Cloudburst (12 page)

The hijacker stepped back and sat in the observer’s jump seat, a fold-down chair behind the captain’s seat, facing forward, which was often used by pilots hitching a ride between airports. He kept the compact black Uzi in his left hand, pointing at the console between the pilots, and the trigger switch in his right. Both pilots were stubborn, he noticed. They were probably soldiers. Arrogant American Marines. Killers! Yes, they would expect that the whole world should bow to them and their mighty numbers, caring nothing for those they crushed on their unholy crusades. Oh yes! They were a powerful force, but they answered to an infidel. The armies of Allah fought a just cause. They were blessed by their purity and devotion to the Great One, the Almighty Protector of the faithful legions that would march into battle with souls cleansed by His grace. The power of Allah gave strength to even the smallest of His armies, and that strength would now be used by the smallest of those many armies—a single man—to deal a crushing blow to the Great Satan.

Buzz turned his head to face the hijacker, disregarding his tendency toward a lack of self-control. His stare was met by dark, flared eyes, and a swivel of the gun, which now pointed directly at his face. The hijacker raised both eyebrows as if to ask, “Do you want to be shot?” The time would come, Buzz knew. He turned back to the instruments. Next to him Captain Hendrickson guided the
Maiden
on the ordered course. It was ‘his stick.’ He wanted his first officer well rested to back him up, remembering the prolonged ordeal the crews of other hijacked aircraft had gone through. That would be difficult, knowing Buzz. He was probably pissed as hell and ready to snap the hijacker’s neck, if it weren’t for that suicide vest and its deadman’s switch.

The captain was angry himself. Angry at the animal that would play God and threaten the lives of the 342 people aboard his aircraft, but angrier still at the unseen person or persons who made this act of barbarism possible. The hijacker could not have carried his weapons on board under any circumstances. No, someone had done the job for him…the tools of terror had been waiting for him when he boarded and took his first-class seat.

Fort Bragg

He was up, showered, and dressed in his olive drab BDUs twelve minutes after receiving the warning order. Showering included shaving. The creases were perfect and as straight as an arrow, as they always were, except when he was doing what he loved most: being a soldier. William ‘Bill’ Cadler had begun his military career as a private in 1959, a foot soldier who had slogged through his share of mud. He was a colonel now, the ground forces commander of the Joint Special Operations Command, an entity encompassing the much touted and maligned Delta Force—his unit. They were a formidable group, the GFC believed, but rarely were they allowed to show their mettle, and never had they been ordered in to actually perform their prime assignment: the rescuing of hostages.

Now another ‘stand to’ order. They came regularly, usually followed by a ‘stand down’ order. Occasionally there was an assignment. Protecting high-risk dignitaries was common, though that simply relegated Delta to the role of a reactionary force. Someday, though, it would come. The right circumstances and place and time would all come together, and the green light would be given. They would be ready.

The phone in his private quarters buzzed. “Cadler… Right. Good, Major. Hit the buzzer.”

*  *  *

The claxon would have woken the dead. Eight pairs of legs swung over the bedsides in the barracks of the ‘hot squad.’ In a separate barracks the ‘slack squad’ was still sleeping, but they, too, would be called if additional manpower was needed. Other men besides the eight had also been roused. Two three-man crews were running to their Blackhawk helicopters less than two hundred yards from the barracks. Farther to the east, at the adjacent Pope Air Force Base, a C-141B lifter assigned to the somewhat secret Twenty-third Air Force and dedicated to Delta would soon be fully crewed, her engines ready to crank.

The men were dressed in their mottled green camouflage BDUs in three minutes and running with their gear bags in hand to the nearby briefing center a minute later. Delta’s headquarters, the Stockade, even after extensive modifications, from the air still resembled its former self. Getting from point A to point B was not the easiest of things in the Stockade’s periphery corridors and rooms which all snaked off the central building complex. The Delta troopers had long since learned that the quickest way from their barracks to the briefing center was outside: a jog out the side exit, then a half-oval course past the building’s main entrance and its somewhat out-of-place rose garden, and finally to the green door that led in.

A bright sodium light illuminated the area outside the briefing center, and the figure standing next to the door. He was there as he always was when the unit was called out, his face as black as the darkness farther away. Major McAffee stood solidly as the men approached. He made ‘at ease’ look overpostured.

Captain Sean Graber hit the door first. Inside he dropped his bag at the back and took his seat. Colonel Cadler was already at the room’s lectern. Lieutenants Buxton and Antonelli followed their squad leader in and were in turn followed by the rest of the team, all sergeants of various grades. Quimpo, the Filipino weapons specialist and senior NCO leadoff, with Jones, Makowski, Lewis, and the unit’s chief medic, Goldfarb, following. McAffee followed the last trooper in. Behind, in the distance, one of the two helicopter’s engines started. The closed door failed to muffle the sound completely.

Colonel Cadler waited for the major to join him at the front before beginning.

“Morning, boys,” he said, his thick Texan accent dripping from each word. They all looked eager, as they did each time they entered this room. Cadler noted that it was Graber’s squad. They had the highest number of call-outs per rotation. Just lucky, he guessed. “Major McAffee, would you read the orders, please.”

The colonel handed the red-striped envelope to his XO, who had already read the orders. McAffee stood next to Cadler, who leaned on the podium.

“ ‘From: Chairman, Joint Special Operations Command. To: Special Operations Detachment, Delta. At oh-seven-forty Zulu, an American passenger aircraft was hijacked by an unknown person or persons. You are to immediately begin preparations for extraction of the hostages. More to follow. General Burkhardt sends thumbs-up and fingers crossed.’ ” The major looked up and handed the orders back to the colonel. The troops had received the same type of order before—many times. General Burkhardt knew this when issuing the warning order. ‘Fingers crossed’ was not a wish for luck; it was a hope that the mission would get a go.

Cadler stepped to the side of the podium. “I want you on the helos in two minutes. We’ve got a hangar reserved for us at Pope. Major McAffee will lead the planning. Major, make the slack squad hot, and get a senior NCO in on the liaison group just in case we need to sweeten our force.” McAffee nodded acknowledgment. “Any questions? Good. The birds are turning, so don’t keep them waiting. Major McAffee and I will follow in the second bird. Fingers crossed. Dismiss the squad, Major.”

The eight troopers stood automatically. “Dismissed.”

They were gone from the room in seconds. Cadler and McAffee walked out behind them into the chilly early- morning air. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, evidenced by the countless specks of light visible in the area of the base with its lack of civilian lighting. The colonel looked up. “Mike, someone up there knows if this is the one.”

“When it’s right, sir,” McAffee said, exposing his non-fatalistic streak.

“Right my ass! These boys are as ready as they’ll ever be. They’ve got combat experience, they’re pumped. Hell, we’ve trained and trained and trained, Mike. You know that as well as I do. These boys need some honest-to-God experience taking down some bad guys. Hell, only you and the captain have any actual trigger time.”

“You, too, Colonel.”

“My sorry old ass? That was a ground action, and it was a cluster fuck,” Cadler answered, referring to his part as the unit XO in the failed Iranian rescue mission. Blackjack had also been there.

“I hear you. It’s not our worry, though.”

“Oh hell, Mike. There you go again with that crap. Washington and the briefcase brigades make the decisions, but do you have to accept it so easily?” Cadler smiled, putting his arm on the taller man’s shoulder. “Jesus. Someone might think you graduated from Harvard instead of our beloved West Point.”

McAffee feigned surprise. “Go Army!”

“Spirit, man!” Cadler let out a deep chuckle, a true belly laugh. The Blackhawk was directly ahead.

“What’s our status, Colonel?”

Cadler didn’t look hopeful. “Our end of it’s up and running. The liaison group is set up; they’ll plug in with the intel services and pass it along to planning. You have the force. The planning is yours. If we get a go, you lead. I’m gonna try and get something hard on whatever’s going on.”

“What’s the best we have?” McAffee asked. He would need something in order to start the wheels of a plan in motion.

“Diddily. It’s a 747, that’s it. The pilot squawked the hijack code and dove for the deck. I’d assume we’ll have somebody keeping an eye on that bird pretty soon.”

“Okay,” the major responded with some exasperation. “It looks like nothing ever changes. Minimum intelligence at best.” He was silent for a few steps. “What about something similar to rehearse on?”

Cadler punched the major in the arm, then pointed a strong finger at his nose. “You’ve got it.”

The two officers walked slowly toward the sound of the turning rotors. Lights were coming on in the distance, illuminating the side-by-side dark green helicopters. They sat long and squat under their idling rotors. The eight men of the hot squad trotted, heads ducked, to the side door of the near Blackhawk and jumped in without breaking stride.

“Colonel, I want a go as much as you…as much as they do.” McAffee motioned to the helicopter. It was a hundred yards away as the engines revved and lifted it skyward, its nose slightly down, and moved forward away from the lights. Its own anti-collision lights colored the underside a pulsing red. The noise was oppressive, and it passed almost directly above Cadler and McAffee on its six-minute flight to Pope. A group of soldiers ran up to the second Blackhawk and loaded several boxes and duffels under the direction of the dark-helmeted crew chief.

“It ain’t any different,” Cadler said, his head shaking and eyes downcast before coming up. The noise of the departing helo waned as it moved off into the night. “We train and drill. Every time we think it’s
this
time, it’s not. So, Mike, we do it all over. You know why? ‘Cause we’ve got some demons to exorcise.”

Demons, indeed
, McAffee thought. Delta was still associated with the fiery debacle in the Iranian desert back in 1980, something that they had no culpability for as a unit. Again it was ‘brass fever’ that had fucked things up. It was a reputation, though undeserved, that they had to overcome.

Both officers stepped into the dark cabin of the Black- hawk, returning the salutes of the crew chief and ground crew as they did. Colonel Cadler put on his headset and immediately got to work contacting the mobile headquarters now operating out of hangar 9 at Pope. Blackjack closed his eyes and crossed his fingers, hoping for a go, but wondering if anyone really knew what a green light would mean.

Four miles ahead, Captain Sean Graber was entertaining much the same thought.

Benina

Captain Muhadesh Algar was cold. He regretted having brought the topless jeep, wishing he had driven his Range Rover instead. His one small bag was on the seat beside him.

What?
Benina Airport, eighteen miles from the center of Benghazi, was a civil and military airfield familiar to Muhadesh. He had often met his students there as they arrived from the many countries of their origin. But never had he seen this.

He slowed the jeep. A soldier of the regular army stood mid-road with a hand held out to his front. On both sides of the two-lane road were T-80 tanks, their 125mm cannons pointing down the length of the road. A group of twenty or so soldiers became very serious, taking their AK-74s in both hands as the jeep came to a stop. One of the crewmen protruding from a tank swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun right at the small brown vehicle. The soldier blocking its path did not move as an officer walked hurriedly past to the driver side of the jeep.

“What do you…” The tall, thin lieutenant let his hand slip from where it rested on the top of his holster to his side with red-faced embarrassment. “Captain Algar!” He came to attention. “Sir, I did not know it was you. Lieutenant Ashad Hamshari, sir! Can I help you?”

Muhadesh looked around from his seat. “I am going to the airport. A flight to Tripoli.”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “Sir, my orders are to allow no one into the airport perimeter. Did you not pass the roadblock at the highway? They should have told you of this. I will—”

“Lieutenant Hamshari, I am commander of the Third Training Battalion, fifteen miles east of here. I traveled on the entrance road to our compound.”
You idiot. Incompetence and ignorance seem to be required for promotion.
“As you must know, it intersects this road between here and the main highway.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, Lieutenant, can you tell me why I must miss my flight? There is a reason?”

“Sir…yes, I am certain there is, but…” The Lieutenant stared, mouth open, at Muhadesh.

“I see. Following orders.” Muhadesh snickered. “Who, may I ask, issued the orders?”

“Colonel Hajin, sir.”

I should have…
“Very well. I expect that Colonel Hajin has made it clear that only those with his permission may pass.”

“Exactly,” the answer came, almost apologetically. “Do you have such authorization, Captain?”

“Would I be sitting on this road if that were the case? Lieutenant Hamshari, you are responsible for notifying me, or my executive officer, Lieutenant Indar, immediately once the airport is open. Is that very, very clear?”