Chapter 10
Captain Ty “Monzo” Alexander intently studied the green-tinted video screen that was set into the fire control console before him.
Regardless of the fact that they were flying at an altitude of over ten thousand feet, and that it was almost pitch-black outside, the monitor was filled with a detailed picture of the ground below.
The gunship’s Fire Control Officer easily picked out the V-shaped formation of vehicles belonging to the good guys. He supposed that the elongated limousine in the center of the protective wedge held the President. Though Monzo hadn’t voted for the man, he was still Commanderin-Chief, and no crazy terrorists were going to have their way with him if Monzo had anything to say about it.
With the rich strains of Johnny Cash singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” blaring away in the background of the fire control suite, Monzo isolated the hostile formation moving toward the motorcade on the Infrared sensor system. They were within five hundred meters of the friendlies, which was closer than he would have liked under the circumstances.
“That’s your target IR,” said Monzo into his chin mike.
“Track the northernmost element and sweep south.”
“IR’s tracking,” informed the Staff Sergeant operating the IR system.
“OK, pilot,” said Monzo into his mike.
“FCO’s got IR. Gun one, trainable. Target is thirty-plus dismounts, five hundred meters from the friendlies. FCO is ready!”
“Navigator confirms target, cleared to fire,” said the young Lieutenant seated to Monzo’s left.
“Pilot’s in the sight. Arm number one,” ordered the pilot over the intercom.
“Number one is armed,” the flight engineer responded.
That was all the IR operator had to hear to mash down on his consent button and rake the enemy formation with three hundred and fifty rounds of high-explosive 25mm projectiles.
Monzo noted that the enemy formation was suddenly cut in half, and it was no longer moving toward the motorcade.
“OK, crew, switching to number three gun, trainable on the TV. Prox rounds, same target. FCO’s ready.”
The crew performed the same series of cross-checks as before.
Yet this time the gunners in the back of the aircraft began feeding proximity-fused projectiles into the huge 105mm howitzer protruding from the gunship’s left side. These rounds were designed to shower the enemy with razor-sharp shrapnel, and were extremely lethal when used against troops in the open.
It was their TV operator who depressed his firing button, and the entire airplane shook with the recoil of the largest gun ever placed on an aircraft. Ten rounds later, Monzo could see no further movement from the area below.
“Pilot, FCO’s got no movement on the western target set.
Guidance is shifting east three klicks to the fixed gun emplacements.”
They began on the highland’s northernmost end. Like a surgeon performing laser surgery, Monzo aligned the crosshairs to isolate the individual bunkers, where the mortars and RPGs were being fired.
“Hold her steady. Guns are armed. FCO’s ready. Guns ready. Shoot!”
Once more the gunship violently shook as the howitzer fired.
Monzo followed the shell as it descended on target, a streaking, lightning bolt of death from above. Unlike the 25mm ammunition, this shell detonated with a wallop, sending a miniature mushroom-shaped cloud high in the air. In a little more than a minute, this process was repeated ten more times, with ten different targets falling victim to Spooky Threenine’s wrath.
Monzo estimated that he could clear the entire ridge with the howitzer in another five minutes. For variety’s sake, he had the boys crank up the 40mm Bofors gun, which had a firing rate of one hundred rounds per minute. After all, the Commanderin-Chief himself was watching this display, and it was time to show the President that those defense dollars were being wisely spent.
Samuel Morrison stood outside his Suburban and watched the incredible display of firepower. He had called down many an air strike while in “Nam, but none of them came close to matching the amazing precision firepower and area-saturation capabilities of the AC-130U. Like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, the northern end of the Salgir highlands was ablaze in flames, with shells continuing to rain down on the plateau with clockwork regularity.
He had already watched the gunship make mincemeat out of the mysterious ground-assault element that had previously threatened them. From the truck’s backseat, he had looked on with awestruck wonder as a wall of deadly lead began descending from the sky. These shells tore into the enemy, and in a matter of mere minutes, the assault force was reduced to a bleeding mass of torn flesh and broken bone.
Before he could cry out in relieved joy, the first shells began to hit the plateau. And since that time, not a single mortar round or RPG had been fired at them. The SAIC knew that they had been extremely fortunate. If it hadn’t been for the gunship, they’d surely be either dead or captured. And now was the time to lick their wounds, and get the hell out of this infernal river valley, before their luck ran out.
Since both bridges were out of commission, they had only two options. They could try breaching the barricade and attempt crossing the old bridge, or they could leave the paved road and try to find a drivable pathway through the woods. Neither of these choices sounded particularly appealing to Morrison, and he supposed that if the barricade could be safely circumnavigated, that would provide them the most direct route.
He redirected his glance in an effort to spot the barricade’s flashing red lights. And it was as he turned his gaze away from the plateau that he just missed seeing the flame-red plume of a surface-to-air missile, arcing upward into the night sky from the plateau’s southernmost tip.
“Strella! Strella, seven o’clock! Break right!” cried the amplified voice of the gunship’s pilot over Red’s monitor speaker.
There could be no missing the concerned horror in his voice, and an anxious murmur escaped the lips of the knot of personnel gathered around Red’s workstation. Included in this distinguished group was Admiral Warner, Colonel Pritchard, and Commander Brittany Cooper.
“So now the bastards not only have an assault element, but a surface-to-air capability as well,” fumed Warner.
“They’ve got to be regulars, and not an isolated terrorist group.”
All eyes were locked on the console, and when a full minute had passed with no transmission emanating from the wire-mesh speaker. Red dared to address her chin mike.
“Spooky Threenine, this is Nightwatch six-seven-six. Do you read me? Over.”
She repeated this same broadcast several more times; when it failed to garner a response, she shifted frequencies to try a variety of emergency bands. In every instance they received nothing but low-level static, and it was Pritchard who offered the somber assessment.
“I’m afraid Spooky Threenine didn’t make it.”
“Master Sergeant Schuster,” said Warner to the airman seated at the workstation directly across the aisle from Red.
“Are you still in contact with Checkmate Two?”
Schuster pushed back his chin mike and answered, “That’s affirmative, sir. The last SATCOM transmission from the motorcade was fifteen seconds ago. They were broadcasting on the backup system, and sent along yet another all-clear.
“At least it appears that the President’s still alive,” observed Pritchard.
Warner worriedly rubbed his creased brow.
“Without the cover of that gunship, who the hell knows how long he’ll be able to stay that way. Damn it, I warned him that this whole secret negotiation business was no good. At the very least, it should have been held on American soil. But no, he had to go and travel to the ends of the earth, and look at the fine mess we’re in — a heavily armed, fifteen-vehicle motorcade, now whittled down to five surviving cars, with God knows how many enemy forces still out there, and no way for us to send in reinforcements.”