Section 8 (2 page)

CHAPTER 1
The Present
The Philippines

Jungle surrounded the Philippine army firebase, a dark wall of menacing sounds and shadows in the grayness of evening. The sounds of men preparing for battle—the clank of metal on metal, the grunts of rucksacks being lifted, the murmur of quiet talk between comrades—was muted compared to the noise of the jungle.
"Too close."
Major Jim Vaughn turned to the man at his side, his top noncommissioned officer and his brother-in-law, Sergeant Major Frank Jenkins. "What?"
Jenkins nodded at the wall of trees. "Field of fire is too short. You could get RPGs right there and blast the crap out of this place."
Vaughn had noted the same thing as soon as they landed. "Let's be glad this is our last time here."
"Damn civilians," Jenkins muttered.
"'Ours is not to question why—'" Vaughn began.
"'Ours is but to do and die,'" Jenkins finished. "Not the most cheery saying in the world, Jim."
Vaughn shrugged. "Okay. But this beats taking tolls on the Jersey Turnpike."
"Not by much," Jenkins said. "And maybe I'll be one of those toll takers next month. I'm so short—"
Vaughn held up a hand while he laughed. "Not another 'I'm so short' joke, Frank. Please. My sister knows how short you are."
Jenkins frowned. He reached into one of his pockets and retrieved a worn photograph of a young woman, tenderly placed it to his lips and gave it a light kiss. "You ain't so young anymore, babe, but you still got it."
He said the words to himself, but Vaughn could hear. He had seen his brother-in-law enact this ritual five times before with his older sister's photo, and it always made him uneasy. Jenkins slid the picture back into his pocket, technically a violation of the rules requiring they be "sterile" for this mission, carrying nothing that indicated in any way who they were, but Vaughn didn't say anything.
Jenkins turned to Vaughn. "Let's get ready."
Both reached down and lifted the MP-5 submachine guns lying on top of a mound of gear. Made by Heckler & Koch of Germany, they were the standard now for most Special Operations forces. These were specially modified with integrated laser sights, and had telescoping stocks allowing the entire weapon to be collapsed to a very short and efficient length or extended for more accurate firing. The worn sheen of the metal indicated they had been handled quite a bit.
Like warriors throughout the ages, the two men geared up for battle. The process was the same—all that had changed was the actual gear. In some ways, with the advent of advanced body armor technology, soldiers were harkening back to the days of knights, when protection was almost as important as weapons. It was a constant race between offense and defense, an axiom of military technology.
Vaughn was tall, just over six feet, and slender, wiry. The uniform draped over his body consisted of plain green jungle fatigues without any markings or insignia. Over the shirt, he slid on a sleeveless vest of body armor securing it tightly around his torso with Velcro straps. It was lightweight but still added noticeably to his bulk. On top of that went a combat harness festooned with holders for extra magazines for the submachine guns, grenades, FM radio, and knife. He wrapped the thin wire for the radio around the vest, placed the earplug in his left ear, and strapped the mike around his throat.
Vaughn slid an automatic pistol into a holster strapped on the outside of his left thigh. Two spare magazines for the pistol went on either side of the holster. Two more spare magazines were strapped around his right thigh in a specially designed holster. He then pulled hard composite armor guards up to just below his elbow, protecting his forearms from elbow to wrist, followed by thin green Nomex flight gloves. Whether handling hot weapons, forcing his way through thick jungle, or simply for protection against falling, he had long ago learned to cover the skin on his hands.
For the final piece of weaponry, he used a loose piece of Velcro on his combat vest to secure a set of brass knuckles that had been spray-painted flat black to his left side.
"You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can't take Boston out of the boy," Jenkins commented.
"South Boston," Vaughn corrected his team sergeant. Jenkins had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin and always found his wife's and brother-in-law's stories of big city life strange. As strange as Vaughn found Jenkins's stories of farm life.
"If you got to use those," Jenkins said, pointing at the brass knuckles, "you're in some deep shit."
"That's the idea." Vaughn looked over at him. "You carry that pig sticker everywhere," he said, referring to the machete Jenkins had just finished securing behind his right shoulder, the handle sticking up for easy access.
"It's for firewood," Jenkins replied.
"Yeah, right."
Finally came a black Kevlar helmet, not the same distinctive shape the rest of the United States Army wore, but simply a semiround pot with a bracket bolted to the front. Out of a plastic case, Vaughn removed a set of night vision goggles and latched them onto the bracket, leaving the goggles in the up and off position so they wouldn't obscure his vision. The amount of gear he wore limited his exposed flesh to a small patch between his eyebrows and chin, which was already covered with dark green camouflage paste. The entire effect was greatly dehumanizing, making the men seem like machines, not flesh and blood.
A third, similarly dressed figure walked up in the dimming light. "Sergeant Major, don't you think your wife knows how short you really are?"
"Shut up," Jenkins growled, but without anger. The same jokes now for months—it was almost a ritual. One that Vaughn wished would end.
Several other men loomed up, all equipped the same way, except for two who carried heavier Squad Automatic Weapon machine guns. Ten men. Vaughn's team. Across the field, in a long tin building, was the platoon of twenty-five Filipino commandos who were to accompany them on this raid. And in between, squatting on the field like man-made bugs, were five UH-1 Iroquois transport helicopters with Philippine army markings. Like wraiths in the darkness, the pilots and crew chiefs of the aircraft were scurrying around them, doing last minute flight checks.
Vaughn looked at his watch. "Time. Get our allies," he ordered one of his men, who took off at a jog toward the barracks. He turned to another. "Got the designator?"
The man answered by holding out a rucksack. "It's set for the right freq."
Vaughn took the backpack, slid one of the straps over one shoulder and the MP-5 over the other. "To your birds." He and Jenkins headed toward the lead helicopter while the others split up. The sound of excited Filipino voices now echoed across the field as the platoon of commandos also headed toward the choppers.
Jenkins suddenly froze, putting an arm out and halting Vaughn. With one smooth movement, Jenkins's right arm looped up over his shoulder, grasped the well-worn handle of the machete and whipped the blade out and down. The razor-sharp blade sliced into the foot high grass—and through something else.
Jenkins leaned over and picked up the still wriggling body of a beheaded snake. "Very deadly," he commented as he tossed it aside. "Got to watch out for bad things in the grass."
Vaughn stood still for a moment, then followed his team sergeant. Without another comment they continued on to the helicopters. Jenkins slapped Vaughn on the back as he turned for the second bird while Vaughn turned toward the first. But then Vaughn paused and reached out, grabbing his brother-in-law by the arm and pulling him close.
"Hey, Frank," he whispered harshly. "This is the last mission for you. Don't do nothing stupid."
Jenkins smiled. "For sure, Jim. You watch your own ass. Linda will—" The smile was suddenly gone, and he didn't complete the sentence. The two stood awkwardly for a moment, then both of them nodded and turned toward their respective aircraft.
What Vaughn didn't mention was the promise he had made his sister to keep her husband out of any last mission—a promise he had known he couldn't keep as soon as he made it, because Frank Jenkins wasn't the type of man to be held back from doing his duty. But Vaughn had made the promise to give his sister peace of mind. She'd lost her first husband in the terrorist attack on the Pentagon on 9/11, and it was a testament to her love for Jenkins that she had married him though his job put him on the front line on the war against terrorism.
Reaching his helicopter, Vaughn scanned the other four birds and got the pilots' attention by circling his arm above his head, indicating it was time to power up. He climbed onboard the aging UH-1 Huey and sat on the web seat directly behind the pilots, facing outboard. Another Delta Force man took the seat next to him. Vaughn's MP-5 submachine gun dangled over his shoulder and he put the designator pack on the floor between his legs.
The turbine engine above his head came to life with a loud whine. Vaughn checked his watch again. Three minutes before liftoff. Even though the aircraft were Filipino, the pilots were Americans, and like Vaughn, dressed in unmarked uniforms. They were from the elite Nightstalkers of Task Force 160, the best chopper pilots in the world. All the pilots selected for this mission were old warrant officers, as most of the newer 160 pilots had never flown a Huey, being brought up on the more modern Blackhawk. Vaughn grabbed a headset from a hook over his head and placed the cup over his ears so he could listen to the crew on the intercom.
"One minute," the pilot announced.
Vaughn looked up. He knew the pilots were ready to hit their stopwatches and would lift off on time. This entire mission depended on everyone doing their job at exactly the right second. The Filipino commandos filled out the rest of the space on the web seats in the chopper. In addition to the Delta operator on his left, there were two American "advisors" in the rear of each chopper to complement the Filipinos.
In fact, the Americans were running the show, and Vaughn was the senior U.S. Army man. A Filipino colonel was technically in charge of the commandos and the raid, since it was taking place in his country, but the older man had declined to participate, claiming it was more important that he remain behind to "supervise." Even though there was nothing to supervise. There would be no radio communication at all. The last thing anyone from here to Washington wanted was a recording of American voices in combat operations in a place where they weren't supposed to be.
Vaughn opened the backpack and pulled out a bulky object that looked like a set of binoculars piggybacked onto a square green metal box, with a glass eye at the front end and a small display screen on the rear. The manufacturer called it "man portable," and at thirty-two pounds, Vaughn supposed it was, but it was an awkward thing to use. Designated the LLDR—Lightweight Laser Designator Rangefinder—it could both tell the distance to an object viewed through the lens and, when needed, "paint" it with a laser beam, designating the spot as a target for smart bombs. A steady green light on the rear indicated the designator was on, although the laser was not activated. There was also a GPS—Global Positioning System—built into the device that would feed location information to the computer, in conjunction with range to the designated target, which then was transmitted to incoming missiles, directing them. It was a lot of technology designed for one purpose: to put a bomb on target within a designated three-meter spot.
Ten seconds. Vaughn heard the jet before he saw it. An F-114 Stealth Fighter roared by overhead, stubby wings wagging in recognition of the helicopters below it. Right on time. He pressed a button on the back of the designator—a double check to make sure the bomb carried under the wing of the jet and the designator were on the same frequency. The green light flickered as it made radio contact with the bomb, then returned to steady green. Good to go. Vaughn put the designator back in the pack.
The fighter pilot pulled the nose up, and the jet shot into the sky until it was lost from sight and sound. Which is where it would remain, at high altitude, out of visual range from the ground, for the entire mission. The fact that it was a stealth plane would keep it off radar screens. The pilot would never even see the island where the target was located. It was Vaughn's job to target the bomb the pilot would drop at the planned moment.
With a shudder, the Huey lifted its skids exactly on time. Vaughn turned to the Filipino commandos in his bird and gave them the thumbs-up. He noted that none of them returned the gesture, nor did they seem particularly enthused. They were going into the mouth of the dragon to rescue foreigners, not a high priority for any of them. The raid was headed to Jolo Island, controlled by Abu Sayef rebels, who he knew had a long history of kicking the Philippine army's ass. He'd worked with the Philippine army before, and found their enthusiasm level for combat muted at best. Most were in the army for the pay, three hot meals, and a bunk. Not to get killed.
Eight days ago, eighteen tourists, most of them Americans, had been kidnapped by the rebels off a sailing boat as it passed by the island. Six days ago, a video of the rebels executing one of the tourists, an American man, had been sent to a Philippine news station in Manila. The next day, Vaughn and his small group of Delta Force operatives were on a flight from Fort Bragg to the Philippines. Their participation in the raid was a violation of both Philippine and American law; thus the extreme requirements for secrecy.
He would have preferred that the entire raiding force be American—not out of any prejudice on his part, but because the Filipino commandos were not trained anywhere near the level of his men, especially at the most difficult military task of all: rescuing hostages. But compromises were a political reality that often crept into missions such as this one.
Vaughn leaned back in the web seat and closed his eyes. He could sense the fear coming off some of the commandos, especially those who had not experienced combat before. They were going to "see the elephant," the age-old military term for experiencing combat. He wasn't sure where the term came from, although he suspected it might stem from as far back as Hannibal crossing the Alps, elephants in tow to engage the Romans. He was a student of military history, and that explanation seemed to make as much sense as any other.
He mentally ran through the sequence of upcoming events, war-gaming the plan. It was too late to change anything, but he wanted to keep his mind occupied. He'd learned that it could drift to bad places if left to its own devices. The helicopters cleared the edge of the island they had been on, and the pilots dove toward the ocean until they were flying less than five feet above the waves.