"Maybe this
has
been all worth it," Norton caught himself thinking.
*****
Twenty miles to the northeast, Ricco and Gillis were plowing through the early morning air in a slightly less robust fashion.
The big Hook fuel ship was very fast, but there were several factors working against it at top speed. First of all, there were many tons of gas in the cargo hold. Secondly, Gillis and Ricco were not jet jocks—they flew the big planes. As such, they were not ones to go gallivanting around the sky. To them, smooth and level was the norm.
But this did not mean they weren't enjoying themselves.
"This is remarkable," Ricco said several time times over. "How can something so awkward-looking sail like this thing?"
"The Russians can build a great chopper, we have to give them that," Rooney told them.
He too was enjoying the smooth ride. If it weren't for the constant sloshing of the jet fuel and the smell from it, it would have been a totally pleasant experience.
"I suppose we can't ask exactly
why
we're flying this bird, can we?" Gillis asked Rooney.
"You can ask," the CIA man replied, "but I can't answer."
"I have the feeling we are supposed to fly it long-range. Am I wrong?" Ricco asked.
"You may be underestimating your upcoming mission," Rooney replied in a rare bit of candor.
Ricco was about to reply when their radio started crackling.
"This is SGK Base . . . come in?"
"That's for us," Rooney said. "We are call sign Beta Two-Six."
Gillis grabbed his radio chin mike and turned it on.
"Go ahead base."
They next heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Gene Smitz. He was in the base control tower.
"Proceed to coordinate five-nine-five at east-northeast . . ."
Gillis wrote down the instructions, and Ricco began to turn the big chopper northward. His maneuver was met with a great splashing sound from the fuel bladders in back.
"If this is just a training mission." Ricco asked, "why can't those things be filled with water—instead of fuel?"
"I really don't know," Rooney replied truthfully. "But my guess is, someone figures this training mission could go real at any hour."
Ricco and Gillis eyed each other. Rooney's tone was a tad unsettling.
"And you didn't hear that from me," the CIA man quickly added.
But at that moment Ricco wasn't listening. He was looking out his side window. In the low clouds he thought he saw two aircraft heading in their general direction.
"Damn, are we supposed to have any other traffic up here with us?" he asked Rooney.
Rooney leaned forward in his seat and saw what Ricco had spotted. There were two large helicopters flying about a mile below and two miles off their left side. They seemed almost as large as the Hook. Larger even.
"Don't worry," the CIA man said nonchalantly. "They're ours. That's who we're being vectored to meet."
Gillis looked down at the choppers and back at Rooney.
"Really?"
Rooney settled back into his seat. "Yep. Those, my friends, should be the Marines."
*****
It
was
the Marines.
Their two huge Halo copters had taken off from Seven Ghosts Key ten minutes before, and had been vectored to the same spot that the huge Hook was now heading for.
Inside both choppers, the Marines were packed in tight. Full loads, weapons ready.
The Army pilots were driving the big Russian cargo copters with ease. Of all the pilots at the Seven Ghosts base, they were the most experienced in flying Russian aircraft—and it showed. Now, looking out the windows of the transports, the Marines could see the huge Hook being flown by Gillis and Ricco.
The Army pilots slowed a bit and allowed Gillis and Ricco to take up a position just ahead and slightly above the two troopships.
Now there was only one piece missing. . . .
*****
Norton took the call from Smitz just seconds after Ricco and Gillis did.
He increased throttles and poured on the coals, and was soon approaching the three other choppers as they entered Box 31.
Once in sight, he radioed back to Smitz, reporting that he had spotted the trio of aircraft. Smitz quickly briefed him and Delaney on the fuel-filled Hook and two Marine-carrying Halos. Then he told Norton to take a position about a quarter mile in front of the big Hook.
Norton did so, and this was how they flew for the next thirty minutes.
So for the first time since the operation began and all the principals had reported to Seven Ghosts Key, the still-unnamed unit was one. They were aligned in a ragged, uneven formation. Heading into the unknown.
But they were flying together at last.
*****
For the next seven days, Norton and Delaney did little more than eat, sleep, and drive the Hinds.
Most of this flying was done at night; most of it in Hind #1. The second Hind, while being nearly identical to the first, was actually a few years older and had more air miles on it. To preserve its operational status, it was decided that the majority of the initial orientation flights would be done in the younger model.
The two former fighter pilots had quickly settled into a routine. As soon as the sun set around 8:30 P.M., Hind #1 would be dragged out of the hangar after being prepped. By 8:45, Norton and Delaney would be suited up and ready for their preflight inspection. Going over the Russian-built chopper with flashlights, checking for leaks, making sure every bolt was still tight and every flying surface was still clean would take about fifteen minutes. Only then would they be ready for launch.
As each flight mandated that both pilots have equal time behind the controls, they would usually fly for three hours, land back at the base, switch positions, and go out again. To see who would serve as pilot first, though, they would flip a coin. In the first few days, Norton won every one of these coin tosses, much to Delaney's consternation. Flying the first half of the night flight was much more exciting than the second half, and Delaney always seemed stuck with the second shift. At one point, he even accused Norton of having a double-sided coin. From then on, he insisted on flipping his own coin and doing it the full view of witnesses.
It was no surprise that the two fighter jocks were anxious to get behind the wheel and drive the Hind first. The massive chopper was butt-ugly, but it was a real gas to fly. It could do things an F-15 couldn't. It could fly lower, turn sharper, slow down, speed up, all at a touch of the controls, which both of them knew by heart now.
Its powerful engines and its substantial wing area really did make it part jet fighter.
(One strange thing about the helicopter, though, was that it could not hover—or at least not for long. Putting the Hind into a hover for more than a minute would likely burn out its engines. Like the aircraft itself, the power plants were designed to be moving forward all the time. This was not an aircraft that wanted to stay still for very long.)
Most nights they were airborne by 2130 hours. From that point they usually had a six-hour satellite window during which they could fly just about anywhere within Box 31. Much of this time they spent flying below five hundred feet. Occasionally they were forced to change course to avoid getting too near to an off-course private plane or fishing boat. To be spotted might put the whole operation in jeopardy. But their proximity to Cuba actually helped in this regard. The Cubans were known to have Hinds. If one were spotted over these waters, there could be a fairly plausible explanation: The Cubans were simply doing night maneuvers. Over the ocean. In unmarked copters.
Riding up front in the Hind was not such a bad thing. You could shoot the guns from the front seat and the Hind was loaded for bear. Its wings supported two gun pods and two missile launchers, not of Russian design, but made to look that way. Hind #1 also had an outrageously long cannon attached to its nose. This monster was able to fire gigantic 76-mm shells at a very fast rate. Get caught in the sight of this big gun, and it would be the last thing you did.
After some flying and shooting, at fish mostly, they would usually land and switch places. That was when the boring part of the night began, for the next few hours would usually be concentrated on formation flying. The Halos and the Hook would launch around midnight. Together they would proceed to a predesignated spot where the Hind would be waiting. Then they would form up and fly around in circles until 2 A.M. or so. Flying in formation was not nearly as much fun as driving the Hind solo. Doing endless orbits over the fluorescent Caribbean waters tended to drag a bit. But the mission spec said flying together and learning how to stay close in the air at night was very important, so the formation flying was done, usually with Delaney grumbling behind the wheel of the Hind throughout.
During all this, Gillis and Ricco were getting the hang of their huge copter as well. The crazy sleeping hours being what they were, Norton and Delaney rarely saw the tanker pilots on the ground—which was good for both sides. But in the air, the refuelers never missed a rendezvous point, were always on time, at the right altitude, in the right spot. Always. The CIA had asked for the best in the aerial refueling business—and they had gotten their wish.
All of the copters were rigged with in-flight refueling probes, and usually at least one hour of a night flight was devoted to hooking and unhooking with Gillis and Ricco's fuel ship. Taking on gas in the air between two choppers was not that much different from a fighter hooking up to a KC-10 tanker, except the speeds were slower and it was all done through hoses and not static booms. Still, it didn't take much time at all for Norton and Delaney as well as the Army Aviation pilots flying the Marine-laden Halos to learn the art of connecting with the Hook and drinking in a bunch of gas.
But in addition to all this, Gillis and Ricco had another exercise to drill for—this the most dangerous one of all. For not only were they charged with keeping all of the unit's choppers fueled up, they also had to learn how to take on fuel themselves. From a higher source.
According to Smitz, this aspect of the mission was extremely important. So every night that first week, a C-130 Marine Corps tanker was called down from Eglin Air Force Base. With Norton and Delaney riding shotgun and spotting for the fuelers, Gillis and Ricco would maneuver their giant copter up and under a fuel hose being let out from the C-130's right wing. On connection, the fuel would flow from the C-130 to the depleted bladders in the cargo hold of the Hook. It took the refuelers some doing to get it right the first few times, but experience and intuitive flying skills eventually won out. By the third night, the two tanker jockeys had the difficult hookup down pat.
Each time Norton saw this, he felt a little bit better about recommending the National Guard pilots for this program.
But there was still one last sticking point: The operational details of the mission were still unknown to them. They knew pretty much where they were going. And why. But they didn't know exactly what they were supposed to do once they got there. And more important,
when
they were going.
But because of events on the other side of the globe, these questions were going to be answered very soon.
Persian Gulf 0955 hours
The name of the oil platform was Qarah al Khalif #6.
It was a three-tiered, six-shaft exploration and pumping assembly located equidistant from the eastern shore of Iraq and the western shore of Iran, in the northernmost region of the Persian Gulf.
The platform got its name from a nearby island, and it was indeed one of a half-dozen sea pumping facilities in the area. It was owned by a consortium of oil wholesalers whose main office was located in Bahrain. Also known as Qak-Six, the platform and its five cousins held the distinction of being the only offshore pumping facilities in the region to continue operations during the Gulf War. In fact, the six Qak platforms had been protected throughout the conflict by U.S. Navy aircraft and ships, this even though both Iran and Iraq held a substantial stake in their ownership and operation. Such was the quality of crude pumped from their wells.
This was a special day on Qak-Six. It was the last day of the month. This meant not only payday for the 313 workers on the huge platform, but also the beginning of a ten-day vacation granted most of the workers once every five months.
Three ferries had been engaged by the platform's owners to carry the workers down to Bahrain for their furloughs. Bahrain was the destination of choice for the majority of the workers—Filipinos mostly—as it was considered the most westernized of the Gulf States. Translation: There was a night life there, and if one looked hard enough alcohol could be found, and even female companionship.
It was just before ten in the morning when the first ferry, fully loaded, pulled away from the platform's docking area. It was a cloudy raw day, not unusual for this time of year in this part of the Gulf, and the water was choppy. But this did not dampen the spirits of the workers, their pockets full of money, their bellies filled with the anticipation of stepping on dry land again.
The first ferry had just cleared the platform and the second one was maneuvering into place when a long, loud, guttural groan shook the rig. The noise was so sudden and so distinct that those few workers still left on the top tier thought it was one of the rig's automatic stabilizers suddenly losing its footing. But the platform itself was not moving, and the catastrophic shift to one side indicating a leg was failing did not occur. Thankfully, the problem was not with the rig itself.
That was when many people saw an airplane appear on the murky horizon and relaxed. In a freak of atmospherics, the growl of the plane's engines had proceeded it, carried, no doubt, by the twenty-five-knot westerly wind. This had caused the sudden thunderclap.
With much relief, the loading of the second ferry resumed.
It was not unusual to see aircraft flying by the oil rig. Both Iraqi and Iranian patrol planes passed by every few days, and occasionally a British, American, or even Saudi aircraft could be seen plying the skies this north in the Gulf too. Most gave the oil rig a wag of the wings and they would be off.
The second ferry was about halfway full when the plane finally went by the oil platform. It was flying very low and its engines seemed extremely loud. The plane was painted all black with a charcoal-like quality to the tone. Traces of a camouflage scheme could be seen on the wings and tail.
Many aboard the platform knew what kind of airplane this was: a C-130 Hercules, the ubiquitous American-built cargo hauler and general all-round workhorse of many nations' air forces. What did mildly surprise some people was that the airplane carried no markings, no tail numbers, no insignia to identify what country it belonged to—this, and the fact that its nose was so long and its fuselage so thick.
The plane passed about one thousand yards to the south of the oil rig and kept on going, disappearing into the mist to the east, possibly heading towards Iran, just forty miles away. The loading of the second ferry was nearly completed, and the third boat was being signaled to come in. That was when the people on the platform heard another thunderclap. All eyes turned east and to everyone's surprise, they saw the airplane had turned and was coming back.
The workers on the first ferry would have the best view of what happened next.
*****
The plane passed so close to the oil platform this time that the whole structure shook from top to bottom. The water below was suddenly foaming, kicked up by the plane's engine exhaust. Suddenly three long streaks of flame erupted from the side of the airplane. This fire came so quickly and was so vivid, many on the ferry thought the plane was in trouble and had doubled back, perhaps to attempt an emergency landing near the oil platform.
But a moment later, a geyser of flame erupted from the top of the platform itself. Had the plane flown so close to the rig that it had hit something? No—the plane was still flying. It roared right over the first ferry. Then came a tremendous explosion. It sent shock waves through the ferry and the water around it. All eyes looked up to see the oil platform's mast disintegrate in a puff of smoke. Now a second explosion went off, louder than the first. An instant later, the entire upper tier of the rig was engulfed in flames. Only then did the people on the ferry realize the airplane had fired on the oil platform.
And now it was coming back again. . . .
The airplane swept by the platform a third time, a continuous stream of fire pouring out of its left side. The oil rig began to shudder, and hundreds of small explosions peppered it up and down. Flame was suddenly everywhere. Many workers began leaping into the water, some on fire themselves. Others were trapped and quickly engulfed in flames.
The plane roared by again. Now a huge gun muzzle could be seen protruding from its left side. It was firing large-caliber projectiles at a frightening rate. The workers on the ferry saw the control house go up first in this fusillade. The main pump hut went next. Then the living quarters, then the turbine station. Oil was gushing wildly out of some pipes now and being ignited in many places.
Inside of ninety seconds, the oil rig was a burning wreck. Bodies were in the water; many more workers were badly burned on the platform itself. The plane went by twice more, delivering high-powered shells in such a methodical fashion, it seemed unreal to the people on the first ferry. Was this really happening? Why would anyone want to destroy Qak-Six?
Stunned, the ferry captain finally started pounding on his vessel's radio, intent on sending out an SOS. But as soon as he switched his comm set on, it made a loud crack and went dead, a victim of the gunship's high-powered electronic-jamming suite. The plane went by the oil rig one last time, but there was no shooting this time. This pass was just to survey its deadly work. The sixty-six workers on the first ferry stood on the rail, astounded by what they had just seen. The few people still left on the platform could not have survived the brutal assault—and those injured and in the water would not live for more than a few minutes in the choppy cold sea.
Still, the ferry captain had to make an attempt to rescue any survivors. So he ordered his vessel to turn about and head back toward the burning oil rig.
That was when those aboard the ferry saw the big plane turn once again—and point its nose right at them.
*****
The USS
LaSallette
was not an ordinary ship.
It was one of the oldest operational vessels in the U.S. Navy, its keel having been laid in the winter of 1955. It boasted very few weapons. Twin .50-caliber machine guns on the stern and bow were its only outward defenses. Its helicopter, a small OH-51, carried only rudimentary antiship missiles and a single .30-caliber machine gun on its nose mount. There were but a dozen M-16's on board, with a total of three hundred rounds of ammunition available. The only other potential weaponry consisted of some smoke grenades and flares.
The
LaSallette
was not a warship per se. Its superstructure was a forest of antennae, satellite receivers, radar dishes, and microwave arrays. More than half its crew of 214 worked on monitoring data pulled in by these various devices. Officially, the
LaSallette
was a C3 platform, for command, control, and communications. In reality, it was a spy ship. It cruised the upper reaches of the Persian Gulf periodically, snooping on Iraqi radio and TV transmissions, gathering intelligence, watching for any military movements. It had been compared to a floating AWACS plane, and this was not entirely inaccurate.
This day it was on a typical SigInt mission. A number of Republican Guard units had been on the move in the upper part of Iraq recently, some heading south, others moving east. Routine maneuvers perhaps. But the
LaSallette
had been sent into the northern gulf to troll the airwaves for any indications as to what these elite Iraqi units might be up to.
It was by fate then that its course brought it steaming over the horizon just as the AC-130 gunship had finished off the last survivors of Qak-Six's number-one ferry. With its long-range snooping radar and TV equipment, the
LaSallette
was suddenly flooded with data emanating from the burning oil platform and the mysterious airplane orbiting above it. There was no doubt among those interpreting this information that the gunship had attacked the oil rig and had killed just about all of its occupants. The proof of this was pouring into the hard drives of the ship's main computers.
And for the first time in a year and a half of rampage and destruction, the people flying the gunship suddenly had a very big problem on their hands.
They had witnesses.
By the time the
LaSallette's
crew were called to their battle stations, the AC-130 was heading for the ship at full speed.
The captain immediately ordered his helicopter to launch. Gunners assigned to the .50-caliber deck guns scrambled to their positions. Everyone above the rank of CPO was issued an M-16 and a clip of ammunition. The communications shack was sending out messages to any and every Allied ship in the immediate vicinity—but the airplane's jamming suite prevented all but the first few seconds of any message to escape. It made little difference. The captain had already done a sweep of his immediate area. The nearest U.S. ship was sixty miles away.
The
LaSallette
was trapped and very much alone.
*****
The secure photo-fax machine in Smitz's billet started beeping at exactly 3 A.M.
The CIA man rolled over, sleepily checked his alarm clock, and then clicked the fax machine's Receive button.
A red sheet was the first to emerge. It was covered with black dots and a thick black band running diagonally down its side. This indicated the message he was about to receive was of the highest security—Eyes Only—and should be destroyed as soon as he was through reading it.
Smitz finally got out of bed and stumbled into his pants and shirt. He was used to these late-night interruptions by now. They had a certain rhythm to them. The fax would take sixty seconds to print out, long enough for him to reheat a half-filled cup of coffee from earlier that night. He slipped it into his microwave, and then visited the head. The fax machine and the micro beeped at exactly the same time. "Message received," he typed into its keyboard. The machine clicked twice and then went silent.
He took his coffee from the micro, burning his fingers in the process. Finally he sat down to read the missive.
The cover sheet was protecting a photograph Smitz recognized as being shot from an aerial recon camera called an ICQ-23. It was a secret type used on U-2's and some versions of the new RF-18 Navy recon fighter.
The photo showed a smoldering hunk of metal in the midst of an oil-slicked sea. Smitz didn't know whether he was looking at the remains of a ship or an airplane or something else. It took the explanation on page three to tell him this was all that was left of an oil platform in the upper Persian Gulf known as Qak-Six.
The summary was brief. There were 322 people dead. No known survivors. The rig was perforated with holes, big and small. They were almost symmetrical in their placement. Smitz bit his lip. There was no doubt in his mind what horror had been visited on the oil platform. The AC-130 had struck again.
No sooner had he finished reading the grim report when his fax began beeping again. He hit the Receive button and started another blurry photo printing out.
This one he watched from the first moment of its inception, and as it scrolled out, he felt his eyes go wider and his jaw drop lower. There was no mystery about this image. It was a high-altitude photo of a ship, one that was in the process of sinking. It was obviously taken from a passing satellite just seconds before the vessel slipped beneath the waves. In the very northwest corner of the photo was a very small indication that looked like the rear end of an airplane in retreat.
Below the picture was a simple caption. "USS
LaSallette
C3 vessel sinking this day 705 hours GMT. With loss of all life."
"Damn," Smitz breathed.
He was still staring at the photo when his phone rang. The noise startled him so much he whacked his head on the ceiling of his tiny billet. He leapt for the phone, snagged the receiver, pulled on the cord, and finally brought it up to his ear. His eyes passed over the hands of his luminescent watch. It was 3:15 in the morning.