Inside the Wire, page 11
She pressed several buttons then adjusted her mic. “Stand by for priority message from OC Two Control Actual.” She gave him a thumbs-up and he fit his headset in place.
“This is OC Two Control Actual. We’ve got a serious situation here. I need all eyeballs identifying targets that might be carrying RPGs or some other weaponry that could take down the inbound Chinook. We need to give him the most optimistic flight plan we can. Identify targets using color code purple. Control Actual, out.” He tossed his headset on his workstation. “You heard the orders, people. Everyone is identifying targets. Sonya, divvy up the workload so that there’s no overlap.”
“I’m on it.”
Leroux stood facing the displays, his hands on his hips, watching for what the teams would find as Tong split the work into quadrants. A cluster of purple targets appeared near the main staging area. He bent over and tapped at his keyboard. The display updated showing the predicted flight path of the chopper.
The door to the operations center hissed open and Morrison stepped inside, his eyes immediately on the screens. He stabbed a finger toward an image showing the helicopter. “Please tell me that the Central Intelligence Agency did not just steal a US Army helicopter and its cargo.”
Leroux’s chest tightened as Morrison joined him in the center of the room. “Sir, I can honestly say that the people piloting that helicopter are not employed by the CIA.”
Morrison eyeballed him. “You chose your words quite carefully. Are they paid by the CIA?”
“No, sir.”
This caught Morrison slightly off-guard, then his eyes narrowed. “Are they volunteers?”
Busted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything to link us to this?”
“That depends, sir.”
Morrison sighed. “Depends on what?”
“On how well Colonel Waters holds up under interrogation.”
Child snickered and both Morrison and Leroux shot him the stink-eye. Child shriveled in his chair, leaning forward and hiding behind the array of monitors in front of him. A meek “sorry” was heard and Leroux continued.
“Sir, do you want the full truth or deniability?”
Morrison waved a hand at the crowded room. “Don’t you think that’s the kind of question you ask in private?”
Leroux’s cheeks flushed. “Sorry, sir, I suppose it is.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Would it help if I told you that the two men involved are Aussies?”
A smile spread on Morrison’s face. “No Americans?”
Leroux shook his head. “No Americans.”
“Well then, if two Aussies decided to steal a helicopter and its cargo from one of our installations in Africa, then the US Army should be talking to the Australian government and not me.”
“Sounds reasonable, sir, however, if we’re successful, whoever is ultimately behind this will be thought of as heroes and geniuses.”
“And will it work out?”
Leroux turned toward the tactical display, showing an uncomfortably large number of purple targets moving toward the red line that showed the flight path. “If you had asked me that five minutes ago, I would have said yes.”
“And now?”
Leroux drew a deep breath through his nose and held it as his beautiful mind analyzed the data in front of him. He exhaled. “Fifty-fifty at best, sir.”
34 |
En Route to FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Ledger grabbed the satphone from its holder and took the call. “Go for Roo Wrangler.”
A woman’s voice responded, a voice so calm and soothing that he swore one day he wanted to meet her. “Roo Wrangler, this is Control. We’ve identified multiple targets carrying RPGs moving toward your flight path. We need you to increase altitude as much as possible and adjust your bearing ten degrees north.”
Ledger cursed, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder as he adjusted their heading and pulled up on the collective, the lumbering beast slowly gaining altitude. “Control, just how many RPGs are we talking here?”
“At least two dozen identified so far, but your adjusted flight path should put the majority of those out of range.”
“Majority?”
“Affirmative. There are still at least ten along your new flight path, and more may yet arrive.”
Ledger cursed and Clarke eyed him. “What now?”
“We’ve got at least ten RPGs in our path.”
“Bugger off! Ten?” Clarke wagged a finger at him. “Listen, those wristy bastards trying to kill us are getting seventy-two virgins if they die. With the life I’ve led, I’ll be lucky to get one syphilitic—”
Ledger cut him off. “Control, is there any indication they’re moving on the base yet?”
“Negative. No indication. They appear to still be staging their forces.”
Ledger banked slowly to the left, executing a 180, and Clarke’s eyebrows shot up. “We gone walkabout because of what I said? Listen, I can be happy with one—”
“No. I’m just improving our odds.” Ledger straightened out, continuing to gain altitude. “Control, tell our friends that we’re going to be a few minutes late, and we’re going to be dropping in like Apollo Thirteen.”
“Copy that, Roo Wrangler. We’ll pass on the message. New ETA?”
“Add ten minutes. Roo Wrangler, out.”
Ledger ended the call and fit the phone back in its cradle. Clarke stared at the altimeter as the massive chopper dragged them higher into the sky, along with the 20,000 pounds of cargo dangling underneath.
“All right, what’s the ridgey-didge? We’re gaining altitude to get out of range of the RPGs, that, I understand. It’s not like they’re packing Stinger missiles. But what was that last bit about Apollo Thirteen? Ron Howard doesn’t exactly make movies about space missions that go well.”
“If we manage to avoid the RPGs on the way in, we’re going to be in a dog’s breakfast as we descend, and because we’re descending from a higher altitude, it’s going to take even longer, which could give those wankers a chance to reposition and still shoot us out of the sky.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Cut the power, drop out of the sky like a rock, and hopefully get the engines going enough to slow us down so we don’t pancake.”
Clarke eyed him incredulously. “What are ya? A flaming galah? That’s suicide!”
“Not doing it is definitely suicide. Regardless, if we float down nice and gently to a soft landing, they’re taking us out, guaranteed. And if they manage to turn us into a flaming ball of wreckage, we could land right on those civilians that are clustered in the middle of that base. I’d rather go down hard, fast, right where I intend to, and sacrifice the aircraft rather than risk the people.”
“Well, ya tosser, do you plan on landing us right on top of the damn cargo? It’d make this entire shit-show a complete waste beyond giving our biographers an awesome closing chapter.”
Ledger pointed at the control panel for the cargo system. “As soon as that indicator shows it’s touched the ground, we cut the cable. I bank us a hundred yards to the right and Bob’s your uncle.”
“My Uncle Bob’s dead and I hadn’t planned on meeting him today.”
“Uncle Bob. Was he the one who thought he had picked up those two Shielas but they turned out to be—”
“Nah, yeah, he’s the one.”
Ledger grinned. “I can’t wait to meet him and hear how that story ended.”
35 |
South of FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Dawson had paired up with one of the trainers named Sunday, a capable young man who spoke excellent English and at least knew how to hold his weapon correctly. Dawson peered at the display of his tactical computer, half a dozen targets indicated, all rapidly moving toward their location. The latest update from Control indicated Ledger was delaying the arrival to gain altitude, but would have to do a hard insertion. The more potential RPG toting Boko Haram they could eliminate before he arrived, the better a chance he had of executing a controlled landing that would save the chopper to evac the children.
They had a slight advantage. There was only one road that led into or out of the village. With Ledger’s plan to approach at high altitude, they had much less ground to cover. Unfortunately, everybody en route to this area was also on motorcycles that had little trouble traversing much of the landscape.
“Zero One, Control. We’ve got a group of four approaching your position from the east, three-hundred meters out, over.”
“Copy that, Control. Stand by.” Dawson signaled to Sunday to slow down. He spotted a nearby berm that would make perfect cover and gunned his engine, sending his motorcycle surging toward the slight rise. He squeezed the brakes, skidding to a halt, then lay the bike on the ground out of sight, Sunday doing the same. Dawson unslung his M4 and lay prone at the top of the berm. “We’ve got four coming in on bikes from the east.”
Sunday readied his weapon. “Your orders?”
“Watch your arcs. You’re on my right, so you cover the right. We’ve got four targets so I’ll take the two on the left, you take the two on the right. When you’ve taken care of your two, turn your attention to mine if I haven’t been able to take them out. If everyone’s down, we advance on foot and make sure they’re dead. A wounded man can still fire an RPG.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
The whine of the engines grew louder and Dawson spotted the first rider come over a rise. “Here they come.” He peered through his scope. “Don’t shoot until all four are in sight.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
The fourth rider appeared.
“Set?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Take them out.” Dawson squeezed the trigger, the left-most rider dropping as he repositioned for the next shot. Sunday fired and his right-most target flipped over the handlebars, leaving Dawson to wonder if the motorcycle had been hit or if the man had involuntarily squeezed the brakes when he was shot. It didn’t matter at the moment. Dawson took out his second target cleanly then turned his attention to Sunday’s remaining target, but the Nigerian took him out first.
Dawson leaped to his feet and sprinted toward what he hoped would be four bodies. Sunday was to his right, a few paces behind him, and as they neared, Dawson slowed up, raising his M4 to his shoulder. Movement to the right had him firing several shots before continuing a slower advance. “Be careful, they could be faking being wounded. And don’t touch any of the bodies. One of them might have pulled a pin on a grenade before he died.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
Dawson indicated for Sunday to break right to provide broader coverage. Dawson advanced the final ten yards, confirming all four targets were down and dead. He carefully liberated them of their RPGs, handing two to Sunday before slinging two of his own.
“Control, Zero One. We’re secure here. Do we have any new hostiles approaching?”
“Affirmative, Zero One. Four more again from the east, half a klick out.”
“Copy that, Control. Status report on the other teams.”
“Two teams have successfully engaged hostiles. All of our people are good.”
“Copy that, Control. Zero One, out.” He turned to Sunday as he pointed toward the rise ahead. “We’ve got more coming. Same deal as before. You take them from the right, I take them from the left.”
“Can’t we just use one of these RPGs?”
Dawson shook his head. “We save these for when there are too many to take out with just guns. The last thing we want is a detonation. It’ll warn their friends that there’s trouble ahead.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got a lot to learn,” said Sunday as they sprinted toward cover, the sound of the approaching motorcycles growing.
Dawson reached out and slapped the man on the back. “You just proved you can shoot accurately in battle. That’s the most important lesson. The rest will come in time.”
Sunday grinned at him. “Soon I’ll be Rambo.”
Dawson laughed. “I suppose that makes me Colonel Trautman?”
“Yes, yes, it does.”
Dawson dropped to the ground, crawling forward the final few feet. “We’re going to have to pick a different movie.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know I’d make a terrible officer.”
36 |
Approaching FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Ledger’s heart hammered with the adrenaline pumping through his system. It had been a long time since he was this wired, and was a little out of practice, struggling to keep his nerves under control.
Clarke pointed out the window. “There it is.”
Ledger squinted as he leaned forward slightly. “Are we farther away than I think, or is that thing too small to fit two men and a dog?”
“Looks damn small to me.”
An alarm sounded and an indicator flashed.
“Strewth! What the hell was that?” cried Clarke.
Ledger squinted at the indicator. “Threat alarm. Deploy countermeasures.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
Ledger leaned over, pressing a button, the thump of chaff and flares launching from the defensive pods bringing him no comfort, the countermeasures designed for heat-seeking ordnance, not a basic RPG that simply hurled itself in the direction it was launched. And there were no evasive maneuvers to be performed in a chopper like this with 20,000 pounds of cargo dangling below it. It would be like telling a stationary elephant to dodge an incoming clown fired from a cannon.
He had to rely on the inverse relationship between distance and accuracy when it came to RPGs, and the fact they should be high enough for them not to be reached. That combination should protect them until they began to land, then the countermeasures would be employed as shock and awe.
A detonation that sounded distant had him removing his hand from the countermeasures that would be needed for when they landed. Clarke pointed to their left, exhaust trails from at least a dozen RPGs arcing toward them from the south. If they hadn’t altered their route, they would be directly in their path, though altitude should still have hopefully saved them. “Keep shooting, ya wankers, you’ve only got so many of them,” muttered Clarke.
Ledger agreed with the sentiment. The more desperate shots fired now, meant fewer they would have to contend with later.
Clarke pointed ahead. “Small arms fire.” He pressed a set of binoculars to his eyes. “It doesn’t look like they’re shooting at us. Looks like ground engagements.”
“Dardy. Maybe BD and the lads are projecting a little force outside the wire. Hopefully, that’ll give us a smoother landing.”
“Are you still planning on autorotating all the way down?”
“Unless you can think of a better idea.”
“Nah, yeah, just hover over them and cut the cable.”
“Perimeter fencing is only useful if it’s not the height of a pancake.”
Clarke shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”
“Besides, if there’s any way in hell I can save this beast, we can evacuate a shitload of civilians.”
Clarke glanced over his shoulder at the empty cabin that could comfortably hold fifty adult males and far more children. “We might be able to get them on board, but with this level of activity in the area, there’s no way in hell we’d get to altitude to actually save them. We’ll be shot out of the sky.”
Ledger sighed. Clarke was right. Even freed of its heavy cargo, the Chinook was a beast. It was never designed for a rapid exit under fire. But if he could save the chopper from serious damage, he would be willing to risk his life to get it back off the ground to bring in reinforcements. “Change of plans,” he announced.
“We have a plan?”
“We drop this cargo and get the hell out of there and try to pick up Red’s team. We can’t take the risk of seventy or eighty kids back there. If we take an RPG, they’re dead.”
Clarke regarded him. “You know, if we take an RPG, we’re done like dinner too.”
“You’re free to depart with the cargo.”
“What, and let you take all the glory if you succeed?”
“I thought you were in it to get cashed-up?”
“You already told me there’s no money, so if I have to settle for something, glory will have to do. I’ll upload my story to Instagram and strike me lucky. I’ll make millions.”
Ledger rolled his eyes. “You’ve got three photographs and two followers. Something tells me you’ll be lucky to get a jar of Vegemite out of this.”
Clarke’s eyes widened and an exaggerated smile spread. “Suddenly, this all became worth it.”
Ledger roared with laughter as he cut their speed for the final approach. “I’ll put that on your gravestone. ‘He did it for Vegemite.”
37 |
FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
“Zero-Seven, Control. Your chopper is on final approach now. ETA, two minutes.”
Atlas turned, peering into the distance. He spotted the chopper and its massive shipping container dangling below it, lumbering toward them, RPGs streaking through the sky and falling short, small arms fire chattering in all directions around the base as Dawson and the others engaged the inbound hostiles hell-bent on taking down the helicopter. He and Niner had already cleared the landing zone, making enough room for the container and the chopper. Buhari’s men had cleared where the new barrier would go, the front loader already having scraped it level before returning to its tree-clearing efforts. He whistled loudly and Buhari spun. Atlas pointed at the front loader. “Get it in position with a full load.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” replied Buhari, who then sprinted outside the wire through a large opening they had cut that would give them access to the pile of dirt, and space for the new barrier to pass through. Niner lit half a dozen flares and began dropping them around the perimeter of the LZ as Atlas started popping smoke, tossing the canisters toward the fence line as the chopper positioned overhead. Niner joined him and they both peered up into the sky.
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