Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (69 page)
Dawn. Five Days Later Persian Gulf
One by one they came screaming off the flight deck of USS
Colin Powell—
twelve F/A 18C Hornets, the delta-winged angels of death, built by McDonnell Douglas, and generally regarded as the most lethal fighter bombers in the skies. At the controls were the men of the fabled Florida-based VMFA 323 squadron, the Death Rattlers, men who referred to their aircraft as
Snake 200
or
Snake 101.
This crowd represented Top Gun to the tenth power.
Colin Powell—
twelve F/A 18C Hornets, the delta-winged angels of death, built by McDonnell Douglas, and generally regarded as the most lethal fighter bombers in the skies. At the controls were the men of the fabled Florida-based VMFA 323 squadron, the Death Rattlers, men who referred to their aircraft as
Snake 200
or
Snake 101.
This crowd represented Top Gun to the tenth power.
The deck of the gigantic Nimitz Class carrier was still vibrating from the sonic shock waves from the Hornets’ engines, the thunderous sound of the launch of the last one, hurled skyward by
Bow Cat Three.
Bow Cat Three.
The carrier glowered in the early morning light, fifteen miles off the Iraqi port of Basra, way down south of the Shatt-al-Arab. High above, the Hornets moved into their attack formation. Lt. Cdr. Buzzy Farrant led them at more than six hundred knots, straight up over the flat, watery land to the left of the disputed seaway.
They came in low over the ancient territories of the Marsh Arabs. The deafening roar of this full-blown U.S. air assault would have shaken the waterside homes to their foundations, if they’d had any. Trees swayed, the earth shook, as they ripped through the skies, heading north. They reached the Tigris and changed course, coming hard right, straight for the Iranian border. Four of the Hornets peeled off and made for the port of Korfamshah. Four more kept going, following the GPS numbers, until they were almost in Iranian airspace.
Buzzy Farrant fired two Sidewinder missiles AIM9L straight at the stone bunker where the Diamondheads were stored. The bright-blue chemical explosion he left in his wake dwarfed the sunrise. They pressed on the attack, bombs and missiles, blasting a huge warehouse in the oil-refining city of Ahvaz, and then switched their attack to the airfield, where they smashed to smithereens a giant Ilyushin 11-76 military freighter.
They hit the railroad, wiped out a freight train, destroyed the jetties of Korfamshah, and put two oceangoing freighters onto the bottom of the harbor. Both ships, underwater, still burned with a dazzling bright-blue chemical flame. As did everything else in the path of the American bombardment.
The Intel had been top class, and the pristine accuracy of the attack frightened the Iranian military badly, frightened them as Gadhafi had been frightened when President Reagan explained to Tripoli precisely how displeased he was with them in 1986.
The Americans wanted their ruthless destruction of Iran’s Diamondheads kept secret, but the government in Tehran put out a halfhearted statement to the effect that it deplored yet another example of reckless American aggression. Which well and truly let the cat out of the bag.
Time
magazine, which is famously well connected in these regions, worked on the story for two weeks before coming up with “The Death Knell for the Diamondhead.” The account was masterful, detailing the dawn raid on every known storage area for the missile, especially on the huge shipment down in Korfamshah, preparing to weigh anchor for Afghanistan. It ended the story with a less well-documented, but obviously accurate, account of the reaction in France:
magazine, which is famously well connected in these regions, worked on the story for two weeks before coming up with “The Death Knell for the Diamondhead.” The account was masterful, detailing the dawn raid on every known storage area for the missile, especially on the huge shipment down in Korfamshah, preparing to weigh anchor for Afghanistan. It ended the story with a less well-documented, but obviously accurate, account of the reaction in France:
The assassination of Monsieur Henri Foche, believed to be the majority shareholder in Montpellier Munitions, appeared to take the pressure off the French government, which, for the first time, admitted the missile was French.Acting with United Nations military personnel, the government of France has closed down the arms factory, set deep in the Forest of Orléans. Sources claim that at least two of the senior directors left the building in handcuffs. The entire complex has been dismantled, and eyewitnesses believe much of the ordnance has been removed by the French military.The vexed question of the illegal missile, which caused so much sorrow in the U.S. armed forces, has thus been finally solved. But it would never have been solved had Henri Foche become president of France. And it took his untimely and brutal death to make amends for the Diamondhead, and to end its reign of terror in the Middle East.
Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford read the article with a wry grin, and an acute observation right out of the SEALs’ playbook. . . .
Sonofabitch had it coming, right?
Sonofabitch had it coming, right?
EPILOGUE: THREE MONTHS LATER
There was an October chill in the air now. And an October chill in Maine is not
the same as an October chill in Washington. Nonetheless, the World Series had not yet been played, and Mack and Tommy, both in warm jackets, were still practicing, on the beach, throwing and catching the dying embers of the summer game.
the same as an October chill in Washington. Nonetheless, the World Series had not yet been played, and Mack and Tommy, both in warm jackets, were still practicing, on the beach, throwing and catching the dying embers of the summer game.
They stood wider apart now, wider than they had been all year on the lawn outside the house. In fact, it was close to the full sixty feet between mound and plate.
Mack threw pretty hard, steadily to Tommy’s left, and the little boy kept snagging the baseball, pulling it out of the air, and throwing it back at his father, high, low, left, and right. And Mack kept catching.
He wanted to test the boy, but he didn’t want to see him fail with a wide ball, not after all he had gone through. He remembered that bad afternoon back in July when Tommy had overbalanced on an easy one and then not wanted to play again.
And he really remembered the words of the doctor who told Anne that loss of balance was one of the symptoms of ALD. But he could not help noticing that Tommy’s quick feet and fast glove were getting better every time they played.
Tommy threw a high one, up over Mack’s right shoulder. He twisted suddenly and caught it, and almost as a reflex whipped the ball back, sending it hard and low to the boy’s right. Tommy brought his left arm over in an arc, swooping low, taking the ball but rolling onto the sand, right over.
Mack started toward him, but Tommy was up in a flash, on his feet, hurling the baseball back to his father. Mack was so astounded that he just stood there as the ball shot by his left ear.
“Thought you’d get me, right, Daddy?” yelled Tommy. “And look where the ball is—quick, it’s going in the stupid water.”
Mack took off, pounding toward the ocean’s edge, splashing through the little wavelets as they rolled up over the hard sand. Coronado all over again. He could never get it out of his mind. And he looked back at his little boy, and he heard again the far-lost voices of the SEAL instructors who had once taught him.
My Trident is a symbol of my honor. It embodies the trust of those I am sworn to protect. I seek no recognition for my actions. I voluntarily place the welfare and security of others before my own.
The memories stopped him in his tracks. The sand, the sea, the cold evening breeze in his face. The voices. It all reminded him of what was gone. And what could never come back. What had been said. And what would never be said.
And he heard again his own voice now, distinct but distant, firm and certain, the words he had uttered so long ago, back on the grinder in Coronado, the creed of the Brotherhood.
For all of my days I will be a United States Navy SEAL.
Copyright © 2009 by Patrick Robinson
Published by Vanguard Press,
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information and inquiries, address Vanguard Press, 387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016-8810.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Robinson, Patrick.
Diamondhead / a new novel by Patrick Robinson.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-786-74749-8
1. Assassination—Fiction. 2. Iraq War, 2003—Fiction. 3. Weapons industry—Fiction. 4. Arms transfer—Fiction. 5. Political fiction. I. Title. PR6068.O1959D53 2009
823’.914—dc22 2008041520
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