The Alexandria Connection (12 page)

O
’Connor struggled with the controls of the stricken Gulfstream. A loud warning tone sounded and both master warning glare-shield switches illuminated. The left fire handle also illuminated and the solenoid popped it from its stowed position. O’Connor glanced at the rest of the gauges and swore. The left fuel-control switch was illuminated, and a ‘left engine fire’ message had appeared on the crew alert display.

O’Connor rotated the left fire handle to the first of the discharge positions and called the tower. ‘Bagram Tower, this is Hopi One Four, we’re taking ground fire, pilot deceased, co-pilot is lapsing in and out of consciousness. Request emergency fire crews, port engine on fire, over.’

‘Bagram Tower, copied, traffic is Night Thruster Two airborne three miles to the north, one one eight decimal fife.’

Sounds like it’s all in a day’s work for those guys, O’Connor thought ruefully. He glanced at the co-pilot. Spalding was slumped in his seat but he’d regained consciousness, and O’Connor switched to the intercom.

‘Talk me down, Brad,’ he said calmly. O’Connor had done some flying with the Marines, but he was by no means a pilot. He concentrated on maintaining a glide path. ‘We’ve got a fire in the port engine. I’ve activated the fire handle, but the warning lights are still on.’

Spalding nodded. The three-beep warning tone was filling the cockpit.

‘Hit the discharge two position on the left fire handle.’ Spalding was almost as calm as O’Connor, his training kicking in. ‘That’ll activate the other bottle in the engine nacelle.’

O’Connor reached for the handle on the cockpit centre pedestal, and the warnings ceased, but both men knew they were now flying on one engine and the aircraft had rolled toward the dead one.

‘Use the rudder to counter the yaw, and keep it below 200 knots,’ Spalding directed, pointing to the airspeed indicator. ‘Flaps eight degrees.’

‘Eight degrees.’ O’Connor reached for the selector and set it.

‘We’re going to be crabbing sideways on to the runway, so you will have to aim off to the right and straighten at the last moment. Bring the power off a fraction . . . we want 180 knots.’ Spalding’s voice quavered as he fought to retain consciousness. ‘Flaps twenty degrees,’ he croaked.

‘Flaps twenty.’

‘Extend the landing gear.’ Three green lights lit up, indicating the landing gear was locked.

‘Landing gear down,’ O’Connor confirmed. At least that was working, he thought, grimly concentrating on getting the Gulfstream down in one piece.

‘Increase power . . . maintain 140 knots, flaps 40 degrees, maintain 700 feet per minute descent.’

O’Connor checked the altimeter, lowered the flaps a further 20 degrees and eased the starboard throttle lever forward. He glanced at Spalding, but the co-pilot had lost consciousness again.

‘Guess you’re on your own, buddy,’ O’Connor muttered. The ‘piano keys’ on the threshold were fast approaching and O’Connor could see the emergency fire trucks, their lights flashing either side of the runway. He switched focus from the runway to the instruments and back again. The threshold flashed past slightly to port, and at 50 feet he brought the starboard thrust lever to idle, straightened the aircraft and held the nose elevation. The aircraft slammed on to the runway, blowing a tyre, but O’Connor held the nose until it came down as the lift decreased. He immediately pushed the brakes on the rudder pedals, deployed the spoilers, applied reverse thrust and countered with nose wheel steering as the blown tyre and single engine thrust threatened to slew the aircraft. The plane slowed and when it reached 60 knots, O’Connor lowered the spoilers, but as he disengaged reverse thrust a heavy machine gun opened up from beyond the far runway threshold. Two fifty-calibre rounds shattered the cockpit windscreen, missing the co-pilot and O’Connor by centimetres.

O’Connor calmly dialled up the fire control frequency for the drone crew in Nevada. ‘Night Thruster Two, this is Hopi One Four, taking fire from beyond the northern threshold, over.’

Captain Rogers banked the Predator drone gently so as to not lose control, mindful of the fractional delay of satellite transmissions between Creech and his aircraft airborne over Afghanistan. He headed south, back toward Bagram, scanning the villages to the north of the airfield.

‘Bottom left of screen!’ Major Crowe exclaimed. The intelligence analyst, call sign Sentinel, had detected two men firing what looked to be a vehicle-mounted weapon from the cover of a small village.

‘Possible new target, designate one zero, white pickup truck beside mud hut.’

‘Pilot copied.’

‘Sensor copied.’ The tight-knit crew calmly and deliberately prepared to attack. ‘I’ve got him.’ Sergeant Michelle Brady adjusted the cross hairs onto the target. The two al Qaeda operatives, she knew, would have no idea they were in her infrared and laser sights. The small drones could be neither seen nor heard from the ground. It was the weapon the terrorists feared most.

Major Crowe scanned the village for movement. Satisfied there was none, he gave clearance to lock on to the target. ‘You’re cleared to lock on to Target One Zero.’

‘Pilot, copied.’

‘Sensor, copied. Code?’

‘Pilot – entered.’

‘Sensor, weapon power?’

‘Pilot, on.’ Together, Rogers and Brady went through their well-worn procedures to ensure the AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface missile would lock on to the target and find it.

‘Sentinel, confirm your weapon configuration.’

‘Pilot, four missiles.’

Major Crowe made a final check of the area for any sign of other movement. Satisfied the area was still clear, he authorised engagement. ‘Sentinel, you’re clear to engage the pickup, Target One Zero, at your discretion.’

‘Pilot, cleared to engage pickup truck. Arm the laser.’

‘Sensor, laser armed . . . lasing.’

‘Within range . . . three, two, one. Rifle!’ Captain Rogers fired one of his Hellfire missiles, and almost immediately, two small boys riding pushbikes came into view, heading toward the pickup.

‘Oh no!’ Michelle Brady gasped involuntarily. Like Captain Rogers, she had two small boys of her own. The drone crew watched helplessly as the missile of death, travelling at over 400 metres a second, silently approached the target. To try to divert it might cause even more casualties. The control screen pixelated as the missile unerringly found its target and the pickup exploded in a ball of flame and smoke. Brady saw what she thought was a pushbike arc into the night air. Captain Rogers continued to circle over the target, numbed by what he had seen unfold on the screen.

‘It’s no one’s fault,’ Major Crowe said finally, breaking the silence that had descended over the control cockpit, ‘we did everything we could. It’s the ugliness of war,’ he added, cursing the terrorists who so often took refuge among innocent villagers, or in mosques, and in the process ignoring the Qu’ran, which forbade fighting in places of worship.

The briefing room at Bagram had been secured, and O’Connor flicked on the classified satellite images.

Neither the commanding general in Afghanistan nor Special Operations Command had been amused, but when the president’s chief of staff leant on them, they had no choice but to allow O’Connor overall command of the operation in the notorious Korengal Valley, a valley that had seen more action than any other part of Afghanistan; but at the tactical level on the ground, the four assigned members of SEAL team six were more than happy. O’Connor’s reputation preceded him, and they had worked with him before, as had the other four handpicked members of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, all veterans of the hunt for Osama bin Laden. They knew the Hindu Kush well.

‘When we withdrew from the Korengal Valley, al Qaeda and the Taliban were given free reign,’ O’Connor began, letting his laser pointer rest where the Korengal Outpost had once stood in a dusty abandoned timber yard on the side of a steep mountain. ‘But not before more than thirty Americans gave their lives, including, as you’re only too well aware, many of our own Special Forces. The Chinook from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment was shot down here,’ O’Connor said, pointing to an area to the east of the valley. ‘But it was flying near its ceiling, so we suspect the Taliban or al Qaeda, or both, have somehow obtained surface-to-air missiles.’ O’Connor didn’t elaborate. The possible loss of Scorpion missiles was still in a compartment above TOP SECRET.

‘The overall mission of Operation Sassafras is twofold,’ O’Connor continued. ‘First, the 503rd will be operating to the east of us, trying to locate the members of SEAL Team Six and the crew of the Chinook. That’s now a recovery mission, not a rescue. The bodies are likely to be scattered over a wide area, with a centre of mass in this area here,’ O’Connor said, pointing to an area to the east of the Korengal Valley.

‘We’ll be looking for any evidence the Taliban or al Qaeda have acquired missiles, and we’ll be operating in the Korengal Valley itself.’ Several of O’Connor’s team exchanged glances. They were being inserted into an area not far from where eleven Navy SEALs and eight pilots and crew had perished in fierce fighting some years earlier, on the slopes of Sawtalo Sar. Operation Red Wings had seen a total of no fewer than three Navy Crosses awarded, two posthumously and the third to the sole survivor of the operation, Marcus Luttrell. The commander, Lieutenant Michael Murphy, had been awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor, the United States’ highest military award.

‘This mission won’t bring back those we’ve lost,’ O’Connor added soberly, ‘but if we can confirm the Taliban or al Qaeda have missiles, and determine the source, it might help prevent further casualties.’ He turned back to the map. ‘We’ll come in from the east in two Black Hawks, flying low and fast, north above the Kunar River, and then we’ll turn west where the Kunar meets the Pech River. Once we reach this position here, where the Korengal Valley intersects with the Pech, we’ll turn south and head down the valley to an area near the old Korengal Outpost, where we’ll fast-rope to the ground.’ O’Connor pointed to the timber yard. ‘Fire support will be provided from two Apache attack helos. As best we can determine from the intelligence available, the Chinook took fire from this general area here,’ he said, pointing to an isolated village high on a precipitous ridge line. ‘So that will be the first village to get our attention. Any questions?’

‘Any fucking
questions
,’ Petty Officer Louis Estrada, the short, muscular SEAL team leader muttered. ‘What about the villagers . . . any help from them?’ he asked.

O’Connor shook his head. ‘At best, expect them to be neutral. At worst, expect them to be reporting our every move to the Taliban. The villages in the Korengal are so remote, the occupants don’t take kindly to other Afghans, let alone us. Treat them all as if they’re hostile.’

O’Connor glanced over the pilot’s shoulder at the instruments glowing softly in the dark. The two Sikorsky Special Operations Black Hawks were touching 120 kilometres an hour and, in an effort to evade an attack from Taliban surface-to-air missiles, they were flying at just 100 feet above the Kunar River. The possibility of a direct hit from an RPG, the ubiquitous Soviet rocket-propelled grenade, was the lesser of two evils. Either side of the Black Hawks, two Boeing Apache attack helicopters were covering the mission. Armed with massive 30-millimetre cannon, 70-millimetre air-to-surface rockets, and Hellfire air-to-surface missiles, the Apaches not only packed an impressive array of armaments, they were also designed to absorb small arms fire from the ground. To the north, O’Connor could see the lights of Asadabad, the capital of Kunar Province, twinkling in the distance. Over the years, Asadabad had been the scene of more than one major battle between insurgents and Soviet and Western armies, and the tension mounted as they approached. The door gunners used their helmet-mounted night-vision goggles to penetrate the darkness, and they scanned the fields either side of the riverbank.