Seal Team Seven sts-1 Read online

  "On my way."

  "Kos, this is Rattler." That was Fernandez. "We're in traffic control. Negative, negative. No hostiles."

  "Roger that," Kos said, still standing by the splintered door. "Extract. Two-IC, this is Kos. Terminal clear. Dry hump!"

  "Copy," the squad leader, Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt, replied. "Move 'em out, Kos."

  "On our way."

  * * *

  0245 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba runway, Iraq

  "Alfa, Delta!" DeWitt's voice called over the tactical frequency. "Clear! Dry hump!"

  Meaning they'd not found any guards inside the terminal complex. Cotter gave the scene another scan with his binoculars as worry tugged at his awareness. Had there only been ten Iraqis to begin with? To guard the UN Herky Bird and its treasure trove of stolen intelligence? Shit, there ought to be more, a lot more. Even if they hadn't heard the death-silent assault by the SEALS, they ought to be reacting by now to the explosion in Zabeir. Where the hell were they?

  "You see any movement out there?" he asked Brown.

  "Negative, Skipper. Nothin' but our own people."

  "Stay on it. Gimme the sat comm, Professor."

  Higgins handed him the radio. "Sky Trapper, Sky Trapper," he called. "This is Blue Water."

  "Blue Water, Sky Trapper" sounded over his headset a moment later. "Copy. Go ahead."

  Sky Trapper was a Saudi Arabian AWACS aircraft manned, at least for tonight, by U.S. Air Force personnel. The airborne communications and radar early warning plane was orbiting over northern Saudi Arabia, serving as a command center for the far-flung assets of Operation Blue Sky.

  "Sky Trapper, Blue Water. Cold Steel, authentication Charlie India two-three. We have the package intact, repeat, we have the package intact. We're ready for delivery. Tell Cowboy and Shotgun to get their asses in gear!"

  "Ah, roger that, Blue Water. Be advised that Shotgun should be over your position any time now. Cowboy is en route, ETA six minutes."

  "Copy, Sky Trapper. We'll be waiting. Blue Water out."

  Handing the sat-comm handset back to Higgins, Cotter paused and listened, straining against the darkness. Yes... he could just hear it now, the faint and far-off whup-whup-whup of approaching helicopters.

  He changed channels on his Motorola, switching to a frequency that would link him to the entire SEAL platoon. "Blue and Gold, this is Papa One. Helos are inbound. Don't shoot 'em down, they're on our Two-IC?"

  "Copy, Papa One," DeWitt replied. "Go ahead."

  "Start bringing your people in, two at a time."

  "Roger, Papa One, wilco."

  "Out."

  The plan was moving like clockwork now, each man with an assignment, each man with a place. Right now, Cotter's place was at the Herky Bird with the rest of his unit. He touched Higgins's shoulder. "I'm going in there. You two stay put until Cowboy One touches down, then hustle on in, okay?"

  "Right, L-T."

  "Magic?"

  "Yeah, Skipper?"

  "You did good. Real nice shooting on those two tangos. Two for two."

  Brown's face split in a wide grin. "Hey, thanks, Skipper!"

  Cotter believed in giving praise where praise was due. He'd been concerned, naturally enough, about the cherries in the platoon — and Magic Brown had been one of them. The quartermaster first class had been in the Navy for ten years, but he'd only been a SEAL for one, and this was his first time in combat. No matter how hard a man trains, no matter how grueling his indoctrination, there is no way to tell how he will act the first time he has to actually kill another human being. Brown had come through his baptism of fire and blood splendidly.

  Rising, Cotter left the shelter of the low ridge and trotted toward the C-130. In the distance, the glare from the exploded SAM bunker had dwindled to a sullen flicker, and the aircraft was almost lost in the darkness. Damn. Where were the rest of the Iraqis, partying in town? Fleeing toward al-Basra? Getting ready to spring their trap? Cotter didn't like this situation one damned bit.

  * * *

  0245 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba control tower, Iraq

  The rumbling boom of the explosion had brought him wide awake in an instant. While his partner Ibrahim had stood guard on the walkway outside, Sergeant Riad Jasim had been catching a brief nap in a duty room inside the control tower; but now fire stained the sky, Ibrahim was dead, and strange, black-garbed men were swarming among the shadows beneath the UN aircraft.

  Terrified, Jasim had hidden inside a second-floor storeroom as someone banged up the control tower steps outside. He cringed as they slammed open the door to the storeroom, but he was hidden behind a pile of empty boxes and — praise be to Allah! — the intruders had no time for a thorough search.

  When they left, he sagged back against the concrete block wall, trembling with relief.

  Jasim spoke no English, but he had a good ear. He'd heard the language spoken before, during the heroic Mother of All Battles when his supreme commander, the glorious Saddam, had halted the enemy invaders at the gates of Iraq with the mere threat of his terrible weapons. "Terminal clear! Dry hump!" was English, Jasim was sure of it, even if the words themselves were gibberish. The Americans were here, attempting to liberate their spy plane!

  When the heavy-booted intruders had left, Jasim had slipped out of the storeroom and up the steps to the glassed-in control tower. There, flat on his belly, heart pounding, he edged toward the glass door leading out onto the circular walkway that encircled the tower. He'd left his AKM assault rifle outside, with Ibrahim.

  He was no hero. He'd been a simple farmer from al-Kut until the army had drafted him, but he believed in Saddam Hussein as the soul and savior of the Iraqi people, and he knew that Paradise awaited him if he died fighting the infidel Americans.

  Slipping through the open door, he crawled onto the walkway. Ibrahim lay across his path, eyes open and staring, blood soaking the front of his uniform.

  "My friend," Jasim told the corpse. "I will avenge you!"

  But the brave words could not stop the trembling weakness he felt within. Somehow, he forced himself to go on. Retrieving his rifle and chambering a round, he inched himself closer to the edge of the walkway.

  * * *

  0248 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba Airport, Iraq

  By the time Lieutenant Cotter reached the C-130, the platoon was already deploying in a loose perimeter about the aircraft. Two Gold Platoon men, Fernandez and Holt, were already setting out four strobe beacons in a Y-shaped pattern, the top of the Y marking a safe LZ for a helicopter, the tail indicating the wind direction. MacKenzie met Cotter at the perimeter. The big master chief had slung his H&K and broken out his machine gun. Crouching there on the tarmac with that big gun in his hands and a belt of 7.62mm ammo draped over his shoulder, the Texan looked a bit like a black-faced, black-fatigued Rambo.

  Except that Rambo never would have stood a chance against these night-clad killers. They moved with an efficient deadliness Hollywood could never portray and which movie-going audiences would find frankly unbelievable. Cotter felt a swelling, glowing pride for his men as he entered the perimeter. They were the best, absolutely and without qualification.

  "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-IW SuperCobra, fitted with an infrared night-vision system and an M197 under-nose 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 DSCUBAyy 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.

  * * *

  0249 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba Airport, Iraq

  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.

  * * *

  0249 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba control tower, Iraq

  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.

  * * *

  0250 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba Airport, Iraq

  "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.

  * * *

  0250 hours (Zulu +3)

  Shuaba control tower, Iraq

  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.