Call to Duty (4 page)

“Rangers lead the way,” Mackay said, his face impassive. “Now what’s going down.”

Woodward rolled out of his hammock. “Realistic training.” Mackay waited for the captain to continue as the men went about the routine of breaking camp. The SAS was divided into four Sabre squadrons and Woodward’s specialized in
cross-country mobility and long-range patrols, which was also Mackay’s specialty. “The Sass has an informal arrangement with the Malaysian government to train in their jungle,” Woodward said. “If we should ‘happen’ to stumble on any suspicious characters, well, we can also train them. All left over from the Emergency in the 1950s.”

Mackay suspected that the Englishman was glossing over a security agreement the Malaysians had with their former colonial ruler. It was the way the Brits worked, he thought. He regretted that the United States didn’t train the same way for he had some definite ideas about what the Rangers or Special Forces could do in the Philippines or Latin America. “And according to the SatCom,” Mackay said, “there are some ‘suspicious characters’ out there.”

“Apparently,” Woodward allowed. He opened a meal pack and started to eat. The patrol was almost ready to move out. “Some fishermen,” the captain explained, “who fancy themselves pirates in their spare moments, captured an American yacht. The crew got a message out and a Thai customs plane overflew them. The bastards took six Americans hostage, burnt the yacht and are heading toward the coast. They should land not too far from us.” He dug out a map. “Probably here.” He pointed to an abandoned Gurkha camp that the British had used during the Emergency in the 1950s. Mackay noticed that an airstrip was next to the camp.

Mackay asked, “When do they make landfall and how far?”

“This afternoon. Eight miles away,” Woodward answered.

“I suppose calling for a helicopter for insertion is out of the question.”

The captain grinned. “This is a training exercise.” It was his way of telling Mackay that they were strictly on their own and could not ask for such obvious support.

The lieutenant colonel stood up and looked around. There was enough light to travel. One of the first lessons he had learned was that it was too dangerous to move at night in a jungle. Better to rest and travel more rapidly during daylight. He punched at the buttons on the hand-held Magellan NAV1000M he carried to fix their position. The Magellan was a monitor that linked them into the Global Positioning System, or GPS. It weight less than a pound and could fix
their position to within twenty-five meters, eighty-one feet, anywhere in the world. It took all the guesswork out of navigating through the jungle and no one had an excuse for getting lost. Mackay oriented his map and took a compass bearing. “I’ll lead,” he said, putting the map away. “Have Carlin follow with the SatCom. We’ve got to move fast.”

Both men knew that eight miles was a long trek through a jungle. “Wish we knew what the bloody clock was,” Woodward grumbled. The SAS ran every exercise or operation on a precise time schedule and trained to “beat the clock.” It was part of their formula for success.

The long range-patrol fell to and moved out, leaving no trace of where they had spent the night.

For the first few miles they moved fast because the jungle floor was relatively free of underbrush and open under the shade of the rain forest. Mackay hunched forward under the weight of his ninety-five-pound pack and set a relentless pace. Again, he split his attention. But this time, one part of his restless mind concentrated on land navigation while the other evaluated the situation and planned ahead.

What’s the threat? he asked himself. Their eight versus a small number of fishermen. Bound to be more, he thought. Why was the boat heading for the old Gurkha camp? Was it the closest landfall or was it because of the airstrip? Has Woodward told me everything? Probably not. What was the best course of action? Get the patrol there with time to reconnoiter and plan an attack. The attack would be Woodward’s responsibility. Would Woodward let him be part of it? Probably not. We’ll see about that, Mackay thought. He increased the pace.

A nagging question kept hovering over him, refusing to go away. Why wasn’t the Malaysian or Thai government responding? They certainly had plenty of time to move a police detachment or a conventional military unit into place. He didn’t like the answer—they didn’t want to get involved.

No longer did the patrol stop to practice the immediate action drills that had been a constant part of their routine. They just slogged on. Sweat streamed down Mackay’s face and his back ached from carrying his heavy pack. He ignored the pain. Every fifty-five minutes, he would break and take a
five-minute rest before resuming the march, not wasting a second more.

They had covered over six miles, fortunate to be able to follow jungle ridges and ravines rather than having to cross them, before they hit the coastal swamp. “Can we break, sir?” Carlin, the SatCom operator asked, fatigue and respect in his voice. Mackay halted and the men moved into cover.

Woodward camp up and checked their position on the Magellan GPS monitor with Carlin. “Good navigation,” he said. Carlin told the captain that Mackay had only double-checked their position once during the trek. Woodward lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll be damned,” he allowed, beckoning Mackay over. The two men hunched over a map, plotting a way through the swamp. “A mile and a half, direct,” Woodward said.

“We can make faster time by making an end run around the swamp and coming down from the north,” Mackay said, tracing a route on the map. For the next few minutes they discussed the tactical problem in front of them. Finally, it was decided to split their small force. Mackay would lead one team to the north and move into a blocking position on the coast while Woodward would penetrate the swamp, following what looked like a low ridgeline.

When Woodward asked the men who would like to go with Mackay, Carlin said that he would go just to see if Mackay could maintain the same pace, which he doubted. Each of the other men responded in the same vein and Mackay knew that he had been accepted as one of them without reservation. There would be no question about his taking part in the action. A look crossed Mackay’s face that none of them recognized. “My God,” Woodward muttered, “I hope that’s a smile.” It was.

Mackay continued the punishing pace when he led out the three men. The route Mackay had picked led them across a series of gentle hummocks and through shallow streams and pools and they made good time as they skirted the swamp. They reached the coast and moved down onto the northern side of the Gurkha camp, arriving thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled time Woodward had set for them. Mackay sent two of his team, John and Trevor, forward to scout while Carlin contacted Woodward on the small hand-held radio each member of the patrol carried.

The reply was not reassuring; Woodward could not penetrate the swamp and had retraced his steps. He was following Mackay’s route and was at least two hours behind him. “This one’s yours,” he told the American, “until we join you.”

An hour later, John, the younger of the two men Mackay had sent forward, came back. The twenty-two-year-old man had been hardened in the rough and impoverished working-class section of Manchester and then found a home in the SAS. His youthful looks gave no indication that he was a deadly, professional killer. “The place is crawling with little brown buggers,” John told them. “All armed…mostly AK-Forty-sevens…. Two of them have Uzis. One boat at the dock—not a fishing boat. I counted seven down there and six more at the airstrip. Looks like they’re expecting someone to drop in for a visit. Trevor’s working his way around to the southern side. Should be there by now.” Mackay did not approve of a man operating alone but made no comment.

John drew a map of the compound on the back of Carlin’s map and they discussed possible ways to enter the camp. Mackay was hoping Woodward would catch up with them before the fishing boat arrived. His personal radio crackled and the fourth member of their team, Trevor, checked in. The southern side of the camp was deserted and his head count agreed with John’s. Mackay was fairly certain that there were thirteen men in the camp. “I hope they’re only carrying small arms and nothing big.”

“If they’ve got anything else,” Carlin said, “it’s probably on the boat. We’ll have to neutralize it first.” They all knew what he meant. “Trevor’s got his Hilton.”

Mackay grunted. The Hilton was a multipurpose single-shot gun that could quickly convert from an extremely accurate twelve-gauge shell to a forty-millimeter grenade launcher. Trevor had a particular fondness for the weapon because it was light, rugged, and multipurpose. Since the men carried everything on their backs while on patrol, it was the logical choice over weapons like the much heavier Hawk multiple-round grenade launcher. Mackay had seen how Trevor could lob ten rounds a minute at maximum range with extreme accuracy and provide fire support much like that of a small mortar. “Find out if he’s in range of the dock,” Mackay said. Carlin keyed the radio and relayed the question.

“Four hundred meters,” came the answer.

Mackay thought for a moment. That was the maximum range for the Hilton. Could Trevor do it from his present location? He knew the answer. The SAS trooper would have told them if he was out of range. Mackay admonished himself to keep up with his men. “Your recommendations,” he said.

“Wait for the captain,” Carlin said. “If it goes down before he gets here, neutralize the boats and anything on the airstrip. Then withdraw.” John nodded in agreement. “They won’t be going anyplace and we go in at night.” Again, John agreed.

The radio came alive and Trevor told them he could see an approaching boat and that he was moving closer to the dock. John moved down to the water’s edge and scanned the horizon with his binoculars. Then they heard the drone of an approaching aircraft. “Good timing,” Mackay said, now fully aware that he was confronting a well-organized group and that caution was called for. John reported back that the approaching vessel was the fishing boat. Things were moving fast.

“Okay,” the lieutenant colonel said, his decision made. “Here’s the drill. The idea is to trap our ‘freedom fighters’ here with the hostages in the camp. I’m betting they’ll move the Americans from the fishing boat to the airstrip the moment they dock. You”—he pointed at Carlin—“stay here and act as Trevor’s spotter. You call in fire when the prisoners are clear of the dock and moving. Destroy the boats and then you withdraw to here.” He pointed to a place on the map. “Rendezvous with Woodward and bring him up to date. Trevor retreats into the swamp.

“John and me will cover the airstrip. We key on your barrage, nail the plane, or make sure it can’t land. We move on and join up with Trevor. Now we’ve got two teams flanking the camp and they ain’t going anywhere. We pick it up from there and go in at night. Right now it’s a containment action only.” The two Englishmen listened to Mackay’s plan and did not argue. Mackay and John disappeared into the brush as the fishing boat came around the headland and sailed toward the dock.

John moved fast, leading Mackay to the airstrip. They could hear the circling airplane but couldn’t see it yet. “Twin
engine,” John said, his voice low but not a whisper. His head jerked up. The airstrip was deserted. He looked at Mackay.

“They don’t need it,” Mackay said, reaching for his radio. “Carlin, what’s happening?” he transmitted.

“Bloody fucking seaplane,” came the answer. “The boat’s at the dock but they haven’t moved the Americans. The plane’s circling to land in the bay.”

“Can you make them abandon the boats?” Mackay asked.

Trevor answered, “Can do.” They heard the muffled pop of what sounded like a shotgun followed by an explosion. Mackay and John retraced their steps, taking care to stay in the underbrush, hearing more explosions from the dock.

Carlin spoke quietly into his radio, directing Trevor’s fire. The first round was far out to sea. He moved the second one in closer to the boats as if he was getting the range. The third one was closer still. The man on the dock got the idea and started shouting. Carlin told Trevor to halt the barrage as he watched the men drag the Americans out of the fishing boat. His lips compressed into a grim line when he saw the three girls and two young men, all naked, being pushed onto the dock. The blond-haired male pushed and shoved back at the small dark man behind him. “You fuckin’ bastard!” the American yelled, his voice reaching across the clearing. The guard jabbed the butt of his shotgun into the American’s back and sent him sprawling on the dock. A swift kick drove him to his feet and hurried him after the others. Carlin focused his binoculars on the girls and could see blood on the inner thighs of one.

“Are the hostages clear of the boat?” Mackay asked as he rejoined Carlin.

“There’s only five, not six,” the radio operator answered. “The boats look completely abandoned. I think that’s all of them.”

Mackay nodded. “Tell Trevor to hit the boats,” he said. Carlin relayed the order and the fantail of the fishing boat disappeared in the bright flash of an explosion. The three men watched in satisfaction as the lone trooper on the south side of the camp poured six more rounds into the boats and dock, setting all on fire. “Cease fire,” Carlin said and the barrage stopped.

“Tell Trevor to beat feet into the swamp,” Mackay ordered. “They’ll probably go looking for him.”

A wicked grin split John’s youthful face. “That would be a terrible mistake,” he said. He pulled a telescopic sight out of his pack and fitted it to the 7.62-millimeter Enfield sniper rifle he carried. “Sir,” he said, pointing to the seaplane that had landed but was motionless in the water, not moving shoreward.

“Discourage him,” Mackay said.

“And be good about it,” Woodward’s voice said from behind them. Mackay twisted around, glad to see the captain but worried that he had found them so easily. He had thought they were better concealed than that. Woodward sank to the ground, his face haggard from exhaustion. “Homing device on the Magellan,” he explained. “Good to within a few meters.” He motioned for the rest of his team to come in.