaded with everything from iron bombs to cannons and missiles, would orbit near the target zone as part of the TRAP package, ready to zoom in if things started going to hell.
“I love you, girl,” he shouted into the phone as a second Harrier was rolled into place. “I gotta go now.”
“I love you, too. Call me when you get back. The very instant, you hear me? You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And be care…” She stopped talking. “We better stop.”
“Yep. I’ll call you in a while. Love ya.” He thumbed the OFF button and the connection was broken, leaving Kyle feeling empty and alone as the plane wound up its roar to launch. Shari knew more about this rescue mission than she was able to say on an open line, which meant that one hell of a lot of people were involved, from the guys putting the Harriers in the air all the way up the ladder to the White House. The more people who know, the bigger the chance for a fuckup, the bigger chance of losing the cloak of secrecy.
He came up the ramp and walked onto the deck after the second Harrier had cleared out. The hostage rescue raiders were gathering near a pair of giant CH-53E Super Stallion heavy transport helicopters that were waiting with the rear ramps down and the big rotors starting to turn.
Twenty-four Marines were split into two groups, with a lieutenant already leading his stick of men up the ramp of one chopper. Kyle checked in with the major leading the assault force as it also moved to load. Double-Oh appeared at his elbow.
“Fuck if I shouldn’t be going on this job,” he told Kyle. “You get all the fun.”
“Piece of cake, man. Didn’t you pay attention to the briefing?” Kyle had a small bag of personal items in his hand, including his watch, cell phone, and wallet. He handed it to the big master sergeant. “Instead of all of us, maybe they should send a taxi to pick him up, huh?”
“Or maybe the briefers should go.” He accepted the personal items, to hold until Kyle returned.
“An officer would never lie. You still got the letter I gave you, right?”
Dawkins tapped the chest pocket of his battle dress uniform and said, “I’ll keep it right here until you get back.” Kyle noticed that his friend had also put on a shoulder holster rig with the butt of a pistol in easy reach. Nobody was taking that letter.
The last Marines were stepping onto the ramp, and it was his time to board. “Look, Double-Oh, I just talked to Shari. If you need to show that note to someone later, bring her into the loop. Just remember, she works for the asshole who signed it.”
“You’re going to disobey a direct order from Washington, aren’t you?”
“I’m not going to murder a Marine, even an asshole like Middleton,” Kyle said. “I’m going to bring him back alive, just to piss everyone off.” He tapped fists with Double-Oh and vanished into the dark cavern of the big helo.
“Hey, Swanson!” Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins bellowed, his best parade ground voice cutting through the racket as the ramp began to close. “If you die, can I have your girl?”
CHAPTER 18
FIVE MINUTES OUT.” THE PILOT’S scratchy voice came into Kyle Swanson’s ears through the internal radio net as the two CH-53E helicopters lurched through the night sky. The interior of the birds was deafening because each had three powerful GE engines and little insulation. Everyone wore special flight helmets fitted with thick earmuffs that contained radio receivers. The team was all on a single frequency, but the assault leader and Swanson could also communicate with the aircrew.
It was uncomfortable and cold in the narrow compartment where he sat scrunched among a dozen Marines, for although the huge helicopters were almost a hundred feet long, the cabin was thirty feet long, less than eight feet wide, and not even seven feet high. Looking around, the scene of the young warriors with painted faces and weighted with gear reminded Swanson of the old pictures of American paratroopers jammed aboard ancient C-47s going into the D-Day invasion.
The helicopters had flown an impeccable mission, and had gone “feet dry” over Israel right on schedule. From that point, they were wrapped in a protective embrace by Israeli jet fighters that just happened to be conducting a night exercise along the same path. Any hostile radar would have a hard time picking the two helicopters out of the clutter on their computer screens.
The assault force members had gone silent, each man alone with his thoughts, when they flew out of Israel, moved into unguarded airspace over Jordan, and finally reached the edge of Syria. They spent the long passing minutes checking their equipment or leaning back against the vibrating bulkhead, eyes closed and lost in thought. The first CH-53E would land about two kilometers from the village and the mortar platoon Marines would pour from it to form a protective cordon for the landing zone. The second one, which Swanson was aboard, would come in simultaneously and the raiders would hustle off, conduct the rescue, and bring the general back to the safe LZ and they would all be away.
The choppers hurtled along at their cruising speed of 175 miles per hour, the pilots handling the huge machines as surely as if they were driving their own cars, with hardly a wiggle in the flight path. The change in the pitch of the rotors, the sinking feeling in Swanson’s stomach, and the pressure in his ears confirmed the beginning of the approach run, and he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Four minutes,” came the warning call from the cockpit.
There were two open hatches near the front of the cabin, and a crew member was at one, perched behind a.50-caliber machine gun. At the three-minute alert, Swanson unplugged his commo line from the net and made his way forward to the second hatch, trying not to step on anyone as he sidled past the small motorcycle lashed in the aisle. The dirt bike was to be used by a scout if the mission commander wanted extended reconnaissance.
A typhoon of wind rushed through the open hatches, blowing hard when he reached the opening and looked out. The darkness had a deep vastness, and a little slice of moon provided the only glimmer of light. He adjusted his night vision goggles and watched the green world pass below him. Swanson was to be the last man to leave the helicopter, remaining out of the way while the other Marines charged out. Positioned in the open hatch, he could provide extra firepower until it was time for him to join them. He plugged the commo line in at the new position in time to hear the pilot say, “One minute.”
Swanson put his hands against the sides of the hatch and shifted his fifty-pound pack and other equipment to be able to sit down. His stubby M-4 assault rifle hung across his chest, and Excalibur crossed his back, safe in its padded bag. With thirty seconds to go, the major ordered, “Stand up! Lock and load!” and the other Marines unbuckled, exchanged their flight helmets for real ones, and formed rows in the narrow aisles.
Kyle removed the night vision goggles, pulled the M-4 into firing position, and put his eye to the scope, which could penetrate the darkness. He could engage with precision shots at up to eight hundred meters and switch to rapid fire if necessary, but he saw nothing of interest. He kept the sight moving, searching for threats as the two aircraft jockeyed for the final descent, sharply reducing their altitude and bleeding off speed.
The rear ramp began to lower and the wind through the chopper increased to gale-force proportions. The tail dipped as the helicopter flared to almost a complete stop in the air, braking its forward momentum less than twenty feet off the ground and barely moving forward. With the
more stable platform, Swanson stood and continued parsing the LZ with his rifle and night scope. Nothing out there.
A loud scream erupted over the crew net. The two helicopters were hanging almost motionless in the air when a freak wall of wind that had swept unimpeded across a hundred miles of desert tore through the LZ and threw the birds together with train-wreck violence. The churning seventy-nine-foot-long rotors chopped like long swords, and both aircraft were instantly out of control, tangling with each other.
The standing Marines went flying and crashing about the spinning cabin like dolls, breaking necks and spines and limbs as the helicopter blades dug through the thin metal sides of the helicopters and went after the men like sharp knives. When his helicopter lurched onto its left side, Swanson was propelled straight out of the open hatch by the centrifugal force, like a piece of trash thrown from a car on a highway. The force of the ejection tore the helmet commo line free to prevent him from being lynched. The M-4 assault rifle snapped from its strap and flew away. His last sensation as his body was pulled into the void was of the cold wind caressing his face. He tumbled toward the desert floor.
CHAPTER 19
SWANSON SLAMMED BELLY first onto the downward sloping side of a small sand dune and skidded, rolled, and bounced over and over before his tumbling body came to a stop at the bottom of the wadi. An explosion that would be heard for miles detonated behind him, and pieces of the disintegrating helicopters whizzed overhead and whiplashed the sands. He lay dazed, almost unconscious, trying to get some air into his lungs.
He lay motionless for about thirty seconds before coming out of his stupor, choking and gasping while his brain reeled and his face felt as if he had been punched by a young Mike Tyson on his best day. He pushed into a sitting position and used two fingers to dig gobs of sand out of his cheeks, then found his canteen and poured water over his face, sluicing it in his mouth and spitting it out. He doused his bandanna with water and rubbed his aching eyes. Blood came away on the cloth, and he explored his face until he found the gash across the bridge of his nose where the helmet had cracked him. In times of dire emergency, he knew, it was best to take a moment to gather his wits before doing anything at all, so he pressed the bandanna against the cut, flopped back against the sand, and took deep breaths, repeating his personal mantra softly: Slow is smooth; smooth is fast.
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