“Helicopters should be putting down now,” he told his wingman, Captain Kevin Sullivan. Sullivan acknowledged. Packing a pair of HARM missiles, Sullivan was to watch for any radar indication that would indicate SAM activity. The HARMs, or High-speed Anti-Radiation Missiles, were designed to home in on the powerful radar systems used by SAMs. In this particular scenario, they were looking for an SA-3 battery, a medium-altitude, medium-range missile system protecting an installation on the northern coast of Somalia.
The simulated coast of Somalia. They were actually flying over Ethiopia.
“Ground team inbound,” snapped the Chinook pilot on cue. The secure, coded KY-58 com system rendered the voice almost metallic. “Taking fire. LZ is hot.”
“Poison One riding in,” said Mack. He snapped the sidestick hard, rolling into a dive from 18,500 feet. Mack gave a quick glance toward his radar-warning receiver, making sure he was not being tracked. He mimed hitting his master arm switch, working through his routine as if he were actually carrying the four GBU-24 laser-guided bombs and six five-hundred-pound “dumb” or unguided bombs they planned to use on the mission.
“SA-3 site is up,” said Sullivan. “Dotted. HARM away. You’re clean.”
In theory, the most serious antiair site Mack would face had just been taken care of before it could launch missiles.
Knife, meanwhile, had put his Viper into a steep dive toward the target. His targeting system in the HUD projected a diamond smack on the long wall at the base below; the wall was simulating a tank.
“Bombs away,” he said, pretending to pickle the iron off his wings. He jostled the wings up and down, as if simulating the g forces as three thousand pounds fell off, beginning to recover and position himself to fire the laser-designated GBUs on the ground team’s cue.
* * *
GUNNY FELT HIS KNEE TWINGE AS HE TROTTED TOWARD his two-man SPG team. He tried to ignore it, grumbling as the F-16 banked above.
“All right, tank is wiped out,” he told the men. “Get the machine gun. Come on, let’s go, let’s go. This ain’t a pleasure cruise. Move it!”
“Bam,” said the loader after the gunner mimed the weapon firing.
“Good, okay, okay,” shouted Gunny. The men were leaping over the wall, firing live rounds at the empty warehouse.
A fresh flare rose in the distance. Captain Gordon trotted up, a nightscope in his hand. There were only three night-vision binoculars assigned to the entire thirty-member assault team.
“Looking good, Sergeant,” said Gordon.
“Uh-huh,” said Melfi. His knee was really screaming now, but there was no time to baby it. With the first and second ring of ground defenses now wiped out, the six men on his right were supposed to move in and take out the surface-to-ship batteries installed along the railhead. The Silkworm missile launchers were being simulated by a pair of old Land Rovers at the far end of the warehouse complex. Gunny half-trotted, half-walked behind the fire team as they scrambled forward. As they bolted over the wall that had played the role of the tank, they suddenly stopped.
“What’s going on?” he yelled at them over the wall.
“Supposed to be an armored car,” hissed one of the men, reminding him of the scenario. “We’re hitting it with the LANTIRN for the F-16.”
“Shit. Right. Sony,” said Gunny, taking advantage of the break to walk around to the edge of the wall rather than struggling over it. Meanwhile, the fire team leader illuminated the pretend target so the F-16 above could hit it with GBU-24’s.
“Destroyed!” yelped the team’s corn specialist, who was communicating with the plane.
Gunny followed along as the team proceeded to the parking area where the Silkworms were supposed to be. The Marines moved quickly—a little too quickly, of course, since there was no one actually in front of them. The two demolition specialists set their charges on the Land Rovers.
“Move out, move out!” called the team leader.
Gunny retreated with the others. He barely made it back to the wall before the cars blew up.
“Okay, into the helicopter!” Captain Gordon screamed.
Gunny permitted himself a moment’s worth of satisfaction, staring at the flaming trucks. They’d made sure the gas tanks were full—might as well have one big boom. Then he walked back toward the LZ, where the helicopter was winding its props.
“HELO OUTBOUND,” SMITH TOLD HIS FLIGHT.
The other pilots checked in as the four F-16’s proceeded to their postattack rendezvous point. In theory, two HARM missiles, six five-hundred-pound iron bombs, and a total of eight GBU-24’s had been fired at the ground installation on the coast of Somalia, all scoring hits. Destroyed were two SA-2 and four SA-3 ground-to-air launchers, along with their radar vans and specialized crews. More importantly, two batteries of Silkworm antiship missiles had also been wiped out. Not to mention one tank, one armored car, and an unspecified number of Somies.
Fantastic. Now if the Iranians and Somalians would cooperate, the operation could proceed.
Smith squirmed in the F-16 seat. Canted back at thirty degrees to make it more comfortable in high-g maneuvers, it felt awkward to him, almost as if he were sitting in a dentist’s chair. He knew that eventually he’d get used to it, but that didn’t soothe the kinks in his shoulders.
Mack checked the time. Four-forty. They had plenty of time to go again, as planned. But before he could signal the helicopter, their ground controller broke in.
“Poison Flight, this is Madcap Magician. Return to base. Repeat, return to base.”
“One copies,” he said, recognizing the voice of ISA commander Major Hal Briggs.
Briggs ordinarily wasn’t up this early, let alone working the radio. And Mack knew the major was supposed to be in Saudi Arabia today, overseeing another operation only tangentially related to the crisis in Somalia.
Smith’s heart started double-pumping. “Okay, guys,” he told the others. “Let’s get back to base pronto.”
The White House
21 October, 0700 local
IN HIS SEVEN MONTHS AS SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO THE National Security Council, Jed Barclay had seen—seen, not met, not talked to—the President of the United States of America exactly twice before. And now today—now, this instant—he was giving him a personal briefing in the upstairs residence of the White House on the most important and dangerous international development since the Gulf War.
Hell, this was twenty times more dangerous, as he was endeavoring to point out between his nervous coughs and tremors.
The President’s Chief of Staff frowned as the word “hell” escaped from Jed’s mouth. Neither the President nor Ms. O’Day reacted. Jed pushed on.
“The Iranian mullahs have decided that the time is right for their Greater Islamic League. That is, of course, Islam as they interpret it, not as most of the rest of the world or even Iranians interpret it. But you’re all aware of that. The takeover of the Somalian government was the first step. Locating the Silkworm antiship missiles there was the second. They have a credible threat to shipping, and their ultimatum must be taken seriously. In a few months, they’ll have the aircraft carrier they’re building with the Chinese. Either the West—us basically—adds a one-hundred-percent tax to the price of oil and divides it among members of their alliance, or they will attack shipping. They’ve menaced two ships already.”
Jed paused, sensing that he was starting to hyperventilate. He had prepared a short sidebar to his presentation outlining the origins of some of the weapons systems known or suspected to have been shipped to Somalia and southern Iran, including a dozen improved SA-2Bs that seemed to have come from Yugoslavia. But it was superfluous and his audience was anxious; he took a long breath and moved on.
“We have several options. The first, of course, is negotiation—”
President Lloyd Taylor shifted in his seat. “Cut to the chase, son. The election will be over before your report is. What are the odds of the covert action working?”