Night of the Hawk, page 29
part #4 of Patrick McLanahan Series
“Well, White was never really under investigation,” Elliott said. “He brought the news about Dave Luger to me because no one had done anything about Dave for several months. It was White’s contacts in the embassy in Moscow that got things moving. Not Russell. Not the Defense Department. If he hadn’t done anything, Luger might be dead now.”
“So instead of bringing him up on charges of revealing classified information, you decided to work together to rescue Luger? Dammit, I should have known you were going to do this.” There was a pause; then: “You’ haven’t sent any Megafortresses or Black Knight bombers over there, have you?”
“We were just about to start engines.”
“General, I hope you’re kidding,” Curtis said in a low, serious tone, then: …. . but I know you’re not. What have you got? What’s your plan?”
“Six EB-52 Megafortresses—four primaries, two spares,” Elliott said. “Air support against the CIS radar sites, antiair units, and base defenses in Fisikous. Two CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft, with fifty Marines.”
“Just amazing. I should have known you weren’t going to sit still and sweat it out with the rest of us. And when were you going to tell me about all this?”
“I wasn’t,” Elliott said. “I was going to go when my team was ready. If the MEU was inbound, I’d turn around or stand by in case they needed my help. If they weren’t going in, I’d continue my mission.”
“With B-52 bombers flying over Lithuania? How did you ever expect to get away with that …?”
“The odds were that my Megafortresses would never be detected,” Elliott explained. “I had enough standoff weapons to grease every long-range surveillance radar and fighter-intercept radar in the region, and my planes have the power to jam all the others. Fighters were not a big concern—at night, with no GCI, and as long as I was no threat to Kaliningrad or Minsk, no enemy fighter jock was going to mess with me at low level. SAM sites, optically guided antiaircraft artillery, and the odd missile-equipped attack helicopter were the big concerns, but we felt confident enough that we could take enough of them out and avoid the rest. Using the EB-52 for the heavy threats and the guns and rockets on the CV-22s, we’d drop White’s Sparrowhawk team in and take that security building.”
“That’s some pretty big ifs there, Brad,” Curtis grumbled. “But if anyone could pull it off, it’s you. Then MADCAP MAGICIAN was going to pull Luger out?”
“Exactly. We’d take him to the embassy if necessary, but our destination was Norway or Belgium or Germany—any friendly territory we could set down. If the tilt-rotors and the EB-52s got out okay, the entire incident could be deniable by the White House—”
“And if one or more of them got shot down, you and White would take the heat yourselves,” Curtis interjected. “But you’d totally embarrass the government and shoot our credibility as a nation to hell for at least ten years!”
“I believed that the White House would just as soon let Dave Luger rot than risk embarrassment,” Elliott said resolutely.
Curtis had to admit that Elliott’s observation was correct—the White House was just looking for an excuse to cancel the REDTAIL HAWK extraction.
“I’m expendable—throughout my entire career I’ve always been expendable,” Elliott said.
Don ‘t give me that martyrdom crap, Brad. The White House doesn’t trust you because you pull shit like this. Now just keep your mouth shut and I’ll tell you what you will do next:
“I’m ordering you to contact the Valley Mistress and tell her to return to port immediately,” Curtis said. “I will contact General Kundert and advise him that two CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft and the Marines on board that cargo ship are available for duty with the 26th MEU if necessary. Your Megafortresses will stand down immediately. All training flights are suspended—if I hear of one EB-52 launch from Dreamland, I’m going to place you under arrest. Is all that clear, Brad?”
“Yes, sir.
“It better be. You and Colonel White sit tight in Dreamland and don’t do a thing. I’ll be in touch when the briefing starts. Listen, but don’t say anything, or I may be forced to tell the White House about your plan. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Elliott’s responses immediately told Curtis that Elliott hadn’t heard one word he was saying. “I’m serious about this, Brad. Don’t launch those bombers or you’ll be raking stones at Fort Leavenworth by week’s end. I’ve never threatened to arrest you before, but this time the threat is real. Sit tight and be good.”
“Yes, sir.”
Orders and threats meant nothing to Brad Elliott, Curtis decided—he was going to do exactly what he wanted anyway. Shit. Well, it was his neck he’d be stretching. Curtis terminated the call.
“You’re smiling, Brad,” Paul White said as Elliott hung up. “What did General Curtis have to say?”
“He said stand down. He ordered us to return the Valley Mistress to port.”
“Oh, terrific. That was our last shot.” White picked up the phone. “Get me a satellite channel to MADCAP MAGICIAN,” he said to the operator. To Elliott, he asked, “How did Curtis find out? Did he discover the Mistress in the Baltic?”
“He didn’t say.” Elliott was staring straight ahead, elbows on the table, fingers massaging his chin. White saw that expression on his face. “Uh, oh… …… what do you have in mind?”
“Order the Mistress to turn around,” Elliott said, “but send it someplace for repairs or refueling-someplace very close. Stockholm, perhaps, or Visby.”
“Both places are too obvious and too far away,” White said. “My favorite place is Ronne, on Bornholm Island. It’s Danish, not Swedish, so we shouldn’t have any difficulties bringing armed aircraft into port. Best of all, it’s only sixty nautical miles from the original staging area.”
“Do it, then,” Elliott said. “I’ve got no choice but to stand down the Mega fortresses, but we’ll keep the Valley Mistress on station as long as we can. Dave Luger’s not out of Lithuania yet, and I’m going to keep this force in operation until he’s back. Fuck ‘em.”
LISTA NAVAL AIR BASE, VESTBYGDA, NORWAY
13 APRIL, 2300 NORWAY (1700 ET)
“Jammed weapon… go.”
Patrick McLanahan lowered his M-16 rifle. Bracing the rifle against his right thigh, he used his right hand and slapped upward on the magazine, then pulled the charging handle on the back of the rifle all the way back and inspected the chamber. Finding it clear, he released the charging handle with a loud snap, shoved forward on the bolt-closure assist lever, and raised it once again to firing position.
“No, sir, that’s wrong,” Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl interjected, but not to McLanahan. Wohl was sitting beside John Ormack, carefully watching his actions. Out of a corner of his eye he saw Hal Briggs execute the SPORTS actions for clearing a misfired M-16 in two seconds, which was Marine Corps standards. McLanahan was a bit more deliberate, but his actions were correct. But Ormack still didn’t have it down. “Don’t ease the charging handle back into place, sir. Let it snap back,” Wohl told him. “You can jam another round in the chamber if you don’t let the handle pump that next round in.”
Ormack nodded, but his frustration level was obviously high.
“Try it again, General. Ready? Jammed weapon… go.”
Ormack lowered his weapon, pulled back on the charging lever, checked the chamber, hit the bolt-clearing lever, and raised his rifle.
“Wrong again, sir,” Wohl said. “Slap the bottom of that magazine first before pulling the charging handle. If the magazine’s not in properly, you’ll reseat it—pulling the charging handle will do no good if you’ve got a round jammed in the magazine or a bad magazine. Let’s try again …”
“I’m beat, Gunny. Let’s bag it for tonight.”
Ormack was definitely tired, McLanahan thought—the long plane rides from North Carolina to this isolated Norwegian naval base at the very southern tip of Norway; the jet lag; the endless training and conditioning sessions; and a feeling of utter helplessness had taken their toll. As hard as Ormack tried, he just wasn’t picking up on the routine stuff. “Give me a stick and throttle and I’ll be okay. One lousy rifle and I turn into a blithering idiot.”
“Few more minutes, sir,” Wohl said. “This stuff is important. You’ll jam a weapon about once per fifty rounds, which is almost once every magazine. If you practice this enough, you won’t panic when you pull the trigger and nothing happens. I understand they can make a monkey fly a plane, sir, but no monkey I know of can fire an M-16. Try it again.” His attempt at humor was completely lost on the Air Force one-star general. To McLanahan, Wohl said, “You just fell into a river, sir. Your weapon was submerged. When you reach the shore, you get ambushed. You return fire—”
“Not before clearing the rifle,” McLanahan replied, anticipating Wohl’s characteristic real-life, rapid-fire quiz. “Firing a bullet now can cause the thing to blow up in my face.”
“Very good, sir. Show me the procedures for clearing your weapon.”
Patrick lowered the muzzle of his M-16 and recited, “Point the muzzle down to drain water. Pull charging handle rearward two to three inches. Allow water to drain. Release charging handle and push bolt-assist lever to seat round and lock the bolt. Then clear drainhole in butt and drain water.”
“Why do you pull back on the charging handle?” quizzed Wohl.
“Because a round fully seated in the chamber will prevent all of the water from running out the barrel, like a straw that stays full of water when you put your finger over the top end. Pulling the charging handle will partially unseat the round and allow water to run out.”
“Very good. I’ll make a Marine out of you yet—if you can ever learn to shoot.” To Ormack he said, “Keep practicing, sir. Major Briggs, watch him. Both you guys, listen up while you practice. Colonel, draw your knife.”
They were all wearing a nylon web LC-2 harness secured on their torsos, covering thick black cotton-and-nylon coveralls—with no military uniforms or insignia. The harness had what seemed to be an endless array of things attached to it—ammo pouches, first-aid kits, canteens, flashlights, a compass, a length of rope, a radio, and a holster for a sidearm. On the right-side suspender hung a fifteen-inch Bowie-style knife with a parachute-cord-wrapped handle, a serrated and straight-edge spine, and a thick steel hammerhead pommel. McLanahan flicked off Velcro straps and the knife dropped into his right hand. As he did so, he crouched low and moved his left foot back into a defensive knife-fighter’s stance.
“Good. Keep your left hand farther back so your opponent can’t slash it,” Wohl said. “Now, we didn’t go into knife fighting that much. You’ve got a sidearm and a rifle, so use them. Never discard your weapons. Fill your ammo pouches every chance you get.” Unsaid was the thought, with your dead buddy’s ammo if necessary. “But don’t carry more than normal.
“But if you run out of ammo or lose your weapons, and you’re confronted by an attacker who hasn’t shot you dead yet, draw your knife, attack to kill, and then get the hell away.” Wohl’s knife suddenly appeared in his hands, as quickly and as naturally as he extended a finger. The knife flashed out at McLanahan as he spoke: “Strike at the face, the eyes, the hands, the neck. Every cut weakens him. If your opponent goes down, cut his neck or eyes deep. Don’t try to stab him in the heart or guts. He’s probably wearing a flak vest or layers of clothing that’ll protect him, and even if it penetrates it probably won’t kill him unless you’re lucky and pierce the heart. Even a tiny button can deflect a knife point. Slash his neck or his eyes deep, then get away from the area. You’re not Rambo— you can’t take on an army with just a knife. Use it to escape.
“If you’re confronted by a guy with a knife, my advice is to get the hell away from him. Several reasons why: one, if he’s not within arm’s reach of you, he can’t hurt you; two, he doesn’t have a gun, so he’s just as disadvantaged as you are; and three, if he stays, he’s probably a skilled knife-fighter and will skin you alive if you stay. All three are good reasons not to hang around and fight it out with knives.
“But if you have no choice but to fight, remember three things. One: never fight on equal terms. Use rocks, stones, dirt, sand, water, rope, or noise to distract him and make him lose concentration. Spit, scream, yell, curse, act crazy. Two: commit yourself to kill. Three: attack, then depart. If he comes after you, start the whole process over again. If he doesn’t pursue, you’ve won. Knife fighting is survival, not tactics or strategy or position.”
Wohl paused and looked at his three charges. McLanahan was attentive, but Wohl could tell by reading the young officer’s eyes that he wasn’t thinking about survival or fighting—he was thinking about getting his buddy. Briggs, he knew, understood what he was saying—he had been trained to the point where he could let the mechanics and techniques of martial arts happen naturally. Ormack, although very intelligent and dedicated, was simply not cut out for this line of work. He could probably explain the physics and pneumatics of how an M-16 worked, but the thought of killing someone with it was patently abhorrent to him. Ormack would have to be protected and led—something that a Marine Force Recon unit was not accustomed to doing. But it would have to be done nonetheless.
A few moments later one of Wohl’s NCOs came into the room with a message on a strip of computer paper. He read it, breathed deeply, and handed the message form to Ormack. “We’ve been executed,” Ormack said simply. His throat seemed to go instantly dry, his voice tight and raspy. “Mission begins tomorrow night”
“What that means, gentlemen, is that the National Command Authority has given its permission for us to proceed,” Wohl said immediately. “It is not, I repeat not, an authorization to do something we’re not prepared to do. I’ve trained you all I can in the time I was given. You’ve spent long hours studying, training, rehearsing—but you have the final say on whether you go or not.”
“We go, then,” McLanahan said, sheathing his knife resolutely.
Ormack was on his feet, looking at the message form as if it had eyes and was looking back at him. He did not reply—he was looking at the paper, but Wohl knew that Ormack was really looking inward, at himself. He was faced with the question he didn’t want to answer. When he looked up at the rest of them, he nodded assent, but it was clear that he felt he wasn’t ready—and, Wohl thought, he was right.
Briggs was watching Wohl, who looked with great concern at Ormack. “Do you think we’re ready?” Briggs asked the Marine.
“Do I think you three are ready to participate in an extraction mission with a Marine Force Recon team? No way. It takes months of training and years of practice to do that. Do I think you can keep up with my team on an extraction mission? No. You’re not in shape and you don’t have the skills.
“But do I think my team can lead you into a hostile area? Yes. Do I think that, once we have neutralized opposing forces, you can operate in that hostile area and accomplish your mission? Yes. Do I think my brother Marines can lead you out of the hostile area after you have accomplished your mission? Yes.” He paused, then added, “I suppose it’s all how you look at it. You three showed me a lot in the past few days. But I’m not prepared to risk my life and the lives of my men to save you, just so you can be heroes and get your buddy out of hock. So let me tell you how we are going to do things from now on.
“I will be in command of this mission. Rank disappears as of right now. My word is law, punishable by death.” No one there even raised an’ eyebrow at that last statement, because they all knew it to be true. “You do as I say, when I say it. When I say ‘stay,’ you stay and keep as quit as if you were dead and buried. When I say ‘run,’ you run until you drop. When I say ‘no,’ it means no. You touch nothing unless I say to—that goes for your crew member in hostile territory. What I say and do goes. Do you understand?”
All three Air Force officers nodded.
“All right. You’ve come this far—and the boss says you’ll go— you’re going. Now go get some sleep.”
Ormack handed the message form to McLanahan and hefted his rifle. “I think I’ll practice my procedures with the M-16, Sergeant.”
“I just told you what to do, Ormack,” Wohl snapped. “You will report to your barracks and lights-out. And I am still ‘Gunny’ to you, although you are no longer ‘General’ to me.
“You listen to me good, all of you. The two skills I think you three have learned in this short time with me is how to listen and how to obey orders to the letter. I guarantee that no matter how much high-ranking horsepower you three have, if I go back to my CO and inform him that you cannot take an order from me, this mission will be terminated immediately. Few organizations in the world risk dozens of good men in peacetime to rescue one; my unit is not one of them.
“That is the last time I will repeat an order—next time you’re out on your ear. Ormack, if you don’t know your shit by now, you never will. I’m betting that all these lessons and all the work we’ve done will surface when the shit hits the fan, but if it doesn’t, you and probably a few of us will be dead. Hopefully, some brass somewhere will remember I told ‘em so—I hope one of my brother Marines will carve it on my headstone. But that’s none of your concern—or mine.
“Safe and stow your weapons, then hit the rack. I’ll come get you in the morning and we’ll do a final inspection and dry run before the mass briefing. I know sleeping will be difficult, but try it anyway. And that’s an order, too.”
FISIKOUS RESEARCH INSTITUTE SECURITY CENTER
VILNIUS, LITHUANIA
12 APRIL, 1400 VILNIUS (0800 ET)
During the past couple of weeks, especially since the encounter with the orderly in the dining hall, Luger was able to run a few extra dekameters every day; today, he had run a full extra kilometer more than he had just four weeks earlier. His strength was better, and his alertness and attention spans were better. He looked thinner, but his muscles were wiry and tough, like a marathon runner’s. But he was not quite getting along with the rest of the staff, and he was growing irritable and quiet.
