Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (43 page)

"We don't need this much," he shouted into Welch's ear. "At the ship's speed, and with the light loading, we could launch in half this space. Or less."

"Does it hurt any to have the extra safety factor?" Terry shouted back.

"Well . . . no," McCaverty admitted with a shrug. "But it isn't needed."

"I'll take it, anyway." Again, Welch's hand unconsciously stroked the reserve.

Again, McCaverty shrugged.

A member of the ship's crew began trooping the portside line of aircraft. "Launch point in thirty minutes," he announced, quietly, as he passed each group or individual. He said the same to Welch and McCaverty as he got to the forwardmost CH-801. Then the crewman turned to walk the line of planes on the starboard side.

"Load up?" McCaverty suggested.

"Yeah," Terry agreed. Even though it was thirty minutes to launch his heart began to beat a little faster.

"Need a hand getting to the plane?" the chief pilot asked.

"Getting to it, no," Terry said, beginning the awkward, overladen shuffle to the door. "Getting into it? Yes."

The team consisted of twelve men, two per aircraft. Yes, in theory the planes could have lifted three each, plus the pilot. In practice, though, it was just too cramped with three men, fully equipped for both parachuting and combat, to exit the things easily. And where ease of exit meant speed of exit, and speed was rather important, two would have to do.

McCaverty checked that both Welch and his other passenger, Little Joe Venegas, were strapped in for the take off. Ordinarily, this would have been the job of a crew chief. Since, however, the table of organization, such as it was, was quite skimpy in some areas, he had to do it himself. Oh, sure, the Mexicans could have done it, but they were busy getting ready the rocket and machine gun pods that would be the next load for most of the aircraft.

McCaverty's was only the third bird to actually start its engine. He was first in order of lift off, even so. He looked to the side and saw two conical lights come on. One of the ship's crew-though the light allowed past the opaque cones was faint, the pilot thought it might be the same one who'd passed the word to begin loading-signaled by holding them straight overhead and parallel to each other: Assuming control. In reply, McCaverty gave a little gas to the engine: You got it.

Apparently satisfied with that, the ground guide began walking toward a spot on the center line of the flight deck. The pilot duly followed, then stopped-except for aiming the plane toward the bow-when the guide crossed the lights over his head. The lights moved off to the side with McCaverty's eyes following.

"All my life . . . " McCaverty whispered, as his eyes followed the lights, "all my life I've wanted this . . . just this . . . this feeling of impending . . . crisis . . . this sense of plunging into danger."

One of the batons twirled, then pointed toward the bow. With a half-maniacal cackle of unadulterated glee, McCaverty pushed the throttle forward. The plane vibrated, lurched, and then began to move down the ad hoc air strip. Long before it reached the end of the strip the pilot felt the thing begin to lift, the force pressing him down into his seat.

As the plane left the Merciful behind, McCaverty could be heard singing-well . . . trying to sing- "Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys . . . "

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Why join the Navy if you can be a pirate?

-Steve Jobs

D-1, Yemen

"Short final," the taciturn pilot said over the intercom.

After the buffeting from flying with the landing wheels barely above-indeed, sometimes skimming-the waves, then barely above the sand dunes, though it didn't skim those, it was a welcome relief to Konstantin when the helicopter went into a low hover. The pitch of the engine changed, as well.

Though he'd never before flown into anywhere in an MI-28, Konstantin was certain that the change in pitch meant a landing. The sudden shudder and bounce as the landing wheels touched down told him his guess was correct.

"Devaye, devaye, muzhiks," the pilot said, which translated roughly as, "Un-ass my helicopter, peasants."

Konstantin flipped the small door open and dived out. He hit and rolled, groaning, "I am getting too old for this shit," before scurrying to take up a position around the helicopter. He couldn't see the other bird, but heard it not far away.

"Still darker than three feet up a well-digger's ass," he said, with satisfaction, looking around at the sand dunes that seemed to enclose him on all sides. He flipped onto his back and brought his NVGs down to his face, scanning quickly but thoroughly.

Already, the helicopter was powering down. In the grainy green image he saw the other bird. He saw, too, that the other three men were likewise lying down around it. Closer in he caught glimpses of the two, Musin and Galkin, who had flown with him.

And now we wait for the choppers to power down completely, put up the camouflage nets, break out the motorcycles, change clothes, rest until nightfall, and then . . . .we're off.

D-1, MV
Merciful,
paralleling the eastern coast of Ophir

Down in the hull, several layers of containers down, forward of the internal open assembly area, Boxer watched over a UAVs pilot's shoulder as another greenish image, this one on a monitor screen, changed with the movement of the UAV.

"Fuel?" Boxer asked.

"Maybe half an hour," the pilot replied, after checking his somewhat ephemeral instruments. "Not enough to get the thing back."

"All right," Boxer nodded. For a moment he considered the very high amusement quotient in sending the thing to Saudi Arabia where it could be found, after crashing, complete with Israeli markings, on Saudi sands. It would be a hoot, and bound to muddy the waters, but . . . better not.

Feeling mildly guilty, he said, "Well, we do have a limited number of spares. Spend the fuel circling around Konstantin's position until you have only enough to get to the sea. Then head to sea and ditch it. If you see anything that might be of interest to the Russians, let me know."

"Roger."

Boxer shifted his attention to a different pilot and monitor, this one aimed at the port of Bandar Qassim and the airport to its west.

"Sir," said the pilot, "two boats have left the rectangular harbor. I mark them as targets three and seventeen, both presumed pirates. They've split up, one heading west toward the Red Sea and the other heading generally toward . . . well, toward us. Maybe an hour and a half behind us, at our current speed and heading. That's assuming they haven't changed course. And about that I just don't know; I can't cover two things with one UAV."

Eyes on his screen and controls, the pilot didn't notice Boxer close his eyes and envision the current positions of the LCM, The Drunken Bastard, and Namu. The latter, in any case, would be fifty or sixty feet underwater and thus in no obvious danger from a primitive surface ship manned by pirates. The LCM, however, could be in danger if Bastard left her to her own devices.

"No," Boxer said. "You keep watch over Bandar Qassim." But I'd better go see the ship's captain and Stauer.

"At what time," Boxer called out as he left the control station, "what precise time, did the boat that's tailing us leave port?"

It's a danger Stauer thought, but not a disaster. This, too, was a part of command; to know the difference.

The bridge was still lit only in red. Kosciusko, Stauer, and Boxer surrounded a chart spread on a table. It was, perhaps, a bit primitive, but it worked well enough. On it were several wooden models for the known or presumed positions of six seagoing vessels. For two of those, the pirates, erasers had been pressed into service, one blue-green, the other pinkish. Under the light, they were merely slightly different shades of red, as, indeed, were the faces of the men.

Kosciusko wasn't saying much of anything, just peering closely at the chart and, to all appearances, doing calculations in his head.

"Anything we use has the chance of giving the game away," Stauer said. "If we launch either a CH-801 or a helicopter with rocket and machine gun pods, someone on shore will see the firing or the tracers. Might anyway. If we wait until they're climbing up our ass and engage from here it's the same problem only worse. How sure are you that they're heading for us?"

"I'm not sure," Boxer admitted. "We've only got so many UAVs and so many pilots. But pickings have to have gotten scant for the pirates since the merchant ships have started avoiding this stretch of coast. I figure they noticed us-ground observer, maybe-as we rounded the Horn and launched then, intending to overtake and take us. They probably haven't clue one about what we are."

"Can we just avoid them?" Stauer asked.

"Do we want to?"

At Stauer's raised eyebrow, Boxer continued, "Even leaving aside the general good to mankind in taking them out, if we don't take them out they just might be in the landing area at precisely the wrong time. And if we lose them by heading to sea, that won't change the risk that they might be hanging around the beach when we start to land."

"I can see the problem," Stauer agreed, then asked, "Did you warn Chin and the Bastard about the other boat?"

"Just before I called you up here," Boxer relied. "He says, ‘No sweat. Piece of cake.'"

"That's comforting." Stauer said it in a way that indicated it was not at all comforting. "How's he plan on taking them down without giving away what he is?"

"I asked him that. He said that he and the LCM were heading out to sea where there'd be less chance of anyone spotting their fires. He can go further out to sea without risking delay with another operation, though it would surely slow down the landing if we lose a third of our capability."

Stauer shook his head, doubtfully. "The LCM's slow. What if the pirate closes before he can get far enough out?"

Boxer smiled broadly. "He said, ‘chop-chop.' He also said-"

Apparently satisfied with his mental calculations, Kosciusko suddenly stood bolt upright, cutting off whatever Boxer had been about to say. "You know, Wes," Kosciusko said to Stauer, "we could kill two birds with one stone here. If we're clever."

"Oh?"

D-1, thirty-six miles northeast of Nugaal, Ophir, and about three hundred feet over ground

The land below wasn't just sere; it was also rough. That meant that the six CH-801s moving across it in a loose staggered trail formation were also moving up and down . . . and up . . . and down and . . .

Terry Welch wanted to puke. Desperately wanted to, as a matter of fact. He held it in, no matter how hard the self-willed vomit hammered at his tonsils, because one hurl and it was a safe bet that everyone aboard the aircraft would do likewise.

On the plus side, at least the nausea keeps me from worrying.

And there was a great deal to worry about. He could worry about the planes-especially the lead bird, his own-not finding the right drop zone. Sure, sure, the Global Positioning System-GPS-should ensure that this did not happen. And, sure, McCaverty had shown considerable ability to find the right spot during practice jumps back in Brazil. "But that was yesterday . . ."

Then, too, there was the worry about the self-packed chutes opening properly, and, given the altitude at which they intended to jump, quickly. The reserve on his belly may have been a comfort, but it was a small one, if so, because there mightn't be any time to deploy it if the main failed.

Landing? Jesus, landing? Dark, rocky, and anything but flat. And laden like pack mules.

Then there was the hump over the mountains, preparing a hide and hiding out all day, then a night move to the objective, and finally, the assault.

And let's not even get into the timing of the extraction. Or making sure we can get off the airfield at Nugaal, or . . .

"Twwwooo minutes!" McCaverty announced.

Or much of anything else.

D-1, Safe House, Elayo, Ophir

There was no electricity here; thus the only light came from the fire on which they'd cooked their meal and a couple of candles burning on a table. Wahab paced back and forth, nervously, causing the candles to flicker and the slight shadows they cast to shift in random and annoying ways.

"Never done this before, have you?" Fulton asked. A large caliber bullpup rifle-a Russian VSSk-with a long tubular extension, the silencer, sat across his lap.

The African stopped his pacing, clasped both hands behind him, and admitted, "No, nothing like this." Wahab had fought before, of course, as a regular, back when he'd had a country with a regular armed force, and then as an irregular, leading his fellow clansmen against other clans, made of those who had once been his countrymen. That, however, had been different in kind.

"Some people say it's the waiting that's worst," Rattus said, with an evil smile. "Me, I've always thought the worst part was when the bullets were smacking around your head; that, and the incoming artillery. Oh, and the IED's . . . Jesus! I remember one time-"

Rattus's beginning monologue was stopped by a dirty look from Buckwheat Fulton.

"Relax, Wahab," Fulton said. "Our job is pretty easy. No, it's not without its risks, but overall it's pretty easy. We take the vehicles to a place about two miles out from the airport's military side. Then we split up, go in on foot to a point about half a kilometer from that. Then we shoot the engines until every helicopter or other military plane there is unable to fly or someone notices us doing it. If we can kill that someone, we keep doing it.

"Odds are fair, though, that nobody will notice even if they're awake. The rifles are subsonic and suppressed. The only thing anyone's going to hear is the strike, and that's an unusual enough sound that they're unlikely to know what it is. Or where it's coming from."

"Now get some sleep," Fulton finished. "Big day tomorrow."

D-1 Minisub
Namu
, mouth of Bandar Qassim harbor.

Enroute, they'd surfaced and popped the hatch half a dozen times to get their location with a hand-held GPS. In no case had they stayed up more than as long as it took to pop the hatch and get a reading. But the last previous check they'd made had had them within five kilometers of the target and a small fraction of that of where they should have been on their predetermined course.