“It’s all fire and smoke,” he said into the radio. Then he remembered proper radio procedure. “Over.”
“The radars – gimme the BDA, over,” Banks demanded, using the acronym for Battle Damage Assessment.
“Can’t see – gotta let the smoke clear, over.”
“Observe and report, out,” Banks said, putting down the radio. He had been afraid of this – he had hoped he could confirm the radars were out of action and scoot, but now he had to stick around until he got confirmation that the units were destroyed.
“Fire,” he told his team.
The half-dozen guerrillas near him began to fire their deer rifles, concentrating their shots on the windows of the barracks and the control room. Banks joined in with his M14. The idea was suppression – it looked like the massive explosion had stunned the garrison and the rifle fire would encourage them to keep down as the observer waited for the smoke to clear so he could confirm that they had accomplished their mission and get out of there.
After about 60 seconds, the door of one of the barracks opened and two figures stumbled out. Both were armed. One fired an automatic burst in the general direction of the east. Immediately all the shooters zeroed in on these live targets. After a few more rounds, the non-shooter staggered and fell. A moment later, the shooter dropped straight down – Banks figured somebody’s .30-06 bullet had severed his spine at his neck. The team returned to firing at the buildings’ windows; no one else came outside or attempted to return fire.
Up on the tower, the observer watched the buildings surrounding the parking lot outside the wire as they burned. But he could now sort of see the field through the smoke and ash and dust. There had been three radar dish trailers. In the flickering light of the fires, he could see that two were knocked over, their dishes bent. One of them was itself on fire. The third trailer was still upright, but its dish was gone – blown completely off.
The observer keyed his mic. “The targets are non-op. I say again, they are non-operational, over,” he said.
“Roger. Get back here, out,” said Banks.
The observer climbed down the ladder, than dropped the last ten feet to the ground and took off running to the woods, just as he had rehearsed. Not more than ten steps inside the tree line he met up with Banks and the team, and together they followed their planned egress route out to their waiting rides back home.
Two vans headed north on 145 past I-64. Where they crossed the glorified creek that is the Anderson River near a small farm, they flashed their headlights twice and continued north. A quarter mile north, at the edge of the field, Turnbull saw the signal.
“We’re a go,” he said to his dozen troops. Signal intelligence would detect that the Branchville Correctional Facility radars were out and the mission would commence.
It was 0020 hours. The guerrillas were moving to their assigned positions with their metal buckets. At 0025, Turnbull gave the signal, and each guerrilla lit the lighter fluid-soaked wood in his bucket.
The blacked-out MH-47G had been circling over largely unoccupied territory south of the big bend in the Ohio River a few miles west of Brandenburg for about twenty minutes when the radio call from mission control came in. The crew already expected it – the advanced electronic countermeasures onboard the special ops Chinook had already seen the radar site at Branchville go black.
“Conspiracy 17, Reagan, Reagan,” the controller called, using the code word to proceed on the mission. The helicopter, call sign Conspiracy 17 (pronounced “one seven”) did not respond – it was on radio silence. Instead, the pilot, a US Army Chief Warrant Officer 4 out of the 160th Special Operations Regiment at Ft. Campbell, vectored northwest through the big, wide gap that just appeared in the People’s Republic’s radar coverage of its southern border.
The helicopter was a dark hole in the sky, its running and interior lights off and the special engine muffler engaged. That cost them a little bit of power, but they still had plenty of speed, especially since it was a short hop and the ship wasn’t wearing its extra fuel tanks.
The pitch black, except for the occasional lighted building below, was no problem. The pilot engaged his forward-looking infrared and followed the pre-programed flight plan.
They crossed over the border south of Derby on the Ohio River and were officially in enemy territory. They flew fast and low on a course that took them just south of Branchville, where the staff sergeant manning the starboard side M134 7.62mm electric Gatling gun got a good view of the fire at the prison and the rescue vehicles that were showing up some 40 minutes after the incident.
The aircraft turned north about 1000 feet east of 145 and headed north parallel to the road. The long black ribbon running east-west that was I-64 appeared ahead of them. There was very little traffic and what there was always came in packs of four or five vehicles – obviously patrols. None of the patrols were close enough to see or hear them – and even if the enemy was using thermal imaging (unlikely, since that investment would take money away from the PR’s prioritized welfare spending) the helicopter featured an infrared damper for its exhaust ports to reduce its heat signature in the sky.
About a minute later, the pilot saw an upside down “T” formation of four light sources on the objective up ahead. He slowed as he came in and descended, and he put the wheels down just below the base of the marker, with the long refueling pole jutting forward between the flame buckets. The ground supported the heavy aircraft, as expected, and there was remarkably little dust kicked up by the rotor wash. The analyst who had selected the site had done his job well.
While his men doused the signal fires, the bare-headed Turnbull approached the rear of the aircraft as the ramp lowered. The crew chief stood on the deck, ear protection and goggles on. He signaled and Turnbull and several men moved onboard to push out the three wheeled pallets. Once they were all on the ground, Turnbull turned back to the crew chief, who gave him a thumbs up. Turnbull returned the gesture.
The Chinook powered up as the ramp closed, and Turnbull and his men covered their faces as the rotor wash flowed over them. Conspiracy 17 lifted up into the night sky, almost disappearing in the dark, and then it veered east and left them, heading home on a different course.
Turnbull fitted his cap back on his head as the dust settled, then turned to his troops.
“Let’s get this shit loaded up,” he ordered. Then men began breaking down the pallets. Turnbull walked around and observed as the guerrillas moved with a purpose. It looked like everything was there. A dozen Javelin missiles. Some AT 4 launchers. The C4 and det cord. The special purpose shaped demolitions. Mines. Medical supplies, including anti-coagulant bandages. But where was his special request?
The men had pulled their 4x4s onto the field and were loading up the truck beds. Lee Rogers, the logistics expert from Walmart who was Turnbull’s supply officer, was supervising. Turnbull finished radio checks with the security elements watching the roads for patrols when Rogers approached with an olive drab steel ammo can that was dangling a manila tag attached to the handle by a white piece of string.
“This one’s for you – I think,” she said.
Turnbull took it, and Rogers began directing the work.
The tag said, “For Michael N.”
Turnbull flicked open the latch. There was a piece of paper and ten extended .45 1911A1 mags with hollow points. He unfolded the paper. It read, “They’re coming. 48 hours. Don’t be their Steppin’ Stone.”