Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (36 page)

Around the side of the building a fresh wave of enemy appeared. Company size, Thomaston guessed. He fired a short burst at a group running along the south wall, trying to outflank the defenders and sneak into the vehicle park. If the townspeople could just hold until tonight, which would be a miracle, some of them might be able to escape. Gentle reached over and touched him. “Good luck, my friend.” They both knew they’d be lucky to last until noon.

“Be careful, Craig.”

The sergeant major nodded and ran toward the east wall. Tawela Johnson ran with him.

The enemy reached the perimeter suddenly. Three African men jumped on top of a pickup truck on the south side, firing at the defenders along the front. The bullets sent three defenders slamming into the Ford SUV parked against the bumper of the Ford Expedition. Harold French took a bullet in his back. Dying on the burning pavement, he raised his M-16 and shot the three attackers.

“Back up!” Thomaston shouted, motioning the remaining defenders to the rear line of vehicles. “To the rear.”

They fought a retreating battle, blowing away attackers who seemed to fight for the chance to die as they scrambled over the tops and around the sides of the vehicles. Even as he fought, he waited to hear the crash that would mark Gentle blowing an opening through the east wall.

Roughly ten militiamen remained able to fight as they backed toward the vehicles that created the back line of defense. The enemy poured around the Fords in front. Their firing was erratic as they shouted their prayer and jostled each other for the right to die for Islam or to kill an American. The inside of the perimeter was so crowded with rebels that every bullet found a target. The east wall was closing on them.

Gentle was back there someplace, cranking a vehicle to run through the wall. Unless the sergeant major got it open soon, they would be massacred here. Those without weapons had already fled to the rear. Thomaston looked back. He caught a glimpse of Gentle running from vehicle to vehicle. The retired sergeant major was forcing his way through the mob of townspeople. Thomaston heard a shout, turned in time to see a rebel a couple of feet away with his machete raised. A shot from the side caught the rebel in the side catapulting him aside.

It looked as if the chance to make that high-risk dash to the jungle was evaporating. There was still time, but it was measured in seconds. The key to how many would survive would be how many of the enemy they had tied up inside the armory. Even for the few who would make it out the opening before they were overrun, their only chance would be outside. Maybe more than he thought would make it to the jungle. With most of the enemy inside the armory, they would have to scramble out the gates to their vehicles to chase them down.

Thomaston heard the mortar round coming. For a moment, he thought the rebels had decided in favor of instant death rather than saving the vehicles they wanted. Two Africans charged around the side of the school bus. Thomaston shot one and Samson Roosevelt killed the other.

“Man, oh, man,” Roosevelt said aloud, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. “Man, oh, man.”

The mortar round passed over their heads. Thomaston
looked to the south, toward the jungles and rain forest. The same direction they had intended to flee. If Abu Alhaul’s forces were already there, the flight into the jungle would be the same death trap they were in now, with little chance of survival. Hope of escaping through the east wall was gone.

CHAPTER 15

“PAULINE, QUIT COMPLAINING. AT LEAST YOU WILL GET TO
see Africa before we do. So just go with Alan and escort the Marines in. Jurgen and I will intercept the French fighter.”

“Deathhead Leader, this is Deathhead Three,” Pauline replied formally. “Is this a male thing? Why do you get all the fun? If I recall the last flight, you crashed out of a dogfight. From what I remember—
Hey! Speak up, Ensign Ichmens!
We successfully shot down those Tomcats.”

“Hey, don’t give Nash a rough time. He can’t help it if his piloting skills can’t hold an aircraft together in a fifty-G turn,” Valverde chided good-naturedly.

“Deathhead Leader, this is Petty Officer Turner. I am your Air Intercept Controller, sir. I have you and Deathhead Four for intercept on bandit bearing three-two-zero from your position at altitude two-eight-zero,” Petty Officer Turner broadcast.

Nash’s eyes blinked a couple of times, ridding them of that dry feeling caused by forced air circulating through the tight confines of the mock cockpit. Petty Officer Turner had told them that the lone unidentified aircraft was northwest of their UFAVs, flying at twenty-eight thousand feet. Everyone knew it was a French fighter, but until it was visually confirmed, it
would remain an unidentified aircraft. So far, only the electronic-warfare technician had verified it as a Super Etendard. Considering there weren’t other aircraft carriers around carrying Super Etendard fighters, the process of elimination was easy.

“Deathhead Two and Three, change to channel one. Petty Officer Watts,” Petty Officer Turner continued, “will be your Air Intercept Controller with the landing force.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem too bad,” Pauline said on the private line that only the four of them could hear. “May see some action yet.” Then, on the connection with Combat, she replied, “AIC, Deathhead Three and Four changing to ATC channel one.”

“See you back at homeplate, Pauline; Alan. Take care.”

“Alan, join up on my left side. Our link with the UFAVs is line of sight. That means we have to keep gaining altitude the farther we get from the ships. If we lose that data link, then . . .”

She didn’t finish, but she didn’t need to. Loss of the critical control data link meant the UFAVs would automatically ascend to twenty-two thousand feet and start a circle pattern, five-mile-wide profile. The UFAVs would stay there, waiting for their owners to reclaim them electronically, until fuel reserves reached critical. Then they would put their nose over and dive into the ground, self-destructing all of the avionics, computer systems, and communications equipment on board, protecting the sensitive technology from non-American hands. The downside of this fail-safe mode was it had yet to be tested. The operational assessment of this fail-safe mode wasn’t scheduled for another two months.

“Roger, understand,” Valverde replied.

Nash listened for a few more moments to Pauline Kitchner and Alan Valverde form up before he mentally tuned them out. He reached over and pushed the data-link diagnostic-check button, holding it for three seconds. The lights glowed green. He and the ensign could have the same problem with their data link as Pauline had warned Alan about, but their aircraft were nearer the ship and had less chance of losing the data link.

If they began to have problems with the control link, their
console’s diagnostic lights would change slowly to red like a countdown sequence. Satellite relay would have been helpful, but the military only had limited space resources, and most of those had been relegated to the war in Indonesia.

They had no satellite link available in this area to control a long-range flight, and the sunspot activity had rendered high-frequency control untenable. They were dependent on the very-high-frequency and ultra-high-frequency ranges. Those frequency ranges only worked when transmitter and receiver were in line of sight of each other. There was more to flying an unmanned aerial vehicle than a normal pilot had to know. Every one of them had been at one time or another a communicator, and with the exception of Alan, who was a cryptologist with Naval Security Group Command, all of them were qualified pilots.

What the hell a cryptologist did, none of them knew. When asked, Alan always replied jokingly that he could tell them what he did, but then he was honor-bound to kill them. Or he could tell them a
“wee bit about the dangerous world of Cryppies,”
and then just beat the hell out of them.

Nash smiled. It was unusual for four A-type personalities such as theirs to come together and work so closely as a team. Probably because none of them competed against each other for promotion and none of them were really in charge. Well, technically he was, but he seldom exercised that right.

He glanced at the data-link monitor. Pauline was right. The scientists and other UFAV pilots would understand if they lost contact, but the naysayers at the Pentagon would jump on this as an example of a failed “leap ahead” technology. There was more riding on this than many knew.

No, they had to maintain a line of sight between these mock-up cockpits strapped down in the hangar bay of the USS
Boxer
and those UFAVs boring holes in the sky. There
was
another relay capability they could use. It had had limited testing, but Nash knew it could work, but if he had to use it, it would be the first time in an operational environment. The Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles were designed so that one of them could orbit at high altitude, allowing the others to link through it with their aircraft. This would allow the other UFAVs to operate at a lower, out-of-line-of-sight range. It was
a fallback data link when satellite connectivity was unavailable, as it was here. It was also a power-projection capability to extend the range of a UFAV hundreds of miles inland. The downside—
damn, there’s always a downside to everything
—was crossing his fingers and hoping it worked outside of the controlled environment.

“Deathhead Three,” he acknowledged. “Thanks for the reminder on the data link. Everyone keep an eye on those diagnostic lights. If you see anything that smacks of data-link interruption, tell the others. Talk to you after the intercept.”

“Good luck, Nash,” Pauline said. Then she added, “Ensign, I hope you know what you’re doing. If you had spoken up when I asked, we could be flying as a team again. But nooooo, you had to keep quiet about our success—”

“Good luck, Lieutenant,” Engine Ichmens interrupted. “I may be able to recall that dogfight later.”

Nash heard the slight click as Pauline and Alan changed to channel one. The four pilots still had their own internal channels, but now they would only interrupt in the event something drastic happened.

The left-side screen showed the edge of Ensign Ichmens’s UFAV nose cone entering the field of vision of the camera. Jurgen had joined up.

“Good position, Jurgen.”

“Deathhead Leader, Deathhead Four; come to course three-two-zero. Maintain altitude one-two-zero,” Petty Officer Turner said. “You will be coming in low and nose-on to approaching aircraft.”

“Roger,
Boxer,
” Nash replied. He glanced at his altimeter. “Deathhead Four, climb two thousand to one-two-zero, maintain position on my left. Coming to course three-two-zero now.” He put the UFAV in a slight turn, correcting the course by a few degrees, and then pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up. Motion on his left screen caught his attention. He watched for a brief moment as the nose of Jurgen’s UFAV reappeared and crept up until the Deathhead Four UFAV was flying alongside him in tight formation. Then Jurgen’s UFAV eased back as he assumed wingman position to Nash’s lead UFAV.

“
Boxer
, Deathhead Leader; one-two-zero altitude, steady on course three-two-zero.”

“Roger, Deathhead Formation. I hold bandit course one-four-zero, descending, passing two-five-zero. Intercept in five minutes.”

Nash clicked his transmitter a couple of times, acknowledging the transmission. The French fighter was descending toward them, passing through twenty-five thousand feet.

“Why do you think he’s descending, Lieutenant Shoemaker?”

Nash pressed the private-line button. “No chatter, Jurgen.” Wasn’t the time for them to start a separate chat. Remain focused and let the AIC do his job.

“Deathhead Formation,
Boxer
; Admiral Holman says intentions are to try to keep you out of visual of the French fighter as long as possible.”

“Roger, understand.” Once the French saw they weren’t F- 14’s, then the dance of the titans would stop, freeing the French to do whatever they decided. It was inconceivable to Nash how the country directly responsible for America’s independence, and which America helped free in World War II, could reach the point where it felt threaten by America.

He smiled, recalling Pauline’s response to such a question. “I mean, how can they be upset? Don’t we have French companies like Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, and Disney World scattered all over America?”

“Deathhead Formation,
Boxer
; come to course three-five-five. Maintain current altitude. You are on course toward
Boxer
task force, distance twenty nautical miles.”

Nash reached up and touched the focus of the cameras on the UFAV. The ships should come in range shortly.

“Deathhead Formation, Deathhead Formation,” Petty Officer Turner said urgently. “French fighter is not alone. Video return shows two fighters. I repeat, two fighters. They must have been riding close up, one over the other to fool the radar, but they have broken apart.”

“Roger, understand, Petty Officer Turner. Where are they?” Nash asked, his head twisting as he searched his screens for any reflection or movement that would reveal the French fighters.

“Yes, sir. I have them from you, bearing three-three-six, range twenty-five. Still descending, passing altitude two-two-zero. They may have you painted, sir.”

Nash nodded. If the French aircraft radars had them
painted,
as radar operators say, then his electronic-warfare suite didn’t show it. “Seems to me, Petty Officer Turner, that those aircraft are intercepting us rather than us them. I think instead of us trying to make the task force, we should engage them. If nothing else, we can confuse them for a few more minutes. I believe the secret of this operational deception is to buy time.”

“Roger, sir. Wait one.”

Nash knew the young Air Intercept Controller was discussing the proposal with the officers in Combat. Most likely the admiral was up there, but at a minimum Captain Green or Captain Upmann would be there.

“Deathhead Leader, come to course three-three-zero, ascend to altitude two-four-zero.”

“Roger, Boxer. Understand.

“Deathhead Four, this is Deathhead Leader. Turning your way, shipmate. Steady up on course three-three-zero, maintain wingman position, and follow me up. Appears we are going to force them to either follow us above the few clouds in the area, or give us the chance to attack them from above.”

“Roger, tallyho!” Jurgen shouted, using aviator terminology that he was about to engage the enemy.

“Deathhead Formation. Be advised, weapons free not authorized at this time.”

“TALLYHO!” HOLMAN SAID ALOUD. “TELL THEM THEY AREN’T
authorized to engage.”

“Admiral, the French are on an intercept course to them!”

“Yes, they are, Leo, but they are on an intercept course to
two unmanned aerial vehicles.
” He’d be damned if he was going to call them aircraft. “What am I going to do? Authorize the shoot-down of manned French fighter aircraft to protect unmanned aircraft? Can’t do it. Not yet. They’re still our allies.”

“What do we do if they fire on them?”

“They evade, they jam, they twist and turn, and avoid. But they don’t fire on those aircraft. They maneuver like real pilots know how to do.”

“They can’t engage anyway, Admiral. They only have air-to-ground missiles on them.”

“I thought they had guns.”

Upmann’s eyebrows bunched. “They do, but I don’t think they are loaded,” he said, his voice trailing off.

“Don’t think, Leo,” Holman said harshly. “Find out. If they’re armed, tell those pi1-operators to lock down their firing mechanism.” The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for setting an international precedence for UFAVs to shoot down manned aircraft. The United States had only used them against enemy forces to protect American lives. As much as Colbert pissed him off, being pissed off was not a good argument for following the rules of engagement that gave him permission to shoot down hostile aircraft.

“ROGER,
BOXER
; WE UNDERSTAND, BUT BE ADVISED OUR
cannons aren’t loaded and we have air-to-surface missiles; not air-to-air. We can intercept and engage, but we have no defense. And if we should lose these two UFAVs, then you are limited to one UFAV to escort the Marines to Kingsville because the other one is going to have to act as a relay.”

“Roger, I will pass this information to Commander W.”

“Lieutenant, I have the Frenchmen visually,” Jurgen said. “They’re at our ten o’clock, below us about four thousand feet. I think they are circling for a left-to-right pass.”