Black Storm (11 page)

Zeitner raised a pencil. “You said ‘sewers and drains,' sir. Is there a difference?”

Dork,
Blaze thought. Just like high school, there was always somebody who had to make class longer by asking smart-ass questions.

“Good question. There is. Sewers in modern Western cities come in three categories. ‘Sanitary' sewers, for sewage or wastewater, ‘storm' sewers, for storm water runoff or drainage, and ‘combined' sewers that serve both purposes. We used combined sewers till about the nineteen fifties, but the storm water tended to overwhelm the treatment plants, so now our preferred system is separate sanitary and storm sewers. Storm sewers go directly to a discharge point. Sanitary sewers lead to treatment before discharge.”

He was starting on underflow and overflow when Gault said, “We're not going to be sewage engineers, sir. What do we need to know to navigate these things? If we have to.”

The engineer said they needed to know about overflow and underflow because in a combined sewer system the underflow, or wastewater, went to a treatment point and the overflow, mostly storm water, went straight to discharge, in this case the Tigris. In other words, which system they were in would determine where they ended up. Gault asked if they got to keep the map, and the engineer said yes. He said again, though, that they might find anything under Baghdad, the city was so old. The thing to bear in mind was that although flow always went toward the river, the Tigris curved through the city in great lazy loops, so that ‘downhill' could be east or west, north or south, depending on where you were.

And all of a sudden, Blaze didn't know why, but listening to all this it suddenly hit him:
They were going
. When they said the mission was off, he'd griped, but inside he was relieved. Now he felt like he had to shit. Felt fucking fear start to glow cold along the inside of his bones.

He touched the Glock, hard against the cheek of his butt, reassuring himself. Going to war. Just like his dad had in Nam. No, better than that; he wasn't a fucking barber. He was a marine.

If he had to go, he'd take some fucking ragheads with him.

 

DAN WENT
outside after the briefing and looked at the sky. He understood for the first time what it might be like over there, on the far side of that line in the sand. The Iraqis too must know this disquiet, under a sky that no longer sheltered, but transported the instrumentalities of death.

He'd seen the missile come down. Had just happened to be looking at that quarter of the sky when it fell. A fireball, like a meteor at sea, but larger, closer, glowing a lambent red. At first he'd thought it was coming right at them, over the border and down their throats. Then as it drew its fiery line, he'd seen it would pass over, pass beyond. It disappeared over the horizon, still burning; succeeded by a flash of light. Then, seconds later, the rumble of detonation.

He couldn't shake the feeling the Iraqis had a bead on them. They weren't supposed to have any overhead reconnaissance. But what if the Russians were passing satellite photos? He glanced toward the ammo dump and shivered. No bunkers, no shielding, no revetments. If a warhead hit, there'd be nothing left of ‘Ar‘ar but a smoking crater.

Well, they wouldn't be here much longer. The knowledge moved like a reptile squirming through his belly. By tomorrow morning they'd be on the far side of that invisible line.

Standing there alone, he closed his eyes and sent his thoughts out wide, out past the horizon, past the night itself. Picturing his daughter, the way he'd seen her last: slim and tall and gray-eyed, a fresh new being molded
somehow of himself and his ex. Wondering what she was doing tonight, whether she was happy…he figured he knew what Blair Titus was doing, though. Attending a fund-raiser, some party in Georgetown or McLean.

A puzzled frown creased his forehead, and he rubbed his mouth. He should call her. He should write. He'd do that, write her tonight. Maybe Nan and his mom too, though he'd already left in-case-of letters in his service jacket. But he didn't know what to say, which way to go. Maybe he should just hang it up. Chalk off another relationship to distance and separation and the Navy.

A presence to his right; he turned his head and opened his eyes to discover Gault beside him. The team leader was staring at the sky too. “Looking for Scuds, sir?” the gunny sergeant asked him. “You hear the one come down this morning?”

“I saw it,” he said. “Pretty impressive. Looked like part of the sky was coming down.”

Gault didn't respond to that. Instead he started going through his clipboard. “Sir, I wish we had more time for this, but I'd like to have you tell me and my ATL what you're going to need to do this targeting analysis. If we can get in there I want to be able to support you without a lot of discussion.”

“Sure, when do you want it?”

“Well, the sked just slipped a couple of hours. Problems with the flight plan. Now we're launching at twenty-three. I want to do a final rehearsal before it gets dark. Junk on the bunk at twenty-hundred, final inspection at twenty-one. Then move out to the boarding site. So let's make it part of the final rehearsal, when we get to the part about what we do at the objective.”

“All right.”

“Can you sign this, sir?”

He looked it over. A list of their names, ranks, serial numbers, more numbers he didn't recognize, and what seemed to be serial numbers and weapons and gear. “What's this?”

“Kill sheet, sir. The flight manifest. Check your social and your gear, initial beside your name. I need your ID card too, and anything else you want to leave behind.”

He didn't like the sound of that, but scribbled DVL and handed the clipboard back along with his wallet. “Final rehearsal, two hours,” said Gault. “Be there.”

Dan nodded, taken aback at being addressed in tones of command by an E-7; but he didn't have a problem with that. He'd take charge at the objective, when the decisions had to be made. He was turning away when Paulik came up. “Secure call for you in the comm tent,” the colonel said.

“Which way's the comm tent?”

“I'll take you over.”

Folding tables, scarred folding chairs, a bench press set in the corner, a coffee mess, banks of radio gear. A tech sergeant held up a red phone as he came in. Dan took it and keyed, staring at a photo of a smiling Saddam Hussein as he waited for the beep and the sync. Underneath it someone had printed in block letters YOUR FRIENDLY MIDEAST MUSTARD MERCHANT. “Lenson here,” he said.

“Dan, this is Admiral Kinnear. Recognize my voice?”

Blue Ridge,
a windswept deck, a warning to beware of the army and air force. “Yes, sir, I recognize it. How are you, sir?”

“Is Signal Mirror going in, Commander?”

“Yes, sir, mission is on. There was a last-minute hold but we're going in tonight.”

“Remember I asked you about your attitude toward TLAM-N?”

Dan reached back for the conversation, got only a fuzzy recollection. He said cautiously, “I think I recall that, sir.”

“Well, I wanted you to know, for your on-call fires: USS
Pittsburgh
is on station with a mixed loadout. The proword for special weapons will be ‘Desert Moonlight.' Repeat back.”

“USS
Pittsburgh,
mixed loadout, proword Desert Moonlight.”

“That will be a recommendation, not a release. Release will be by the NCA on approval of the CINC.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Do not fuck up, Commander.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Kinnear signed off. Dan handed the handset to the sergeant, and noticed Paulik was still lingering. Had heard at least his side of the exchange. The colonel said, “Problem?”

“No problem,” Dan told him. “Just last-minute updates on our Tomahawk assets.”

Paulik nodded. “I don't have the whole picture on this mission, but they've got a hard-on about it in Riyadh. When I reported to General Boomer about what the CIA said, how they'd locate it for us?”

“Yeah?”

“He said, ‘Goddamn it, do you work for me or the CIA? Stop second-guessing and get them the fuck out there.'”

Dan smiled faintly, more to show a response than that he felt like smiling. Because he didn't. Not looking at a covert insertion into hostile territory, a ground war about to start, a questionable mission without a clearly defined goal.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when he suddenly tensed, nearly dropped the steel container, and poured a scalding stream over his hand. He'd just realized what Kinnear had meant.
Special weapons,
he'd said. And given him the proword.

He looked at his shaking hands, felt the knowledge seep into him like a numbing draft of hemlock.

Kinnear had just cleared him to recommend a nuclear strike.

Gault glanced at his watch as the team fell in for patrol inspection. Past nautical twilight, now, and the dark was closing down. Engines howled from the strip, but there didn't seem to be as many strikes going out today. He wondered if it was the overcast. More rain, he'd believe. The armorer had rigged lights between the tents, so he could still see, but they were shielded from the rest of the base. The fewer people who knew they were here, the better. Which was also why they wouldn't take off from here, but meet the helo out in the boonies.

Everyone was in desert cammies, not the chocolate chip but the tricolor beige-tan-green pattern, and the desert bush covers. Their faces were cammied and they carried their weapons. When the attachments arrived Gault hitched his ruck and cleared his throat. He took inspection stance on Blaisell, square in front of him and a foot and a half away, and looked him up and down.

“Ready for this, Corporal?”

“Hot to trot, Gunny.” The kid grinned wide.

The point had the standard load: eight quarts of water in plastic canteens, thirty-five pounds of ammo, grenades, light antitank weapon, and pyrotechnics, five days' rations in his ruck. They'd already done the junk on the bunk routine, so Gault didn't so much check gear as just run his eyes over the kid, making sure his day/night
flare was pointing down, his knife and his weapon were dummy-corded to his war belt, and so forth. He jerked open Blaisell's mag pouch, got hold of the pull tab, and yanked one out. “Good mags?”

“Shot 'em all in last night, Gunny.”

“What's the AWACS call sign?”

Blaisell told him. Gault started to move on, then came back. “Still carrying that Saturday night special?”

“My Glock, Gunny? Don't leave home without it.”

Gault shook his head and went on to Nichols. The Southerner stood loose-hipped, thumbs tucked under his suspenders, cradling his M16 under his left arm. He was nearly the shortest man in the squad, but Gault knew he'd always be up. His jaw was working and Gault said, “I told you no smokeless on the mission, Lance Corporal.”

“Roger that, Gunny. Goes overboard when we climb on the helo.”

“The hell's this? What's these, SEAL Team Six gloves?”

Nichols didn't say anything. “Get rid of them,” Gault told him.

He moved on to Vertierra, running his gaze over the communicator, his ruck, radio, down to his boots, where it stopped. Vertierra had on the nylon Vietnam-style hot-weather boots.

“I told you to get boots off the EPWs.”

EPW meant enemy prisoners of war. Wearing Iraqi boots, instead of the distinctive US combat-boot tread, would make tracking them in-country that much harder. Vertierra said, “I was down there to the stockade, Gunny. Not one of them had my size feet. I got a spare pair of woolies I can pull on over these boots.”

Gault considered that. The sergeant
did
have incredibly small feet. Finally he nodded.

He moved on to Lenson, and looked him carefully and minutely over from his bush cover on down. The attachments weren't loaded as heavily as the patrol members. He'd told Zeitner he wanted them light, the same water and chow, but only half the ammo and no grenades. Not
only would that keep them up with the rest of the patrol, but giving a grenade to an untrained troop was asking for a casualty. Gray eyes looked steadily back at him. Gault gave him a half-reluctant nod of approval, muttered, “Commander.” The navy man was a quick learner, and he seemed to be in shape. Not recon cross-country heavy-ruck-toting shape, but with the lighter load he'd probably be able to keep up.

He moved to the right, and looked down.

The war paint hardened her features, but it didn't do anything for her height. In cammies and ruck, with hair stuffed up under the bush hat, Maddox looked like a shrimpy, effeminate boy. She was scowling.

“Not a happy camper, Major?”

“Oh, hell yes, Gunny. Everything's fucking wonderful.”

Swell, she had PMS. He grabbed her suspenders and pulled her ruck around, checking the adjustments on her pack frame, making sure it rode on her ass. Something about the way it hung looked odd, so he went around and lifted it. Her ruck was as heavy as his. “Jesus God,” he said. “What you got in here, Doc?”

“Things we'll need.”

He fingered a lump pressing out against the side. “What's this?”

“Dandruff shampoo.”

He wasn't sure he'd heard that right. “Say again?”

“I got it from the medics. Poured it into a gallon jug and taped the cap on.”

Gault looked at the sky, then at the others. They waited deadpan.

She said, “Dandruff shampoo contains selenium as the active ingredient. Selenium's the most effective sporicide I can come up with at short notice. If we need to decontaminate ourselves after an anthrax exposure, you'll be glad I brought it. The rest of the weight's medical and detector kits and five days' worth of MREs.”

He looked at the others again, the snicker on Blaisell's
face, Nichols's lifted eyebrow, Vertierra's dubious glance. He ran through the possibilities. Let her take it all, ditch the excess later? No, what you packed in you packed out. Otherwise you were asking for compromise. He turned back to her and said, “I don't think you understand what it's gonna be like out there on the turf. It's gonna be a ruck hump. Maybe fifteen miles a night. More, if we get compromised and have to E and E cross-country. You've got to leave some of this snivel gear stuff here.”

She said angrily, “This isn't ‘snivel gear.' You don't go into a possible biohazard area without some way to figure out what you're dealing with, and protection against it. It's the minimum for the mission.”

He studied her stubborn expression for another second, thinking, This is going to be fun. Then made his decision. “All right, you're the doc. You say we need it, it's got to go. But we got to lighten you up. Ever shoot a Beretta?”

“The nine-millimeter? Sure.”

“Soon's the colonel's done with us, turn your MP5 in to the armorer. Draw a suppressed pistol and five mags. We'll break down your MREs so you don't have to carry that extra weight.” He didn't wait for objections, just broke eye contact and went on to Zeitner. Ran his eye over the ATL, noting everything shipshape and tight, corded and strapped off. Jake was quiet, but in his upstate way he was always there. “Everything good to go?” he asked him. Zeitner just nodded.

He stepped back and looked at them all again. They looked all right. He just hoped
he
didn't screw up. He looked at his watch again as a formation of A-10s roared over, and caught a familiar stocky form threading down the tents toward them. The lieutenant colonel, with Captain Kohler trailing him.

Paulik moved down the rank, not saying much. He asked Lenson if he knew how to use a LAW. The commander said he thought so. He stopped again in front of Maddox, pointed wordlessly at how her ruck straps were
cutting into her shoulders. Gault explained how he was going to cut down her load. The colonel nodded. “Pistol only? Okay. With any luck, you won't make contact.”

“That's how I figure it, sir. Any way I can avoid a firefight, I will.”

“All right, take a knee,” Paulik told them all. The marines knelt in a smooth motion; after a moment Lenson and Maddox followed, wobbling as they balanced themselves.

“I know you've all memorized the mission data, but I'll say it once more: Establish and report geographic location of a possible nuclear or biological site in western Baghdad. Mission has priority. I have a lot of confidence in the gunny and in all of you. If you get compromised, we'll do all we can to get you out.” Paulik glanced at his watch. “We'll move out to the departure zone in forty mikes. We don't have clearance from AWACS yet for the flight, but it should come through shortly. Maybe after we launch, but we can't wait too long or you'll run out of dark.”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “You know SOP, there's always a major change of plan right before you leave. Gunny, you were briefed to meet up with an SAS team at the LZ. They were inserted a week ago to hunt Scuds and we frag tasked them to do a route survey for you. The original intent was for you to link up with them briefly near the LZ and get whatever they have on route info, enemy location and strength.

“The change is, Higher's decided that as long as they know the ground, one of them can help guide your team en route to the op area. The British concur. Their password and response are ‘Red' and ‘Turkey' your authenticator for the frag order detaching him is ‘Ripper.'”

Gault held up a hand, and Paulik nodded. “Sir, what exactly are you saying? You're attaching this other team to me?”

“Not all of them, just the team leader. A sergeant Sarsten.”

“Sir, I respect the SAS and all, but we don't need another attachment.”

“I understand what you're saying, Gunny, but it makes sense to have somebody who knows the terrain. A route guide, to increase your chances of a safe movement to objective.”

Gault looked at him, not wanting to argue but wanting even less another unknown added to his team. “Sir, I think that's a mistake.”

“I'm sure you can deal with it,” Paulik said. “I know what you're thinking. But if you have a source of information available, use it. He may turn out to be exactly what you need.”

“Sir, I have to say again, I think it's a bad idea.”

Paulik's face didn't change. “Let's step over there.”

Twenty paces off, the colonel said, “I hear your objection, Gunnery Sergeant. Higher wants SAS along. That's the directive. But you're the team leader. As far as I'm concerned, you don't want him, he don't have to go. I know you're already concerned about taking Lenson and Maddox.”

“Lenson I'm not worried about. The doc could be another story.”

“Attitude-wise? Team cohesion? What?”

“Just hard humping over bad terrain. We could end up carrying her.”

“She's mission essential. You came to that conclusion yourself.” Gault was thinking, I said somebody
like
her, not
her
; but the lieutenant-colonel was still talking. “I don't think we have to class the Brits the same way. How about this: You talk to this Sarsten at the LZ. If you don't want him along, send him back and I'll deal with Higher.”

“That's fair, sir.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Paulik said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Gault didn't really care. It was his responsibility, his fucking patrol, and he was getting eager to get to it, to get on the ground and carry out the tasking.

They went back to the team. Nichols turned his head
to the side and spat into the sand as they came up. The colonel looked at them, then at his watch again. He beckoned to Kohler. “Want a pre-mission photo?”

“Sure,” said Gault. He went over to stand with the others and they looked toward the captain, who raised a camera.

A brilliant flash left them blinking at images. He stepped front again and told them, “Okay, if there's no more questions, Humvee in half an hour by the mess tent. Drink all the water you can hold, then drink some more. Crap or carry. Corporal Blaisell, stand fast with the gear.” Gault shrugged his ruck off and propped it with the others'. Then he grabbed Maddox. He got her MP5 turned in and made sure she got a decent pistol, one the armorer had shot in, and well-used mags and a box of nine-millimeter. Then he went by the tent, saw that all the personal gear was secured, and made arrangements with Kohler to lock it in a conex till they got back.

He looked up at the night. Full dark now. Every minute lost was a minute they'd regret come first light. He went back to the gear and found Blaze spinning his Glock. He told him to put it away and break down the doc's MREs, leave the weight behind and take the food value. Then stood biting his fingernails, going over the checklist in his mind. He had maps, his Silva, his GPS. Had the thirty-five-millimeter Nikonos and extra film. What else would he need out there in the field? If they didn't take it with them, they'd just have to do without.

Ten till. The Hummer drove up and braked in a cloud of gritty dust that he could taste. He picked up his pack and Nichols and Vertierra did too. Lenson was just behind them. He shrugged it on, not fastening the waist belt, and carried it and his weapon to the waiting vehicle.

 

THE PIPELINE
road blazed with blue-white light. Both lanes were filled with double columns of tanker trucks and tank transporters heading slowly west, so the chief
kept the Humvee off the paved highway, paralleling it on the hard sand. Gault watched them pass, astonished at the sheer mass of it. It was sobering, watching the US Army go by.

An hour later they stood alone in the dark. The road lights glowed in the distance. The ground here was sandy and then hard, as if not far beneath was rock. He didn't put the team on security. They'd be doing enough of that in Iraq. He let them hunker, rucks off and weapons laid across them.

He lifted the night vision goggles around his neck and turned them on, checking them one last time. The landscape leapt up, wavering green. He could see every rock. He turned slightly, checking out the team. The marines looked calm enough. They'd all been through this kind of thing before. Lenson paced back and forth, ten feet each way, as if he was on the bridge of a ship. Maddox had her cover off. He could see her abstracted expression as she fiddled with her hair, twisting it up and pinning it before she jammed the shapeless bush hat down again.

Right on time, the flutter of blades in the sky. He didn't see the helicopters at first. Then he did, they both had their lights on, coming in from the southeast. The team got to its feet. Zeitner aimed his flashlight at the lead chopper. The sound of the rotors changed, like they were taking deeper bites of the air, and the lights wheeled and grew, brighter and brighter. Sand blew up into their faces, stinging their bare skin.