Necessary Retribution (2 page)

The old one sprang from the cart and threw off his robe, beard and turban and they stacked up at the door with the old one at the rear, fourth in line. Number one in the stack, the black man, tried the door handle. It moved. He signaled by raising his thumb in the air and number four tapped the shoulder of number three, who tapped the shoulder of number two, who tapped the shoulder of number one and he flung the door open. The stack moved into the building… swift, silent and ruthless.

In the first room, two men rose from wooden chairs only to be cut down mid-stride by bursts to the head from the submachine guns of numbers one and two. Blood and skull fragments splattered on the far wall. Numbers three and four moved past them and turned right down a narrow hallway. Numbers one and two followed. Number three tossed a grenade through a door to the left. It exploded with a brilliant flash and loud report as the team entered the room. An armed fighter, stunned by the flash/bang grenade, staggered towards them through the thick swirling smoke until number three
put two rounds in the junction of the man's nose and eyebrows. Another terrorist struggled to his feet and pointed a pistol at the head of a blindfolded woman tied to a chair, but the two rounds fired by number four mottled the hostage's blindfold with blood and grey matter before the gunman's finger could curl around the trigger. Number four posted at the room's door while numbers one and two freed the woman.

“What's your name?” Number two asked the hostage.

“Captain Kathleen O'Connor, United States Army,” came the trembling reply.

“We're getting you outta here, Captain.”

“Extract, Extract, Extract!” Number four spoke into a hand held radio.

“Inbound,” a voice replied.

The team hustled to the front door, two of them carrying the woman between them by lifting her under each arm. Two armed Hamas men ran towards the house, but were cut down by unseen snipers. Other Hamas fighters faded back into doorways.

A black van skidded up to the rescue team. One and two got into the back seat and pushed the woman to the floor telling her everything would be all right. Number three climbed into the back of the van and opened a back door. Number four jumped into the front passenger seat and the driver handed him a remote detonator. Twenty-one seconds had elapsed.

The driver stomped on the gas pedal and careened down the street, engine roaring and tires kicking up clouds of dust. Three cars skidded around the corner carrying gunmen firing automatic weapons at the fleeing van. Suddenly, a bullet hole appeared in the driver's windshield of the first car and it veered sharply to the left and slammed into a concrete wall sending jagged chunks flying in all directions. Number three fired at the remaining pursuers to keep them at a distance. Number four watched the cars in his large side view mirror. As the pursuers approached a hay cart, he pushed the button on the detonator. A bank of claymore mines hidden in the cart exploded into hundreds of steel balls ripping through the cars’ metal side panels and occupants’ bodies. The first car spun broadside and the second car smashed into its left side, both exploding in an orange flash before disappearing in a thick, roiling, cloud of black smoke.

A Range Rover pulled onto the road in front of the van and two others fell in behind. The caravan sped west for ten miles. Number two comforted the still trembling hostage. Strong arms held her as he wiped the remains of the man who tried to kill her off her face. Captain O'Connor clung to the man, sobbing. Number one, a trained combat medic, began treating her injuries. The radio crackled.

“SpearTip, this is Condor Four-Seven,” the extraction aircraft called

“SpearTip control, Go Four-Seven,” the team's tactical air controller replied.

“We have two wagons two miles out from LZ One.”

“Roger, Four-Seven, we're there. Winds are from the north, light and variable, temperature eighty-two degrees, barometer three zero eight six.”

“Roger, SpearTip.”

The van and the Range Rovers pulled off the road. Infrared goggles made Firefly Flashers visible down the middle of road. Shadows of armed men appeared out of the darkness.

One of the men reported to number four, Colonel Robin Marlette, at the car window. “360° security set and area clear.”

“SpearTip control, we have Fireflies in sight. Starting final approach.”

“Roger, Four-Seven, LZ is clear.”

Robin watched an infrared vision of the first US Air Force C-130 setting down on the road. It roared by the vehicles and slowed to a stop a half-mile away. Two of the Range Rovers sped after it and drove onto the lowered loading ramp. The LZ security team at that end of the area scrambled on board and the loading ramp lifted.

The turbo prop engines ran up again and the plane started its take-off run.

“SpearTip control, Condor Four-Eight on final.”

Robin spotted the second C-130 making its approach.

“Roger, Four-Eight. LZ clear,” the controller advised.

It touched down and rolled to a stop. The security team jumped on the running boards of the passing vehicles headed for the loading ramp. Once in the plane everyone stayed in place as the loadmaster and his crew secured the load. Robin saw the loadmaster speaking
into his headset and felt the airplane shudder as the engines roared and the plane raced down the road until it lifted off into the air.

Robin leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath.

“Man, am I glad to get out of there!” The driver, Gary Perkins, said brightly.

Robin looked at Captain Sorels, who got out of the Rover in front of the van. The Captain simply nodded.

A humvee was waiting when the planes landed at the Israeli Hatzerim Airbase.

“How did it go?” Bill Grassley, CIA Deputy Director of Operations, fell in beside Robin as they walked to the hanger serving as the mission command center. “Delta Command has been bugging the hell out of me about the rescue of the hostage.”

Robin didn't break his stride and Bill had to hurry to keep up. “We got her, Bill. She's shook up and has minor injuries, but otherwise appears okay.”

“What did Captain Sorels say?”

“Not much.”

“I don't know if I like that.”

“There's only one way to find out.”

They walked over to where the rest of the team were gathered. Robin saw number two, Burke Jameson, get out of an ambulance and watch as it left the tarmac.

“The hostage?” Robin asked number one, Emmett Franks.

“Yeah, she'll be all right. What's the score, Rob?”

“Don't know yet. We're on our way to find out.”

“Do you think we're going to make it?”

“We'll make it.” Number three, Rocky Barnett, added. “We did a damn good hit!”

“There's a reason I picked the four men who did the assault phase of this mission. Just follow my lead.” Robin cautioned.

Robin and Bill led the team to Captain Sorels who was conferring with some of his men.

“Captain, we're anxious to know what you think about our operation.”

The captain looked at Robin with steady, concerned eyes. “Colonel, I have some questions, if you don't mind.”

“I'll answer what I can.”

Sorels scanned the faces of the team. “How much combat experience do you guys have?”

“Well, these men are Vietnam vets. Emmett, my gentle giant, served two tours as a LLRP, earning the Distinguished Service Cross, the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Burke here served three tours in Special Forces, earning the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star.” Robin put his hand on Rocky's shoulder. “Rocky was a Recon Marine for two tours and earned the Silver Star, the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.” Robin pointed to Gary. “My friend, Gary, is a highly trained and experienced pursuit driver.”

“What about you?”

“I've been in combat, just can't say where. All of us have many years’ experience in tactical operations and training. I can't really tell you anymore about us.”

“How long did you work on this op?”

“I'm sure we got the original intel when you did.”

“I gotta say, you guys put it together in damn quick fashion.”

“Well, Captain, we have a lot of experience doing investigations. We know how to get the right info quickly.”

“I believe it. You certainly did on this mission.”

“Thanks.”

Sorels took a deep breath. “You guys did this by the numbers. Your planning and briefing were thorough. Your infiltration with disguises was well done. Your execution was low drag and high-speed complete with effective high ground sniper cover.” The Captain looked around at the men. “I'm going to wholeheartedly recommend your team go active. You're definitely ready.”

A murmur of approval went through the team.

Robin shook Sorel's hand. “Thank you, Captain. We worked hard to get here.”

Bill Grassley shook the captain's hand. “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your assessment.”

“You've got one hell of an asset with this team, sir. I hope you use them well.”

Bill nodded and turned to Robin. “We need to go.”

“You're the boss. Mount up, guys. We're burning daylight.”

Robin watched as the men quickly moved to pack up their gear, their banter and smiles showing their spirits were high. He thought of the hell they all had been through the last two years, including the unforgiving training by the best special ops teams in the US military.
Yes, we are ready!

Barzan Al Tikriti sipped tea at a table in a Damascus cafe and contemplated the changes in the world. As of today, the Americans elected a new president, a good thing in Al Tikriti's estimate. The former president was not afraid to use military power. Al Tikriti didn't think the new president was of the same mind, making it easier for Saddam to maneuver. As operations chief of the Mukhabarat, the Iraqi Intelligence Service, it was Al Tikriti's job to figure these things out. He was also Saddam Hussein's main contact with terrorist groups who targeted western interests.

Today, he was meeting Abu Nidal, a freelance terrorist, formerly from Fatah and the Palestinian Liberation Organization. The temperature was pleasant and there were outside tables, but Al Tikriti took no unnecessary chances. Damascus could be a very dangerous place.

Nidal came through the door, immediately spied Al Tikriti and came to the table.

“Good afternoon, Barzan.”

“And a good day to you, Abu. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Al Tikriti poured a cup.

“You have new work for me, Barzan?”

“I do. I need you to put together a team for two very important missions.”

“What are the targets?”

“I have several picked, but I don't know which two I will assign to you until events unfold.”

“How many men?”

“Twenty should be sufficient.”

“And how much are you willing to pay?”

“Two million US dollars now, for your preparations, and ten million when the job is done.”

“Two million is hardly enough to prepare for a mission. We will need weapons, transportation…”

“All of those will be supplied. You will only have to provide twenty trained men.”

“When will you provide the two million dollars?”

“There is a briefcase under the table. Take it when you leave.”

“As always, you are very persuasive.”

“I trust your Libyan friend will be interested in helping us?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you Abu. I will be in touch.”

Nidal nodded, picked up the briefcase, and left the cafe.

T
WO

THE TEAM'S SECOND IN COMMAND,
Ernie Jackson and Charles “Chucky” Osgood, a former informant of Robin's, walked through the large, empty warehouse with him. It had eight loading docks, most of them out of public view and a nice suite of offices on the third floor. Just outside, the port of Seattle busily unloaded the large container ships bringing the world to Seattle, and loaded ships taking Seattle to the world.

“I think this will do nicely, Ernie,” Robin observed.

“Yep, all we need to do is dig out and finish a secure basement. Just a minor thing.”

“It won't be that tough if we get the right company to do it. We'll also need a way to conceal the two satellite dishes and a bunch of antennas Grassley says we'll need on the roof.”