Call to Duty (34 page)

“And what does all this prove?” Mackay snapped, frus
trated with the turn of events. “And just what message do you think the men are getting?”

“It proves that there’s someone out there who’s a lot better than us. The message is that we”—Kamigami stressed the “we”—“have to get better. Fast.” The last word did not need emphasis.

How many times have we been over this, Mackay thought. He was sitting in the command tent at Entebbe reviewing the plan named Operation Loose Red with Mallard and Trimler. He was impressed with the two colonels and how they worked together and had mastered every detail of the planned operation on Chiang’s compound. Mackay glanced around the tent, trying to gauge the reactions of the other men who had gathered for a last review of the plan before they took it to Cagliari. The three Air Force pilots seemed more bored than concerned and Mackay could understand their feelings. Their part was uncomplicated and straightforward, which, in his opinion, was good.

The plan called for helicopters to insert two assault teams at separate landing zones. The LZs were set well back from Chiang’s compound so the helicopters could escape detection by Chiang’s air defense net. The teams would then move independently into position for the attack. The first assault team, Fastback, would be responsible for freeing the hostages while the other team, Bigboot, blasted holes in the wall and kept Chiang’s security forces occupied. Although Colonel Trimler seemed satisfied, a nagging worry keep itching at Mackay, demanding a scratching. Rather than fight it, he decided to ask Kamigami a direct question. “Sergeant Major, do you have any reservations?”

“As long as we can deliver maximum surprise with maximum violence, it will work,” Kamigami replied. “But to get the violence, we got to surprise them. The closest any chopper can get to the compound without being detected by radar is about twenty miles and that means Fastback and Bigboot have to make long overland infiltrations to get under Chiang’s air defenses. Plus we have to do it in the rain to sneak past his observation and listening posts on the ground. That’s going to take time. The longer we’re on the ground,
the greater the chance for discovery. Then once we attack, I figure it’s got to be by the clock—in and out fast.”

Mackay glanced at Peter Woodward, trying to gauge his reaction to what Kamigami had said. It was the first time the British officer had seen the entire plan and Mackay wanted his opinion. While he had never come to terms with the vicious streak he had seen in Woodward during the interrogation of the three pirates in Malaysia, Mackay needed a coldblooded bastard like Woodward to help him. Woodward arched an eyebrow at him. “Captain Woodward,” Mackay said, “we would appreciate any comments you might have to offer.”

“Beat the clock and it should work,” Woodward said.

The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.

Heads turned and stared as Mazie Kamigami led the three officers through the halls of the Executive Office Building to the secure conference room where they would meet with the national security adviser. There was a brief pause when she held the door open and the men waited for her to enter first. She sighed and waddled in ahead of them. Once inside, Mackay could see the northeast corner of the White House through the windows. “Well, Colonel,” Mazie said, “welcome back.”

“Not for long I hope,” Mackay said. “By the way, your father sends his best and says he hopes to be in town this weekend.”

Mazie gave another mental sigh—that was her father, a man of few words and more than willing to let others pass messages on to her. Family togetherness by rumor, she thought. Nothing had changed. She settled into a chair. “You ready to sell it to the boss?”

“Loose Red is ready to go,” Mackay assured her.

“Where do you get these names?” she asked.

“The Pentagon has a computer that spits out random names for exercises or operations so the name won’t serve as a tip-off to the objective.”

“Oh, like Desert Storm or Just Cause.”

“Well,” Mackay admitted, “sometimes politics does get involved.”

National Security Adviser Cagliari walked in. “Good morning,” he said, sitting down. “What do you have?”

“Good morning, sir,” Mazie replied. She introduced Mallard and Trimler to her boss. “The situation with Chiang is still very fluid,” she told him. “The DEA has evidence that the Colombian and Japanese drug cartels are forming an alliance with Chiang called the Consortium. The DEA estimates that between the three, they will control over half the world’s heroin production along with all the major distribution nets and approximately seventy percent of the cocaine traffic.”

“Anything from Willowbranch?” he asked.

“Willowbranch confirms it and reports that the leaders of the two cartels are scheduled to meet with Chiang in his compound in the near future. No firm date as of yet.” She went over the details of the latest report.

“What an opportunity,” Trimler said, unable to contain himself. “We initiate the attack when they are there.”

“Chiang has some formidable resources available to him,” Mallard reminded Trimler.

“True,” Trimler shot back, all eagerness. “But look at his guests. If I were Chiang, I’d have my forces more aligned for internal security so they would feel secure from each other. We go in and there will be so much confusion as to who’s doing what to who that we will be well inside their reaction cycle. By the time they get it sorted out, we’re out of there. Hell”—Trimler grinned—“we might even be able to service a few of the bastards.”

“What does that mean?” Mazie asked.

“The good colonel means,” Mackay explained, “that it is an opportunity to put a well-placed bullet into a few brains.”

“Anything else new?” Cagliari asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mazie said. “We received confirmation that the earring found on the body thrown over the embassy’s wall in Bangkok was Heather Courtland’s. This is getting very weird. Does Chiang want us to know that he has Heather?”

“Chiang is one the most devious and clever bastards that I have run across,” Cagliari said. “My best guess is that he’s inputting noise into the system. Treat it that way.”

“‘Noise’?” Mallard asked.

Now it was Mazie’s turn to explain. “‘Noise’ is information that masks the important facts.”

“I see, the fake stuff,” Mallard said.

“Nothing fake about it at all,” Mazie told him. “Because noise is valid, we have to analyze it to determine if it’s relevant. That’s what makes this job so frustrating—too much noise. In this case, we’re going to ignore it.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Cagliari told them. “I want to see what you’ve come up with to rescue Heather Courtland.”

Twenty minutes later, Cagliari made his decision. “I think we need to take this to the President.”

The men and Mazie were standing behind their chairs in the White House’s Situation Room when Pontowski entered. Leo Cox, his chief of staff, introduced Mallard and Trimler before Mackay presented the plan called Loose Red. When he was finished, Pontowski said nothing and stared at the largescale map Mackay had used for his presentation.

“He’s got to be expecting us,” Pontowski finally said. “Without surprise this could backfire and turn into a disaster.” He paused, recalling the lessons of Eagle Claw, the abortive attempt to rescue the fifty-two Americans held hostage in the United States embassy in Teheran. Eagle Claw had spelled the end of the Carter administration. Then he remembered another raid years before: a raid that no one in this room had ever heard of. Was he about to repeat history? So be it, he thought. But it saddened him that the crisp, clear call to duty that he had felt before was missing.

“How is Special Operations Command progressing with their plan to rescue the hostages?” the President asked.

“It’s ready,” Cagliari answered. “As expected, it’s a massive attack with Stealth fighters leading the way to take out the radars and surface-to-air missiles followed by a vertical envelopment.”

“If we go in like that, the hostages will be dead by the time we get to them,” Cox predicted.

Pontowski made his decision. “We’ll do this one by the book. Place Loose Red under the operational control of USSOCOM.” He rose to leave. Then another thought came to him. “I would like to change the name Loose Red to Operation Jericho.” He disappeared out the door.

“And the walls came tumbling down,” Mallard quipped.

“That’s probably what he was thinking of,” Cagliari replied.

Mazie sat frozen to her chair, trying to calm the rolling emotions that beat at her, threatening to break like a tidal wave over the breakwaters that kept her safe. Oh, Pop, she thought to herself, matching a face to the cutting edge that was now called Jericho.

1943
RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, England

I’ve lost her, Zack thought as he poked at the unrecognizable mess on his plate. He ignored Ruffy, whose appetite never failed him, not even when the cook had committed an unspeakable crime on their food, shoved his plate away, excused himself, and left the mess. He walked outside and shivered in the cold night air as he ambled toward the operations building. The dark sense of loss that plagued his spare moments was back. “Hold on,” Ruffy called, catching up with him. “Still thinking about her?” he asked.

“I can’t seem to think about anything else,” Zack admitted. Unbidden, the image of Chantal standing in front of the window as the morning sunlight washed over her bare body came back, driving a sharp ache into his chest.

“This will all come to an end and you’ll find her again.” Ruffy was an incurable optimist. “At least it hasn’t affected your flying.” He gave Zack a light slap on the shoulder, trying to encourage him. They walked into the briefing room and the gloom that had been hanging over him vanished. The routine of operations, the building tension of a mission, and the immediacy of combat had all asserted their priority as they went about the business of preparing for another Intruder mission.

Their squadron commander was waiting for them. “Well, this is it,” he told them. “You two have been posted to Four-eighty-seven Squadron at Sculthorpe.”

“Isn’t that a New Zealand squadron?” Zack asked.

“Correct. The Kiwis need some experience to bring them up to snuff in the kite. You’re it. You’ll take your Mossie with you to bring them up to full strength. Four-eighty-seven
Squadron has been made part of Two Group, which falls under the command of the new Allied Second Tactical Air Force. You lucky buggers are going to have a serious go at Jerry.” He started to leave but halted at the door. “Jones is on leave and has offered you
Romanita
for tonight—since this is your last with us.”

“That’s decent of him,” Ruffy said, truly impressed with the favor.

“Don’t prang. The fitters would mutiny. Don’t need that.”

The briefing was routine and the weather over their area and the latest disposition of enemy defenses occupied most of their attention. This was their seventeenth Intruder, the name given to the night missions where a lone Mosquito was assigned to patrol an area over occupied Europe with the single purpose of attacking enemy night fighters on or over their own airfields. By repeatedly going back to Soesterberg in the Netherlands, they had become intimately familiar with the area and were experts at disrupting German night operations against RAF bombers. They had spread so much
Moskitopanik
around that the Germans were forced to take off by flying a few feet above the ground until they were far away from their airfield. Only then could they climb to search for the bombers flying overhead on their way to targets deep in Germany. The German pilots said that by flying so low during a night takeoff they automatically earned a Knights Cross.

The two ground crew were waiting for them when they reached
Romanita
and, as usual, the aircraft was in immaculate condition and ready to go. Engine start and takeoff were routine and they were soon well out over the North Sea, skimming under the bottom of a cloud deck at five hundred feet. For reasons that totally escaped him, Zack was always relaxed during this part of a mission. The waiting tension had shredded with the satisfying feel of the wheels breaking free of the runway, and a comfortable warmth engulfed him. Perhaps it was the smooth-running machine that surrounded him like a cocoon that did it. Unlike the Beaufighter, the Mosquito was a warm aircraft, its heater worked fine, and he did not have to bundle up against the cold. Or maybe it was the ease of handling the aircraft, its controls responsive and alive to his touch. Without a doubt, the Merlins, those magnificent
V-12 engines with their unforgettable, heart-throbbing roar, made him feel secure. The throttle quadrant did not require the huge jabs that the Beaufighter demanded. A slight movement, and the engines responded with a crispness that made him think of a superb polo pony charging after a ball.

But the aircraft did have its vices, like all high-strung and beautiful ladies, and a stall was an invitation to disaster. The aircraft simply fell out of the sky. It was not very stable and he had to tend the stick constantly. But he liked that, for instability was the handmaiden of maneuverability, which was one of the Mossie’s virtues. He chewed on that seeming contradiction. Maybe, he thought, there’s a price to be paid for every virtue. No wonder men named their aircraft after women. What a dumb tradition! he laughed to himself; the Mossie was only a flying collection of wood, glue, screws, metal, and ideas. Still, he loved the aircraft for what it was.

This is a strange way to live, he thought. Here we are at a few hundred feet above the sea, flying below a cloud deck, ready to go about the deliberate business of killing other men. Yet he had never felt more free of responsibility. Other men had assumed the burden of ordering him and Ruffy into the killing arena and taken the weight from his shoulders. He was an agent of their will and his only duty was to deliver death and destruction on the enemy. His only concern was his and Ruffy’s survival. He did not even have the responsibility for the fate of his targets, for if he didn’t fly the mission, someone else would. It was a dangerous, but very simple, uncomplicated life.