Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (38 page)
“Alan, I’m about to lose control again.”
“Deathhead Two, I have you on course zero-three-zero, altitude eight-zero. The landing force has just crossed the coast. They bear zero-two-five, altitude four-zero. Admiral Holman would like for you to return to ordered position.”
“Roger,
Boxer.
I know where I’m supposed to be, but we
lost contact for a bit with our UFAVs. We’ll rejoin now. Request you provide ground-control-intercept guidance for us.”
“Pauline, I’m getting intermittent contact with my UFAV.”
“Lieutenant, I show you have plenty of fuel,” Senior Chief David Oxford, the intelligence specialist manning the mother console above the four mock-up cockpits, said.
“Fuel ain’t the problem, Senior Chief. The problem is we can’t maintain data link with our unmanned aircraft unless we have another UFAV orbiting at high altitude to act as a relay.”
“Uh . . . that sounds . . . not so good, ma’am.”
“Nope. You’re right. I can see why you’re in Intelligence, Senior Chief. It ain’t good. It means we’ve got an aircraft that will orbit until it runs out of gas, and we got a fighter aircraft that can’t go much farther because it doesn’t have the radio range to do it.”
“YOU HEARD?” UPMANN SAID TO REAR ADMIRAL HOLMAN.
Dick Holman nodded. “We need to break off Deathhead Leader and Four and vector them toward the landing force.”
“What about the French fighters?”
Holman’s eyes narrowed, and then he grinned at Leo. He leaned over and touched Commander Wlazinierz on the shoulder. “Stephanie, get me Admiral Colbert on the circuit.”
Captain Upmann looked at his boss, his expression questioning.
Holman nodded curtly at him. “Time to see if we can ease the tension here so we can redirect those aerial vehicles toward our landing force.”
“Good luck, sir. Admiral Colbert doesn’t strike me the type to have a great sense of humor.”
“Sir, I have Captain St. Cyr on the black telephone,” Commander Wlazinierz said, pointing toward the black handset resting in its cradle beside the captain’s chair.
Holman picked it up and pressed the “push-to-talk” button. “Captain St. Cyr, this is Admiral Holman.”
“
Bon jour,
Admiral. How may we help you?”
“I’m trying to help
you,
Captain. Please pass along my respects to Admiral Colbert. What I would like to know is why are your fighter aircraft dogging our target drones?”
Target drones were aerial targets usually pulled behind an aircraft so ships at sea could practice their surface-to-air-missile firing and the ship’s antiair gunfire.
A few moments of silence passed before the circuit broke open again. “I am sorry, Admiral. We have never seen drones like these before. They do not have American markings on them.”
“What are your intentions, Captain? We are preparing to fire on those drones, and we can’t do it with your aircraft in the area.”
Holman held the handset away from him and looked at Commander Wlazinierz. “Stephanie, bring up the fire-control radars on the USS
Spruance
and USS
Stribling
and have them paint our UFAVs. It should cause the electronic-warfare alarms on the Super Etendards to alarm and hopefully scare the shit out of those French pilots.”
He brought the handset back to his ear.
“Admiral, this is Captain St. Cyr again, sir. Our early warning aircraft—one of your own manufacture—an E2C, has detected what may be helicopters heading into Liberia. I have been instructed to send aircraft to intercept and turn them back.”
“Captain, do you also see two aircraft orbiting between my battle group and the coast?”
A few more seconds passed. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“Those are F-14 aircraft from the USS
Theodore Roosevelt
.”
“Admiral, I think someone is pulling—
how do you Americans say
—your legs. According to our intelligence, the USS
Theodore Roosevelt
is in the Indian Ocean and cannot possibly make it here before next week.”
“Things just keep getting better,” Upmann said.
“What now?” Holman asked, holding the black handset by his side as he looked at Leo.
Upmann shrugged. “Don’t know, Boss. I would suggest that arguing with the French uses time. Time in which we can redirect the UFAVs toward the landing force. If the French decide to intercept, at least we’ll have three-and-a-half fighters between them and the landing force. Possibly four, if they reestablish that data link.”
“Stephanie, take Lieutenant Shoemaker and his wingman and vector them toward the other two unmanned aerial vehicles.”
Upmann shook his head, putting his hands on his hips.
“What’s your problem, Chief of Staff?”
“Why don’t you just say UFAV or unmanned aircraft; or better yet, just aircraft.”
Holman wrinkled his nose and winked. “You say it your way and I’ll say it the Naval Aviation way.” He tapped the stars on the collar of his khaki uniform. “Besides, I’ve looked over the manning of Joint Task Force Liberia and discovered I was in charge.”
Holman lifted the black handset. “Captain St. Cyr, you could be correct. I’ll have a talk with our intelligence officer and ask her to confirm what you’ve told me. I wonder who would benefit from trying to fool our Joint Task Force.”
“Admiral, your fire-control radars have locked on our fighter aircraft. Admiral Colbert demands that you shut down your fire-control radars immediately.”
“Tell Admiral Colbert to go take a flying leap,” Upmann recommended in a low voice.
“Captain, tell Admiral Colbert that we’re vectoring our target drones away for the firing. The only radar we have available to keep track of them are our fire-control radars. They should be off your fighter aircraft shortly, or if you vector your aircraft north away from the drones, then they will be outside of the fire-control-radar zone. I’m too far along in the exercise to shut down the fire-control radars at this time. As a precaution, I recommend you recall your fighters immediately. I have a lot of young Navy officers who’re still too young to resist pushing every button they see. I would hate for an unfortunate incident to happen.”
Holman turned to the deputy operations officer. “Stephanie, where are the unmanned aerial vehicles?”
“Sir, Deathhead Leader and Four are on intercept course with the other two fighter aircraft—”
“Stephanie!” Admiral Holman interrupted.
“Sorry, sir—the other two UFAVs. In two minutes, they will be five nautical miles south of us at altitude six thousand feet on a course of zero-nine-zero, Admiral.”
“Tactical Action Officer!” the Air Search Radar operator called. “I show the two bandits southwest of us on a northeasterly course heading away. Current course will take them back to the French battle group.”
“That’s good news,” Upmann offered.
“Yeah, they could have vectored them toward the landing force.”
Holman took the handset away from his ear. The French must be discussing the situation, trying to decide what course of action to take. Why did it have to come down to two of the mightiest democracies on earth having a Naval confrontation off Africa? He knew the answer was politics. Politics on a global scale, and what better place to iron out some of the finer points of American-French foreign relations than at sea? History had shown that Naval confrontations ran less of a risk of escalation than those ashore. Holman knew it was because out at sea it was easy for statesmen to put a more positive spin on events that permitted both combatants to back away from a full war. War?
Hell of a thought.
Could never see America and the country most responsible for its freedom in a military conflict. But here it was, and he was being left out on a limb with no advice from senior leadership on what to do. Just go rescue the Americans in Liberia and return to the United States. Well, he would do that. Those were his orders and orders were to be obeyed, unless they were illegal, and there was nothing illegal about rescuing American citizens in danger of being killed.
“Commander, I have bogies—four—heading toward the orbiting UFAVs southeast of us.”
“Where did that fourth one come from?” Holman asked.
“TAO, Electronic Warfare here; I have hits from Super Etendard fighter aircraft,” the young petty officer manning the AN/SLQ-32(V)6 electronic-warfare console announced.
Holman looked past the captain’s chair at the glowing green screen of the EW operator. The AN/SLQ-32(V)6 was the latest in early-warning technology. In the automatic mode, the system could take over the electronic-warfare defense of the battle group. This new EW defense included jamming enemy radars and filling the skies surrounding the ships with small bits of aluminum to confuse enemy missile-seekers. This EW system
also had a transformational capability of interjecting small bits of radar return that made the enemy operator see multiple targets and inbound missiles. This new technology also caused the enemy radar returns to flicker and change positions so rapidly that it confused the operator. It intentionally slowed computerized analysis of radar and electromagnetic signals.
“Go automatic, Commander,” Holman said to Stephanie.
“Aye, sir,” she acknowledged. Then she pushed her button down on her sound-powered telephone. “EW, turn on automatic defensive measures. Link with the other EW systems on the other ships and turn the computers loose.”
She looked at Holman. “Activate the black program, sir?” she asked, referring to the most top secret of technology the United States military possessed. Technology only authorized in time of war.
He shook his head. “No, let’s hold that unless we have to do it.”
She pushed her headset against her left ear. The wing of hair flopped down alongside her head. Wlazinierz acknowledged whatever was said and turned to Holman. “Sir, the four UFAVs are together.”
“Admiral Holman,” said the voice of Captain St. Cyr over the speaker.
He picked up the handset and pushed the talk button. “Yes, Captain, go ahead.”
“Sir, we are confused by your actions. Those drones were not shot down, and now they appear to be orbiting with the two to your south.”
“You’re right, Captain. After what you told me, I had no choice but to investigate your claims about them not being F- 14’s.”
Several seconds of silence passed before Captain St. Cyr replied. “And what did your intercept reveal.”
Holman thought for a moment, and then pushed the talk button. “The intercept told me you were right, Captain St. Cyr. I will have to do some royal ass-chewing within my task force. Seems one of the other ships launched drones also. Now, I have to find out how come we believed them to be F-14’s from one of our many aircraft carriers.”
“You can say that again,” Upmann added.
“PAULINE, I HAVE YOU IN SIGHT,” NASH SAID OVER THE PRIVATE
circuit.
“I have you too, Nash. Never thought I’d like to see you two flying over the horizon at me.” Pauline spent three minutes bringing Nash up to date on what happened and the course of events that occurred.
“Deathhead Leader, this is
Boxer
; orbiting UFAV is at altitude two-two. Come to course zero-one-zero. Target is five miles.”
“
Boxer
, this is Lieutenant Shoemaker. What are we going to do once we get there? Shoot it down?” he asked with a slight hint of anger over being vectored toward the wayward UFAV. When no reply came, he added, “Just leave it alone and keep a radar watch on it.”
“Sorry, sir,” Petty officer Turner said. “I just thought—”
“Never mind, Petty Officer. Give us some time down here to discuss it. We are as close as we need to be right now, and the orbiting UFAV has sufficient fuel for another couple of hours. Why don’t you put the four of us on one traffic controller?”
“Roger, sir. Change to channel one. Petty Officer Watts will take over. New directions before you go. Admiral Holman wants you to catch up with the landing force. We have four French Super Etendards heading toward the landing force.”
“Well, if they are any kind of pilots like the two we just played with, they’ll get lost on the way.”
“Roger, sir. I will pass that on.”
“Wait a minute, Petty Officer Turner. Don’t pass everything we say on to the admiral. We have enough problems without having flag testosterone bouncing all over the place. Just stay off the circuit for a couple of minutes and let us see if we can fix the problem.”
“What are you going to do?” Alan asked.
“We need to recycle the avionics,” Nash offered.
“Means that you are going to have to shut down while that intelligence specialist, Senior Chief Oxford, brings the system back on-line. Kind of like restarting your computer when the blue screen of death appears.”
“That may take some time.”
Nash mentally shrugged. “I don’t see much of a choice, Alan.”
“Deathhead Formation,
Boxer
; sorry, sirs and ma’am,” Petty Officer Watts interrupted. “I have control of Deathhead Formation. Deathhead Leader, Deathhead Two, and Deathhead Four, prepare for vector to the landing force.”
“What about me?” Alan asked.
“Alan, we’re going to need you right where your UFAV is now, once you regain control. Climb to twenty-five thousand and act as data relay. Alan, work directly with Senior Chief Oxford and get control back. You may have to vacate the mock-up, get on the mother-board, reactivate the avionics, and the data-link systems. The senior chief doesn’t have any experience in doing this. You’re going to have to do it. Check each one as you do it, and run diagnostics on the data-link systems before you reactivate them.”
“Roger, will do.”
“Petty Officer Watts, this is Deathhead Leader. We await your command.”
“Roger, Deathhead Formation; come to course zero-four-zero, max speed. Maintain altitude two-zero-zero.”
THE INCOMING MORTAR ROUND EXPLODED ON THE GRASSY
area of the compound killing several of the enemy. A second round, followed by a third, screamed through the air. Thomaston slowly stood as he searched the sky, trying to follow the whistling sound of the mortar. Each one was exploding into the attacking charge. If Abu Alhaul terrorists were firing that mortar, they were piss-poor in their aim, thank God.
The Africans were the first to break and run. The Arab leaders in their midst hit out at them with the butts of their guns, trying to force them to turn around and continue toward Thomaston and the trapped townsfolk. Thomaston watched as an Arab shot a fleeing African before turning his gun back toward the townsfolk just as a group of Africans knocked him down and trampled him as they fled. The whistling sound of another mortar pierced the noise of the gunfire, and drowned out for a moment the cries of the attackers as they ran in disorganized retreat. Another African fell, or was shot. Those behind trampled him as they continued their pell-mell race away from the incoming rounds.
The fourth mortar round exploded near the edge of the building. A new sound joined the foray—Thomaston tried to place it, but the whooping noise mixed with mortars, screams,
and gunfire was too faint to stand out alone. Along with the noise, huge clouds of dirt and dust from the explosions, bodies, and body parts filled the air. Many of the enemy were sent tumbling across the ground, only to discover themselves unharmed when they stood. Those ran harder toward the front gate of the armory. That fourth round must have changed the Arabs’ minds, thought Thomaston as he watched them join the Africans in the mad dash to safety. They were in full retreat. Thomaston held up his hand to stop his people from firing. They might need the few remaining bullets they had. He stood straight, and watched the flight for a few more seconds. More time bought, he thought. The whistle of a fifth mortar round flew overhead. The round clipped the east side of the armory building, the explosion sending bricks flying into the air. A sixth round passed over the building and exploded somewhere in front.
“Listen,” he said.
From the front of the building and out of sight came the new sound of heavy-machine-gun fire accompanied by screams of pain. The
whoop-whoop
sounds from earlier rose in intensity. Another explosion outside of the armory rocketed debris skyward. Sure sounded like a helicopter to him, thought Thomaston. He glanced at the tree-encrusted hill to the south. The noise of large-caliber machine guns reached his ears. More than one.
“Sounds like fifty-caliber,” Thomaston said.
“Guess those Arab allies don’t like their African brothers running for their lives,” Roosevelt said.
Craig Gentle ran up beside the general, touching Thomaston on the shoulder. “Never thought I would see this. Christ! What lousy shots those assholes are. Ought to give that A-rab mortar-er a Bronze Star!”
“Thought you were going to make a hole in the east wall.”
“Would have, but Lincoln’s disabling of the vehicles was very thorough.”
An explosion from behind knocked Thomaston into Gentle, throwing both toward the ground. Thomaston threw his arms out, saving his head from slamming against the pavement. These explosions were going to kill him, and he had yet to be hit by one.
The two men rolled apart and raised their M-16’s toward the east wall.
“Well, there’s our hole, General.”
A ruse! The enemy was behind them and the rebel force had now closed their only chance of escape.
Thomaston rose to a crouching position. One knee on the hot pavement and the other bent so his left foot could push him upright at a moment’s notice. There was no other place to go. At least the miscalculated mortar fire had eaten into the forces making the frontal assault. He had not believed this disorganized force of rebels hell-bent on reaching their cult version of heaven could mount a two-prong attack. A cloud of dust obscured where the explosion had destroyed the wall. The sound of gunfire rose in intensity out of sight from the front of the armory. If this is a small force unaware of what happened to their comrades in front, then Thomaston and his people might still have a chance.
Bricks rolled to the side of the wall. Strands of sharp barbed wire swung, bouncing up and down, from where they hung by single strands to the remnants of the wall. He raised his M-16 to fire. Figures appeared out of the cloud. His finger tightened on the trigger. The camouflage utilities of a United States Marine emerged. Behind the man, additional Marines ran into the compound. Thomaston lowered his weapon. A patch displaying the United States flag was prominent on their right shoulders. The Marines flowed past the survivors and surged forward, charging after the fleeing attackers. Other Marines rushed into the makeshift defensive perimeter along the edge of the pavement.
A CH-53 appeared suddenly overhead, the noise of its straining engines filling the air. Then two of the strangest flying machines Thomaston had ever seen crossed east to west at about one hundred feet, heading toward the fight out front. White, about thirty feet long. As he watched, each fired a single missile. The missiles arched for a moment and then, with white spiraling contrails following, they disappeared in front of the armory building. Two large explosions quickly followed as the missiles hit their targets. Two huge white clouds burst into the air, followed immediately by dark roiling smoke. No cockpit. The things wiggled their wings as they
circled overhead for another pass and disappeared toward the front, weaving right to avoid the dark smoke rising from the building.
What in the hell—
The cheers from the townspeople drew his attention. Thomaston counted twenty Marines before he stopped. An unexpected emotional surge caused his eyes to well for a moment. The U.S. Marines had arrived.
Damn! Why couldn’t it be Army? HOOAH!
A second and a third CH-53 roared over the armory, lower this time, sending stinging clouds of dirt and rock into the air. The heat from their engines raised the temperature while they passed overhead. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes enveloped those below. The CH-53’s passed over the south wall. Both noses of the helicopters angled into the air slightly as the two large troop carriers changed their forward momentum to a momentary hover. Then, they quickly disappeared behind the wall, landing in the field between the armory and the rain forest. Combat landing!
Two Marines stopped and exchanged a few words with one of the women in the rear. She pointed toward Thomaston and Gentle. The two men ran toward Daniel Thomaston. People along the way reached out to touch them. Most stood—laughing, crying, family members hugging each other, celebrating the appearance of U.S. Marines. Thomaston smiled. The helmet had the black but familiar spread-wing eagle of a colonel in its center. This would be the leader of the rescue party. Behind the two men, Reverend Hew stood alone.
The men slowed to a walk and saluted as they neared.
“General Thomaston, I am Colonel Charles Battersby. Sir, hate to be a killjoy and interrupt your fun, but Admiral Holman insisted I pass along his compliments to you, sir, and apologize for the delay. Seems he had to work out a little disagreement with one of our allies before we could deploy.”
Thomaston returned the salute and shook hands. Damn! He wanted to hug this big son of a bitch. His throat constricted slightly. Thomaston smiled, cleared his throat, and replied. “Colonel Battersby, it’s about time you showed up,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaken as he felt. Thomaston coughed. “We thought we were going to have to whip their asses by ourselves.” He turned to Gentle. “Colonel, this is my
sergeant major—Craig Gentle—late of the Eighty-second Airborne.”
“Sergeant Major,” Colonel Battersby said, nodding at the noncom. “General, I would like to tell you that you are relieved and we will finish the mopping up, but I respectfully ask your permission.”
“Colonel, you have my permission.”
“Colonel, great job with that mortar. We thought they were coming through the rear,” Gentle said.
“Mortar?” Battersby looked at the lieutenant colonel standing to his left. “We didn’t fire any mortars, sir,” Battersby said. “We were making a low-level assault from the east when those rounds were fired. We marked the spot on the hill south of you where they originated, but when we saw they were targeting the enemy, we left them alone. Figured they were part of your elements.” Ignoring the questioning looks exchanged between Thomaston and Gentle, Battersby continued. “This is it for Marines, though. We have two Ospreys inbound,” he said, and as if hearing him, the two tilt-rotor aircraft appeared over the armory, their rotors tilting as they approached the makeshift landing zone in the south field.
“Everyone we have is here that we know of, Colonel. If it wasn’t you firing that mortar, then we’ve got enemy fighters to the south of us,” Thomaston offered.
“Not according to the UFAVs, sir. They did a reconnoiter minutes before we landed.”
“You mean UAVs, Colonel?”
“No, sir. Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles. But they have cameras, and if there are enemy fighters in that direction, then it’s not a large group. General, we need to start evacuating your people to the
Boxer
. If you would start moving your people through the gap and toward the Ospreys, we will start the evacuation.”
Thomaston looked toward the gap in the east wall. If Marines could come through it, they could go out of it.
A couple of men stepped over the remnants of the wall into the armory. One of them was white. Both wore civilian clothes.
Where did they come from?
he wondered.
“General, I have to join my Marines, sir. If you would—”
Thomaston reached out and shook Colonel Battersby’s
hand. “Sure thing, Colonel. You go whup ass, and I will take care of getting everyone out of here.”
Battersby saluted and the two Marines took off, jogging toward the burning armory building. The sound of fighting in front of the armory continued.
“Who’s that?” Gentle asked, pointing to the two men standing just inside the hole in the wall.
Thomaston shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably more refugees.”
“One’s white.”
“Not everyone has the luxury of being black, Craig.”
“You know what I mean. I bet he’s CIA.”
Thomaston thought for a moment. He did have an agreement with the Company. “If they are, they’ll let us know.” He turned his attention away and smiled. “Sergeant Major, let’s start everyone moving.” When he looked back at the gap, three women and two young boys had crawled through the gap.
The slender woman with the shorter skirt was carrying a young girl. The young girl curled against the woman’s chest with both of her small hands wedged into her eyes. Even from here, he saw spittle running out of the girl’s mouth.
This group of newcomers was pushed aside as the crowd surged forward at the direction of a couple of Marines who were shouting directions.
Thomaston turned and leaned against the SUV. In another time, another era, another life, he would have rushed forward to the sound of gunfire. The term
LGOP
came to mind—a combat rule that meant command and control had broken down. In this case, he was the LGOP—“Little Group of Paratroopers.” When you had a bunch of LGOPs running around, many times you were in as much danger from them as you were from the enemy. LGOPs subscribed to the combat order to soldiers that when you are lost and don’t know where you’re supposed to be, march toward the sound of gunfire and kill everyone you encounter not wearing your uniform. The sound of gunfire in front seemed to slacken, and then suddenly stopped altogether.
ABU ALHAUL STARED FROM THE EDGE OF THE JUNGLE TO
the west, trembling with rage at the devastating effect the Marines’ superior firepower had on his force. The Africans were useless as fighters. Look at them run. Look at the cowards run instead of standing up and fighting until death for the honor of martyrdom.
“Abu Alhaul,” Abdo said softly. The overweight and taller man reached forward and tugged on his brother’s shirt. “We must go, Abu. There will be other days to complete this mission.”
Abu Alhaul shook his head. “One more hour and we would have overrun the Americans.” He raised his fist and shook it. “Why am I surrounded by cowards? Why cannot I have the fruit of the madrassas here to rush forward to give their lives for Allah?” he asked angrily, referring to young men and women taken as toddlers and trained in religious schools for the purpose of martyrdom. “I will show them how to do it,” he said, and stepped forward.
Abdo grabbed him, his massive arms reaching easily around the smaller man. “Ah, Abu Alhaul, if I allow you to sacrifice yourself, then your other plan will fall apart. Your chance to show the world the vulnerability of the Great Satan. I don’t think you want that to happen. Do you?”
After a few seconds, Abu Alhaul stopped struggling. Abdo was right. “You may release me. You are right. Allah has a greater purpose for me before I join him.” He felt the massive arms relax. Abu Alhaul reached up and pushed them gently aside. Then, he turned. Behind him not only stood Abdo, but also his retinue of Islamic guards who had sworn an oath to give their lives for him and Allah. If he had charged forward toward martyrdom, every one of them would have come gladly to their deaths with him.