Seal Team Seven (6 page)

“Platoon, this is Blue Five!” Ellsworth's voice snapped over the radio. “I've got movement. Two . . . maybe three hostiles. Bearing one-seven-five, range one-one-zero meters. Near the big hangars.”

Side by side, Cotter and MacKenzie dropped prone, scanning the southern end of the airfield with their NVGs.

“Don't see 'em, Skipper. You?”

“Negative.” Cotter replied. He thumbed his Motorola. “Boomer! This is Papa One! Toss 'em a package, will you? Let's see if they'll party.”

“Sure thing, Skipper. On the way!”

There was a hollow-sounding
thunk
nearby, and the 40mm grenade from Garcia's M203 arced into the shadows, then exploded with a flash and a savage roar. The thin sheet metal of the hangar buckled and tore, and one uniformed body flopped out onto the tarmac in a bloody sprawl. From the other side of the hangar, an assault rifle opened up with the characteristic flat cracking of an AKM, the muzzle flash flickering and stabbing against the shadows.

MacKenzie returned fire with his M-60, sending a burst of green tracers streaking into the night. Someone over there in the shadows shrieked in agony. The 203
thunked
again, and this time the hangar was engulfed in a flaming maelstrom of exploding white phosphorus. Flaming fragments arced across a hundred yards onto the tarmac, streaming contrails of twisting white smoke.

“Nice'n neat with ol' Willie Pete,” Boomer called.

Half of the hangar was burning furiously now. Several Iraqis ran screaming out onto the runway, their uniforms ablaze, only to be put down by sharp, short bursts from the waiting SEALs. The fire revealed a large number of other Iraqis running wildly in the opposite direction, up the hill toward Zabeir, most without rifles, belts, or helmets, many without shirts, a few without clothing.

“I think we popped their barracks,” MacKenzie observed dryly. A trio of armed Iraqis broke across the tarmac, angling toward the Hercules, and he shifted the M-60, then cut them down one, two, three. “Looks like they've decided it's time to
di di mau.”

“Roger that, Mac. Keep knocking 'em down. Our choppers are incoming.”

With a roar, a machine like a huge, metallic dragonfly thundered over the airstrip, the light from the burning hangar glinting from the angled sides of its canopy. Painted dark olive, the aircraft was a U.S. Marine AH-1W SuperCobra, fitted with an infrared night-vision system and an M197 undernose turret.

“Blue Water, Blue Water” sounded over Cotter's air-ground channel. “This is Shotgun One/one. What's going on down there, Navy? Bit off more'n you could chew? Over.”

“That's a negative, One/one,” Cotter replied. “But we do have some unfriendly types who want to party. How about taking down those hangars one hundred meters south of the landing beacons, over.”

“Roger, roger. Never fear, the Marines are here, and the situation is well in hand.” The SuperCobra clattered overhead again, its skids at telephone-pole height above the runway. When the three-barreled 20mm Gatling cannon in its nose turret cut loose, it sounded like the high-pitched rasp of a chain saw. Downrange, sheet-metal hangars, maintenance sheds, and storehouses disintegrated in shrieking storms of whirling fragments.

A second SuperCobra arrived seconds later, call sign Shotgun One/two. The pair split up and began orbiting the SEAL perimeter, flying low both to spook hidden Iraqis into showing themselves and to discourage further attacks on Blue Water. Any Iraqi sniper in the area was going to think twice before opening fire with those birds of prey circling, talons exposed and ready.

The Marine SuperCobras had been stationed on a Marine helicopter carrier, the
Tripoli
, now with II MEF in the Arabian Sea south of Pakistan. As soon as word of the crisis at al-Basra had reached Washington, they'd been directed to hopscotch from the
Tripoli
to al-Masirah to Masqat, then up the Gulf coast to Dubayy to Dahran to al-Kuwayt, refueling at each stop along the way. They were gunships, not transports, their nose cannon, rocket pods, and Hellfire missiles designed to give close support to the troops on the ground.

Half a mile away, a concrete bunker dissolved in orange flame as Shotgun One/two speared it with a Hellfire. The night was bloody with flame and roiling smoke and the thunder of high explosives.

Iraq certainly knew they were at Shuaba now. At this point, the SEALs had scant minutes to extract before the full weight of Saddam's war machine moved to crush them.

Coming in behind the first SuperCobras, and escorted by two more, were three CH-53D Sea Stallions—Cowboy One, Two, and Three—the Marine helicopter transports that would take the SEALs and the rescued UN inspectors to safety. Their unmistakable racket was clattering out of the west now, coming in at treetop height.

“Blue Water, Blue Water” sounded over Cotter's radio. “This is Cowboy. Please authenticate.”

“Boomer!” Cotter yelled. “Pop 'em a six-sixty-two!”

“Roger, boss!” A moment later, Garcia's grenade launcher thumped again, and an M662 red flare popped into gleaming, bloody visibility high overhead, drifting back toward the airfield on its parachute.

“Blue Water, I see a red flare. I'm coming in.”

“Roger that, Cowboy. We're ready to ramble. You should see the beacons any time now.”

“Roger, Blue Water. Beacons in sight. Looks like you boys have a hot LZ down there.”

“We're not taking any fire at the moment, Cowboy. You're clear to land.”

“Copy, Blue Water. We'll send in Cowboy Three first.” One of the Sea Stallions loomed out of the night, huge and noisy.

“Okay!” Cotter called over the platoon channel. “Start sending them out!”

His orders laid down the evacuation procedure. The records from the al-Basra “factory” would go out on the first helo, with the UN inspectors doing the loading while the SEALs held the perimeter. The inspectors would extract on the second helo, and the SEALs on the third. The orders had a certain amount of built-in flexibility. One Sea Stallion could carry up to fifty-five troops and all their gear; if two of the Sea Stallions broke down or were disabled, nineteen ex-hostages and fourteen SEALs, plus the hijacked Iraqi records, could all be easily transported aboard the third helo. One of the lessons learned at Desert One during the failed rescue of the American hostages in Iran was to allow plenty of redundancy in a rescue mission's helicopter assets.

The first Sea Stallion was touching down now, its rotors howling, dust swirling up from the tarmac in a blinding, stinging cloud. Two more CH-53s circled with the gunships, vague yet menacing shadows against the night.

Riad Jasim had never been so terrified in his life, not even when the American B-52s had bombed his encampment in northern Kuwait during the Mother of All Battles, churning up the desert like some monstrous, demonic plow turning the soil. Helicopters clattered and circled, great, evil insects waiting to pounce, and he was convinced that they saw him, they
must
see him, lying here in the open on the control tower walkway. He played dead, praying desperately. The hangars at the south end of the field were blazing furiously, and Jasim knew that the rest of the Republican Guard company that had quartered there was dead or in flight. He was alone, more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

But somehow, somehow he had to do
something
!

Cautiously, Jasim raised his head, peering down over the edge of the tower walkway. . . .

“Let's go! Let's go!” Cotter pumped his arm in an urgent hurry-up as the two Land Rovers rumbled down the rear ramp of the Hercules and onto the tarmac. In single file, the UN inspectors trotted after them, shepherded along by Roselli and Ellsworth. There'd been no further gunfire from the nearby airport buildings for several minutes now, and the other SEALs stood or crouched at various points encircling the C-130, their attention focused on the flame-shot darkness around them.

“Are you in charge here?”

Cotter turned. A slight, bearded man in civilian clothes, khaki slacks and a safari jacket, stood behind him, a briefcase clutched incongruously in one hand.

“What the hell?”

“I gotta talk to you,” the civilian said. The roar from the grounded Sea Stallion was deafening, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I'm Arkin! I imagine you have special orders concerning me!”

Cotter sighed. This must be the spook from the CIA—the intelligence organization the SEALs derisively called Christians In Action. He didn't have time to screw with this shit now.

“Everything is under control, Mr. Arkin,” he said. “If you'll go back with the others and—”

Arkin hefted the briefcase. “I've got important intel here, fella, and it's got to get out right away. I can't wait for the rest of that shit to be loaded on the helicopters.”

“You'll go out with the others on the second helo, Mr. Arkin. You'll go faster if you help your friends load number one.”

“No! I can't wait! I want—”

Cotter reached out and closed his left hand on the front of Arkin's collar, pulling him up on his toes and bringing his face to within inches of his own. “I don't give a fuck
what
you want, mister! Get your ass back with the others, and I mean
now
!”

He released the man with a shove that nearly sent him sprawling. Arkin gaped at Cotter, looked as though he was about to say something more, then apparently thought better of it, shrugged, and turned away. . . .

From his vantage point fifteen meters above the ground, Sergeant Jasim could see the bustle of activity on the runway below. The two Land Rovers were approaching the big helicopter transport, which was squatting now on the runway with its rotors still turning. The UN spies with their blue armbands were trotting along behind their vehicles, as the black-suited commandos in their weird, bug-faced masks stood at the ready, their weapons probing the encircling night. Could they see him? Apparently not. At least they were not shooting at him, but appeared to be simply standing guard, watchful and deadly.

Jasim would get only one good burst from his rifle. He knew and accepted that. But at which target? There were so many.

Visibility was poor with the airport's lights shot out, but there was enough illumination from the burning hangars to reveal two men off to one side of the UN aircraft, obviously engaged in a heated conference. One was dressed like the other commandos in black, anonymous. The other, in light-colored civilian slacks and jacket and a blue armband, was an easy target, and the briefcase he was holding suggested that he might be a man of some importance.

The circling helicopter gunships were farther away now, searching for Jasim's comrades in the surrounding hills. Breathing a final prayer to Allah, Riad Jasim aimed his AKM carefully, taking his time to align the sights as he'd been taught, hold his breath, and slowly squeeze the trigger. . . .

Cotter watched the Agency spook stalk back toward the line of UN people still emerging from the Hercules. The self-important little bastard would probably file a report back at Langley, contending that he'd not received the necessary cooperation from the SEAL platoon tasked with extracting him.

Screw him. Cotter had gone rounds with the Agency's Christians before, and the exchange had never been pleasant. . . .

He caught the wink of a full-auto muzzle flash in the corner of his eye, felt rather than heard the savage snap of bullets cleaving the air inches above his head. Arkin was ten feet away, his back to the SEAL lieutenant, completely unaware that they were being shot at. Without thinking, Cotter launched himself forward, tackling the CIA man from behind just as the unseen gunner corrected his aim. Arkin
oofed
as he went down hard beneath the SEAL and the briefcase skittered loose across the tarmac.

Something slammed into Cotter's side, then his right arm, then his back, the impacts painless but savagely hard, like hammer blows. For a dazed moment, he didn't know where he was. Why was he on his back, on the ground? . . .

Roselli had seen the Lieutenant knock the UN guy flat, then seen Cotter plucked from the man's back by an unseen hand and rolled off onto the tarmac. He'd not heard the gunshots above the roar of the helicopter, but he could tell from the way the Lieutenant had been thrown that they'd come from high up and
that
way, from the top of the terminal building tower.

He cut loose with a long burst from his MP5, screaming “Cover! Cover! Sniper on the tower!” as loud as he could. Other SEALs reacted in the same instant. MacKenzie sent a stream of green tracers slashing through the terminal's windows, and then Garcia's M203 spoke, slamming a 40mm grenade into the tower walkway, where it detonated with a flash and a bang and a sparkling shower of steel fragments and broken glass. Bodies . . . no,
pieces
of bodies spun lazily through the air, accompanied by an avalanche of shattered bricks and concrete.

Roselli was beside the Lieutenant in a second, crouching over him. “L-T! L-T! Can you hear me?” Oh, God, his blacks were sticky with blood. Shit, shit,
shit
! Where was all the damned blood coming from? The Skipper was wearing a Kevlar bullet-proof combat vest, of course, but it looked like he'd taken a round in the right shoulder. That was okay . . . sure. A ticket home and his arm in a sling, but he'd be up and back in full working mode in a few weeks, just like in the fucking movies. . . .