Z: The Final Countdown

by Bob Mayer

  They carefully edged their way out of the destroyed power plant. “This country has been on an economic slide since the Portuguese pulled out in 1975,” Brewster said. “Angola lost a high percentage of their professional work force and foreign capital when independence was granted. Then add in twenty years of civil war. Railways and roads destroyed; crops burned in the fields; the men to work those fields carrying guns instead of hoes; the executions of those few professionals left by both sides because the intelligentsia is always viewed as a threat.

  “The oil, diamond, and iron industries, the backbone of the Angolan economy, have been devastated by the war. It’s hard to attract foreign companies when there is always the threat that their investment is going to get destroyed in the next government or guerrilla offensive. Stability is key for growth, and it’s the most important factor missing in the Angolan economy.”

  Conner glanced at Seeger, who was panning over this section of town, capturing the shacks and war-ravaged buildings. She was impressed and realized Riley was right: this would make a good, in-depth story. She was particularly caught by Brewster. The way he knew his subject matter and also the sense that he really did care about what he saw here.

  At the Angolan army headquarters, Major Gungue was not impressed with Sergeant Ku’s muttered pleas to be released from duty. Granted, the sergeant did not look very well. In fact, he looked downright bad. Ku’s face was puffy and his eyes were red. His words were barely audible and he did not make much sense. He was sweating profusely and he said something about vomiting a lot.

  But Gungue had seen troops drink hydraulic fluid in attempts to get themselves sick enough to avoid going into combat. Ku getting excused from duty would start an epidemic of “illness” among Gungue’s soldiers. He could not allow that.

  Besides, if he allowed Ku to get out of working with the Americans, it would look bad. He gruffly ordered the sergeant to return to duty. He wasn’t quite sure if Ku understood him or not as the man shuffled out the door, but the important thing was the other soldiers around the headquarters had seen that such malingering was not to be tolerated.

  Airspace, Northeast Angola, 15 June

  “Cruiser One, this is Eagle. Returning control to you. Over.”

  Vickers’s gloved hands took the controls. “I’ve got control. Over.”

  “We’re still picking up FM radios in the area you’re now on top of. Over.”

  “Checking it out. Wait one. Break. Chandler, you stay up here. Over.”

  Her wingman replied. “Roger that. Out.”

  Vickers banked and descended. The terrain below was rolling grassland, with heavy vegetation in some of the low area between the rounded ridges. It was also dotted with clumps of trees, any of which could be hiding UNITA forces.

  Vickers spotted a flash of light and turned toward it. She saw the cause immediately: the sun had reflected off a windshield. A pickup truck was racing across the open grass heading from one clump of trees to another, a machine gun clearly visible in the bed.

  “I’ve got a target. Am engaging. Over.” Vickers slowed down nearly to stall speed and armed her 20mm cannon. It almost didn’t seem sporting to run it down like this, she thought as the distance rapidly closed.

  “You’ve got multiple launches!” Chandler screamed in her ear.

  At the same moment her missile alert light went on and a tone sounded in her headphones. Missiles were locked on to her. She jerked hard right, and kicked in thrust. A missile flashed by to her right. She jigged back left and rolled the plane onto its left side. Another SAM went by, just narrowly missing the belly of the plane. She leveled out and felt the plane shudder; the instrument panel went berserk as a third missile hit.

  “I’ve got a fire warning light!” Vickers called out. She was reacting even as she radioed the situation to Chandler. Hours upon hours of training had imprinted the proper sequence. Her hands flew over the controls. “What do you see, Chandler?” she asked.

  Her wingman was still watching out for her “You’ve got fire!” he yelled into the radio. “Punch out! Punch out!”

  Vickers hit her ejection lever and was out into the air, her body slammed down into the seat by the powerful rockets that separated her from her plane. The chair fell away and her chute blossomed open. She twisted her head and watched her F-18 blossom into flame and explode.

  It was only then, on her way down to the earth below, that emotion kicked in. Shit, she cursed to herself. She’d lost her plane.

  Cacolo, Angola, 15 June

  “To top it all,” Brewster said, “we’re not helping much right now. The bridge we blew yesterday cut the main road out of Saurimo to the north. It was necessary militarily, but...” He paused. “Well, let me put it this way. In Special Forces, every time we look at a target, we engineers do what we call a CARVE formula on it. That stands for criticality, accessibility, recuperability, vulnerability, and effect of target destruction on the local area. The last one, E, is an important factor. When you go around blowing things up, you do more than simply destroy a military target. You affect the people living in the area for years.

  “The only good side to all this is that once we get the rebels’ forces destroyed, we can go in and rebuild. If the government doesn’t pull us out before we get enough time to make the changes stick, we can help get this country back on its feet. We can rebuild that bridge. The power plant. Pave roads.”

  Comsky cut in. “That’s if the people here want the change, and a better question is, if there are any people left.”

  “What do you mean?” Conner asked.

  Comsky took a deep breath, then launched into his favorite topic. “The health standards here are—” He paused as Sergeant Lome sprinted around the corner.

  “Let’s go, Comsky. We’ve got a pilot down!”

  Riley had Seeger and his camera waiting at the Black Hawk. The blades were already turning as Conner and Comsky jumped on board, joining Ku, Lome, Tiller, and Oswald. Riley didn’t like the way the Angolan sergeant looked. The man had his head leaned back against the webbing behind his seat and he appeared out of it. His eyelids were droopy and what Riley could see of the man’s eyes was red and puffy.

  But Riley didn’t have time for Ku. He pulled on a set of headphones and listened in as Lome and the helicopter pilots coordinated with the AWACS flying.

  Eight thousand feet and to the southwest, Colonel Harris was juggling several glass balls.

  “Okay, Vickers, give me an update,” he said calmly.

  The pilot’s voice was weak. The survival radio she was talking on didn’t have the greatest power, but Harris was afraid there was more to the lack of radio strength.

  “I’m down. I think I broke my right ankle. I can’t move it. Just before I landed I spotted several vehicles moving around. Coming out of the trees. The whole thing was an ambush to draw me down into missile range. Over.”

  “All right. I’ve got help on the way,” Harris said. “Stay on the air. We’ll get you out of there.”

  “Roger.”

  Harris grabbed another mike. “Cruiser Two, this is Eagle. What do you see? Over.”

  Lieutenant Chandler’s voice came in much stronger. “There’s some vehicles moving toward my One’s position. Over.”

  “How long until they’re at her position? Over.”

  “Uh, I’d say about five minutes. Over.”

  “Take them out,” Harris ordered.

  “Roger that. Out.”

  “Be careful. Remember, they still have missiles. Over.”

  Harris took a deep breath. An F-18 was not exactly the greatest ground support jet. It moved too fast. Some of those vehicles would get through. Plus, he might end up losing the second F-18. The whole thing probably had been a setup. Sucking them in with the FM radios, the one truck in the open, and then ambush from other vehicles hidden in the trees. In Mogadishu the natives had quickly learned how to draw in helicopters and destroy them, and now it appeared in Angola they were learning to do t
he same with fast moving jets.

  Harris checked his board, searching for any A-10s that might be in the air. Nothing. They were all down, refueling and rearming from the early-morning missions. By the time he got one up and in the air, and then counting flight time from Namibia... Scratch that option, Harris decided.

  A radar operator turned from his screen to Harris. “Rescue One is up, sir.” Harris had implemented an alert plan as soon as Cruiser Two had called in the F-18 going down. They’d located the closest Special Forces unit to the crash site and ordered them into action.

  “Rescue One, this is Eagle. You’ve got one pilot down. Injured. We have bad guys in the area. Her wingman is going hunting, but some of them are probably going to get through. They’re about five minutes out from the pilot.” Harris looked down at his display. “I have you with an ETA of… twelve minutes. We’re going to try and slow them down. Over.”

  A deep, steady voice with blades thumping in the background replied. “Roger that, Eagle. This is Rescue One. We’ll take care of this. Give me the pilot’s freq and call sign. Over.”

  As Harris relayed the information, he felt a surge of affection for whoever that voice belonged to. He’d heard about what had happened in Mogadishu years previously when those helicopters had gone down in the streets and Army Special Operators—Rangers, Special Forces, and Delta Force people—had gone in against all odds to pull the pilots out. There had been only two Medals of Honor awarded since the end of the Vietnam War and both had gone to Delta Force operatives who had gone in—knowing the odds were two against hundreds—to secure one of the downed choppers.

  But those awards had been posthumous, and that was one thing Harris didn’t want to see happen here. He looked at the situation board and noticed an aircraft listed on station over Luanda. Exactly what he needed. “Get me Spectre Four.”

  Riley heard Lome order the radios switched over to the pilot’s survival radio frequency, then the team sergeant handed a headset to the medic on board. “Pilot’s down and hurt, Comsky. You’d better talk to him. Call sign is Cruiser One.”

  Comsky settled the cups over his ears. He keyed the radio. “Cruiser One, this is your help. We’re en route to your location. Talk to me, buddy. Over.”

  They were all startled when a woman’s voice replied. “This is Cruiser One. Good to hear your voice. Over.”

  “I’m a medic,” Comsky said. “Describe your injuries and I’ll have the aspirin ready when we land. Over.”

  Lieutenant Chandler was doing his best, but he only had so much ordnance. He had taken out three pickup trucks. The others had caught on and were laying low, scooting from one clump of trees to another. He solved that problem twice by simply taking out the entire clump of trees. He was gaining Vickers time, but that ate up the ordnance under his wings.

  As he swooped out of another gun-run, his missile warning light went on, but he was prepared. He kicked in his afterburners and corkscrewed away, evading the missile.

  Conner screamed as Sergeant Ku leaned forward and a stream of black-and-red liquid spilled out his mouth all over her and onto the seats of the helicopter. Ku’s chest was rising and falling, his breath rattling loud enough to be heard.

  Riley unbuckled her seat belt and pulled her out of the way. He slid in next to Ku and checked the man’s pulse, ignoring the viscous material covering everything. His first instinct was that Ku had been shot through the lungs—how, he didn’t know—maybe a random round from the ground. From the amount of blood, it was the only thing that made sense. Riley ripped off Ku’s gear, tearing his shirt open.

  Leaning against the back wall of the chopper, Seeger was filming the entire thing.

  Lieutenant Vickers watched Chandler kick in afterburners and evade the missile. She was lying in two-foot-high grass on the side of a gentle swell in a large open area. There were scattered groups of trees in all directions. She’d disconnected her parachute and the breeze had blown the green cloth away to the south. She was seated, one leg extended straight out, the other tucked underneath to support herself. In her right hand she held her 9mm pistol, ready for action. She knew that in this type of terrain, someone with a rifle could pick her off well before they came within pistol range. She held the survival radio in her left hand.

  The radio hissed. “Is it a compound fracture? Over.”

  Vickers looked down at her straight leg. “I don’t see any bone.” She put the pistol down and felt the ankle. “I don’t feel anything sticking out. I just can’t move it. Over.”

  “Roger. Any other injuries? Over.”

  She thought she heard a truck engine off to the north. “Nothing serious. But if you don’t get here soon, I anticipate some more serious ones. Over.”

  On the Black Hawk, Comsky was still talking to the pilot as he joined Riley. They were manhandling the sergeant, searching for a wound, but there was nothing.

  “Three minutes out!” Lome screamed at them. “What’s wrong with him?” he added, pointing at Ku.

  “I don’t know,” Riley said.

  “Fuck,” Lome said. “I need all the bodies I can get on the ground.”

  Riley picked up Ku’s M-16. “I’ll take his place.”

  Lome looked at Riley for a second, then nodded. “All right. Tell your camera friend and the lady to stay on the bird. We want to go in and get out fast.”

  The radio broke in on their conversation. “Uh, Rescue One, this is Cruiser One. How far out are you guys? Over.” The woman’s voice was flat, but they could read the undercurrents.

  “Two minutes,” Comsky said, slamming Ku back against the wall and tightening down the man’s seat buckle. “Hang tough. We’ll be there. Over.” Comsky cut off the radio and pointed at Ku. “He isn’t hit. Must be sick. Nothing we can do for him now. Just leave him.”

  “Roger,” Vickers replied. She released the transmit button and spoke to herself. “Two minutes. I guess I’ll wait. I’ve got nothing better to do.” She could see men running through the grass to her right, about two hundred yards away. She twisted her head, but the rising ground blocked her view to the rear. She checked her pistol one more time. Her heart lifted when she heard the distinctive thump of helicopter blades.

  “It’s a hot LZ,” the pilot of the Black Hawk announced.

  “All right,” Lome replied, sliding back the bolt on his weapon.

  “No,” the pilot said. “I mean it’s hot. Missiles and heavy-caliber machine gun hot. If those guys took down an F-18, they got some heavy shit. I don’t want to hang around. In and out. Fast.”

  “Just get us there,” Lome said.

  Riley pulled back the charging handle on Ku’s M-16, making sure there was a round in the chamber. He looked at Conner, who was covered in red. She was trying to clean some of it off with a rag. “Stay on the helicopter! Keep Seeger on board.”

  She nodded.

  “Thirty seconds!” Lome yelled.

  A string of bright green spots flashed by the helicopter. The door gunners replied with their M-60s, sending red tracers back at the source of the green in a grove of trees.

  Riley felt his stomach muscles tighten. The ground came rushing up. He grabbed hold of a strap and leaned out. He could see the pilot lying on the ground, firing away with a pistol. Riley followed her aim and spotted the figures of three men in camouflage moving through the grass.

  At that moment a ball of fire came out of the midst of the three men. “RPG!” Riley yelled.

  The helicopter pilot tried turning at the last second. It was too late. The RPG rocket tore into the helicopter, to the rear of the cargo compartment, and exploded, severing all the controls leading to the rear rotor disk and stabilizer. Fortunately, they had just been about to land and their altitude was only twenty feet. The Black Hawk slammed into the ground, the wheels buckling as they’d been designed, taking up much of the impact along with the left front of the bird, the copilot dying instantly as the instrument panel crumpled into his chest.

  Riley’s grip was torn fr
om the strap and he was thrown onto the ground. He lay stunned for a second, then rolled and came up on one knee, the stock of his weapon tight against his shoulder. He was disoriented momentarily. He heard people yelling behind him and the sound of gunfire.

  A stream of tracers oriented him. He fired three rounds into the men who had fired the RPG. A heavy roar just over his left shoulder joined his firing and the three men wilted under the fire, their bodies jolting from the impact of the bullets.

  Riley ceased firing and slowly lowered his weapon. He looked left. Lome had one of the door M-60s cradled in his large hands. The team sergeant put the gun down and turned back to the helicopter. Riley joined him.

  “Rescue One is down,” Colonel Harris said in a flat voice. He was listening to four different frequencies in his headset. “Pilot reports they’re on the ground and have a secure perimeter. One dead.” Harris’s eyes flashed at the Plexiglas status board to his right, where an enlisted man stood on the other side, writing different notations in grease pencil backward, so that they appeared correctly to Harris.

  “All right, Rescue One. Hang tight. I’ve got people moving.” He switched frequencies and his tone changed, snapping out orders in a voice that brooked no questions.

  * * *

  Lome had Tiller and Oswald along with the two uninjured crewmen in a tight perimeter around the crash site. Riley could see that Comsky was busy, so he stood at the medic’s shoulder and assisted. Besides the jet pilot’s leg, the surviving helicopter pilot was bleeding from a gash across his forehead where his helmet visor had shattered. He had pulled out his headset and was staying in contact with the AWACS on the aircraft’s SATCOM radio. The other pilot’s body was still inside the aircraft. And then there was Sergeant Ku, lying where they’d carried him, unconscious.

  “How is she?” Riley asked Comsky, who had cut open the leg of Vickers’s flight suit.