Gauntlet (12 page)

Richard bolted outside just in time to hear the sharp cracks of three rifle shots, and, almost simultaneously, another massive thud as a third RPG hit the fuel dump, causing further explosions in the area where Payton and his men had taken cover. It was a horrific scene. Thompson had been inside the second chopper when it was hit, and was killed instantly. Three of the men had been grievously wounded by the force of the explosion, and two more had died immediately in the fuel dump explosion. There seemed to be bodies everywhere, and they were all American. All men that Richard had talked to only moments before.

The two attackers on the terminal roof had been killed by return fire, but that was small consolation. The Americans were without helicopters, without communication, without medicine, and probably without water, in the burning heat of the northern Sahel.

Clinton and Payton were looking after two of the soldiers who had been burned in the explosion. The third wounded man had already succumbed to his injuries. That meant that a total of four were already dead. Two were wounded and possibly dying. There were only four of them left to fight. Two Navy. One Army. One CIA. Things were not looking good.

“Payton, I’m going to see if there’s any water or first aid inside the terminal. Why don’t you move these two fellows inside.” Richard had seen his share of battle, but mostly from the sky. He knew about battlefield injuries, and had trained for this, but close up, the carnage and the moans of the two wounded men were horrific. He was fighting the impulse to vomit.

Payton yelled for Clinton to assist him, and they carried the two burned soldiers toward the terminal. As he was about to cross the doorstep, Payton saw dust clouds along the southern horizon.

“We’re not done with these guys yet, Richard!” he yelled.

Richard followed his gaze and saw the growing dust trails. He knew what they meant. “How long do you think?” he asked.

“Ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

“Any place here where we can mount any kind of defense?” asked Richard.

“Doubt it,” Payton replied. He had just lost four of his men, and two more were badly injured. Although he was highly trained, he felt himself to be on the verge of shock. Reinforcements were coming, but for the wrong side. “If we stay in the terminal, they’ll just lob another dozen RPG’s in there until we’re Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or pick us off when we come running out. I think we’re done.”

At that point Richard realized that he still had his Sat-phone. “Maybe we can buy some time,” he suggested. “Let’s see if I can get through to the
Theodore Roosevelt
on this.” He dialed Baxter, and got through on the first ring.

“Robert, we’ve been attacked. Four of our guys are dead, two wounded. And the locals have reinforcements coming,” he said. “Can you put me through to the Teddy Roosevelt?”

“Jesus,” replied Baxter. “I can switch the call. But I’m going to stay on the line.” He immediately connected the call to the bridge of the huge carrier, and from there to Captain Dick Sebatier, commander of the four Super Hornets already screaming toward Yarim-Dhar at 1,300 miles per hour. “Richard, you’re on,” he shouted, to start the call.

Richard took a deep breath. “This is Richard Lawrence, CIA. We’ve been attacked at the Yarim-Dhar airstrip. We have four dead and two wounded. There are four of us left to fight. The bad guys are sending reinforcements in trucks. It looks like they’re about 15 minutes away.”

“We’re stepping on the gas, up here, Richard. We have four Super Hornets, but we’re 20 minutes out. Maybe a titch more. We’re maxed out at Mach 1.7. You guys have got to hang on.” This came from the commander of the planes.

Richard turned to his colleagues. “The Super Hornets are on their way. Twenty minutes, they said. Maybe a bit more.”

“Dammit, Richard,” said Payton. “Those trucks are only 15 minutes away. We’re deep in the glue here. I don’t think we’re going to make it that long.”

Richard wasn’t so ready to throw in the towel. He didn’t know if they were going to be able to get out of this, but giving up and accepting a fiery death in the middle of the desert wasn’t high on his list of life priorities. “Maybe we can buy another five minutes or so. I have a plan,” he said slowly, still thinking. He laid it out, and it was quickly critiqued and improved by the others. Then they set about putting it into motion.

While the situation was unfolding in Darfur, Baxter patched the DDCI into the telephone link. With the clicking of a few more keys on Admiral Jackson’s phone, the President’s office was connected as well. One ring and the call was picked up; within a matter of seconds, the President himself was given the telephone. It was still early morning in Washington, and he was reviewing the PDB with his senior staff. Thanks to the switching capabilities of the military, Richard’s Sat-phone call now had the attention of the President, his Chief of Staff, the DDCI, Baxter, the bridge of the
Theodore Roosevelt,
and Captain Sebatier. All were listening with growing trepidation, powerless to do anything but wait.

As the seconds ticked on, Admiral Jackson outlined the situation for the President. “We’ve already encroached on Sudan’s airspace with the two Night Hawks, sir. And we are now moments away from doing the same with the Super Hornets. We should call the Sudanese ambassador and brief him on this.”

“Fuck Sudan,” answered the President. “Those guys have been sending terrorists our way for more than a decade now. This was al-Qaeda’s home turf for years. If they want to take on our F-18’s, they’re welcome to. It’s about time it was a fair fight, I’d say.”

“What should the press release say, sir?” asked Jane van Buren, his principal press secretary. “The world doesn’t know about the missing Semtex yet. They’ll wonder what a bunch of Navy boys are doing in the middle of the Sahara. There are no ships out there.”

“Let’s think about that later. In the meantime, I’m not going to deprive any of our boys of the protection they deserve. Have the Super Hornets go full tilt. Hang in there, Lawrence, my boy,” said the President. “Hang in there.”

T
HE SEVEN VEHICLES slid to a stop in front of the terminal. To one side, the wreckage of the two helicopters still burned. The fuel dump had been completely obliterated. The dust clouds kicked up by the trucks mingled with the smoke of the dying fires in and around the helicopters. The only sound was that of the desert wind, and the crackling of a few flames from one of the destroyed Night Hawks. Nothing moved for a full 30 seconds. Then the leader barked a sharp command, and crews from four of the vehicles disembarked and entered the terminal.

Richard, McMurray, Clinton, and Payton lay buried under the sand in a small dip approximately 100 feet in front of the terminal. Their four dead comrades were prominently displayed in the vicinity of the ruined helicopters; it was a chore they had all had found repugnant, but necessary. The two wounded men were even further behind them, also hidden by sand, a chore that had been even more disturbing.

Richard had clambered up the little ladder inside the terminal and found that, as he had suspected, there was one RPG left — the accurate return fire provided by Payton and Clinton had prevented its launching. There was also one barrel of fuel that had not exploded, having been knocked away from the conflagration by the force of the explosion. McMurray, with his vast experience in explosives, had instructed the men on just how it was to be positioned. And then they had waited.

Now Payton initiated the silent count. Richard held his breath. This would be the moment of truth. On cue, the four rose as one. McMurray fired the RPG through an open window in the terminal. At the same instant, three rifles cracked. All three of the terrorist gunners fell, their bodies sprawling across the large-caliber machine guns mounted on the truck decks. Richard, whose bullet was meant for the driver, noticed sourly that he was the only one who had missed and hit the wrong man.

The terminal exploded when the RPG hit, propelling a number of bodies outward, one going spectacularly through the terminal wall. The quiet scene turned instantly into pandemonium. All the available AK-47’s started firing in their direction. Richard knew that they had to capitalize on the element of surprise, or all would be lost. Three more of the Bedouin warriors were quickly taken down, but McMurray was nicked by return fire. That left three of them still able to fight. Three against a good seven or eight, with no cover, and no room to maneuver.

The leader barked a series of orders.

“What’s he saying?” asked Payton.

“He told them to get behind the trucks! He says there’s only a couple of us and they can pick us off easy! Wish I could tell you that he was saying ’run,’ but that’d be a lie!” yelled Richard. He had to shout to be heard above the noise of the burning wreckage, gunfire, and explosions, adding stress to an already bad situation. He turned to McMurray. “How’re you doing, Sergeant?” he asked the wounded man.

“Took a shot in my right arm. Just a flesh wound, but it’s my shooting arm. I can’t help you guys right now,” answered McMurray.

“Great. Three of us, and Richard, dammit kid, you need more training,” groaned Payton. All of them were envisioning scenes of American soldiers being dragged through East African village streets.

Richard saw that the leader was loading another RPG into his launcher. The Thuraya telephone was still with him, and still on.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Big Jack.

“We surprised them. We fired an RPG into a gas drum in the terminal just as the bastards were entering it. We’ve killed or disabled about half of them. The rest are regrouping. They’re getting behind their trucks. I can see at least one RPG launcher from here. They’ve got the high ground now. Where the fuck are those planes?” snapped Richard.

“We’re two minutes away,” said Sebatier over the communications link. “Look, we’ve got all kinds of armaments here. We’ve got Sidewinders. We’ve got AMRAAM’s, we’ve got Vulcan Canon. But how far are you from the enemy?”

“About 70 or 80 feet,” said Richard, quickly realizing the problem Sebatier and the other pilots were facing.

“This is not going to work. If we fire anything, you guys are at risk. We’re a minute away, but if we let go with missiles, if we fire anything, we’ll take you out with the bad guys,” said Sebatier. “You’ll be nailed by friendly fire.”

“Here’s what we do,” said Richard, “and we’ve got to do it fast. You’re coming up behind the terminal. The bandits are in front of the terminal and we’re on the other side of them. The four of you will make one hell of a racket if you go over the terminal at Mach 1.7. How low can you fly?”

“Well, it ain’t responsible flying, but the landscape is pretty flat. We can get down to 50 feet or so,” Sebatier answered.

“Do it,” said Richard, as he watched the leader of the Bedouin group casually attach a grenade to the end of his RPG launcher. “For God’s sake, do it now! Go max speed! Do it now!”

Richard quickly explained what was going on to Payton, Clinton, and McMurray. “Cover your ears, boys. In less than 20 seconds we’re getting four Super Hornets low and at Mach 1.7. The bandits here will tip over with the sound and surprise of it, and then we go for them. The trick will be to cover your ears, and then pick up your rifles the instant the sonic boom passes over us. They’ll be temporarily deafened and confused. They won’t hear our rifle shots.”

Major Payton saw them first. Four dots on the horizon, coming up behind the smoldering terminal. The terrorist leader was still smirking, slowly bringing his RPG launcher level with the ground. He obviously thought he had the Americans where he wanted them, and was looking forward to the imminent carnage.

“About ten seconds, guys,” Payton said, watching the robed warrior casually poke around the corner of one of the Jeeps with his fully loaded RPG launcher. “Nine, eight...”

At that instant, Richard, even with his less-than-perfect vision, saw them. The four Super Hornets were growing shapes low on the horizon, behind the terminal, moving at an incredible rate of speed. On the ground, the Arab leader of the group was serenely taking aim, smiling. He was the picture of arrogance, smirking with perceived victory, and utterly oblivious to the four F-18’s bearing down in the sky behind him.

Suddenly an ear-splitting roar shattered the still desert air. Payton, McMurray, Clinton, and Richard had their guns down and fingers tightly stuck in their ears when the Super Hornets screamed by. They were less than 50 feet above the desert sands — a high-risk maneuver allowed only because of the desperate situation. They were so low that a long wake of sand kicked up from the desert floor as they flew over. The sonic boom that followed was so powerful that what was left of the burning terminal shuddered and collapsed. The Darfur warriors were completely unprepared for the incredible scream of eight General Electric F414 engines, each one generating more than 40,000 pounds of thrust. They dropped their weapons. One panicked and ran. The leader looked instantly upward, which exposed his face to the full force of the sonic blast. Payton and his men were ready. All took aim and fired, and then fired again. The ear-shattering force of the sonic boom had temporarily robbed the desert bandits of their hearing, as planned, and they did not hear the rifle shots. They saw their friends falling dead, struck by unheard and unknown weapons, and were frozen in place. Within ten seconds it was over. All the enemy warriors were dead.

“Did you get that, Mr. President?” asked Richard. “That’s what our fly-boys sound like at Mach 1.7.” He relayed what had occurred to those listening to the call, holding the phone so that the rest of his crew could listen in.

Captain Sebatier came back on the line. “Two more Night Hawks are on their way. They should be at the airstrip to pick you up in 15 minutes.”

“Thanks, guys. We’ve got wounded to look after,” said Payton. “By the way, Captain, that was one hell of a fly move. You should try that over the Potomac sometime.”

“Hell, let’s do it over the Hudson or LA. That was a blast,” replied Sebatier.

With that, the battle of Yarim-Dhar was over. The rush of victory abated as Richard saw the four dead, and the two wounded. They won, all right. Some victory, though. He could already feel the omnipresent headache increasing.