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Shangri-la

The tool shed was a blast-furnace and Camille was breathing hard. The shed was single-wall construction—thick plywood on a frame of scrap lumber. She was confident that she could kick through the walls and felt a little insulted that they thought so little of a female prisoner that they would stick her in such a minimum security shack. Light came in through a knot in one of the boards and she used it to search the ground for anything that she could use as a weapon. It wasn't likely, but they might have missed something when hastily clearing it for use as makeshift guest quarters.

The call to prayer sounded tinny. She laughed that even al Qaeda used canned calls to prayer over loudspeakers and didn't even bother with a real live muezzin. It was the second one that she'd heard since her arrival and it was still daylight out so it had to be late afternoon. She couldn't wait for the sun to go down, she thought, as she ran her fingers through the sandy floor, systematically searching for a tool. About a half inch below the loose top layer, the sand was as hard as concrete. Sand and dirt were wedged under her fingernails and she reeked of sweat, which wasn't strong enough to mask the smell of Pete's blood.

Her finger hit something sharp. A nail. Her spirits soared when she realized it was between four and five inches long. Finally, she had something serious to work with. In case they searched her quarters, she reburied it and then continued her treasure hunt, raking her fingers through the sand, wondering where Hunter was and trying to convince herself that he had gotten safely far away.

If she only could've seen him, smelled him, tasted him one last time. They had been within a few feet of each other when the airplane had zoomed over her and now she'd never see him again. She tried to come up with rescue scenarios, but she didn't want to deceive herself into false hopes that could distract her from what she had to do.

She was confident she could break out of the shack at night, but she doubted she could survive the desert if she ever made it out of the camp. It was a moot point anyway. As soon as she saw the head of one of the two al Qaeda factions, she knew she had to do whatever it took to assassinate him. Taking him out would be a blow the terrorist organization might never recover from, particularly now that it seemed to be splintering in a bitter succession struggle. It didn't know it, but al Qaeda had brought a suicide bomber into its midst. All she needed now was a bomb.

 

“
Marhaba,
” a voice said as someone fumbled with the padlock on the shed door.

She immediately sat down and leaned against the wall and drew her legs up close to her body. It was time to paint the picture of a compliant, fearful female. The Muslim fundamentalists had such a low opinion of women, she was determined to give them what they wanted.

Fresh air rushed inside as the door opened.

“Stay against back wall, please,” a young man said in heavily accented English as he set a large bucket full of water inside the shed. A guard stood outside the door with an AK pointing in at her.

“Don't hurt me,” Camille said, making her voice crack as if she had been crying.

“Water to clean. Prepare yourself.” He tossed Camille a light gray jilbab and a head scarf.

“Prepare myself for what?”

“Tonight—marriage. The
mut'a, insh'allah
.”

Camille wanted to laugh and toss the clothes back into his face, but instead she said, “I'll do whatever you want. Please don't hurt me.”

“Tonight, you marry or you die.”

“No!” She pretended to cry and raised her bound wrists in front of her face and put her hands together as if praying. “I don't want to die. Help me, please.”

He looked away.

“Who is the groom?” Camille said.

“Al-Zahrani, may peace and blessings of Allah be upon him,” the messenger said as he closed the door.

“And may al-Zahrani fuck off and die,” Camille whispered as she got back on her hands and knees and continued her search for more nails.

39° 45' 10.02 N, 65° 09' 15.12 E (Uzbekistan)

Three hours into the operation, Hunter was still awake, unable to snooze like he usually did during insertions, and his body had grown stiff and achy. The seats were nylon stretched over an aluminum frame and they were only marginally better than the alternative, which was the metal floor. More than once he'd sat on the floor for entire missions when the seats had been removed so more troops could be crammed inside. Usually the troop doors of the helicopter were also removed for easy access, but given the sandstorm that they had already gone through, he was happy Iggy had decided against it, probably to reduce drag and conserve fuel. Hunter stretched as much as he could, but with Iggy and G
ENGHIS
sandwiching him, he could move only enough to keep some circulation going in his lymph systems so his muscles didn't get worse. At least his legs had room to stretch out toward the pilots.

The only light in the Pave Hawk was the glow from the partial glass cockpit. Hunter watched the line of the color weather radar sweep the area, then glanced over to the Doppler navigation system and the LCD map of their location. The Pave Hawk was an older model that seemed to have been retrofitted with the latest in glass cockpit avionics.

An orange light to the left of the pilot flickered, indicating a warning light had gone off. Hunter turned his head to read the caution message on the middle display, but before he could see what the problem was about, it went off. He prayed it was an anomaly. They were pushing the equipment to its limits because Stella couldn't wait. Right after the sandstorm one of the Cobras had had to turn back because of fluctuating turbine gas tempature. They didn't need any more problems that might force them back. Iggy had established liberal go/no parameters of one Hawk and one Cobra, but Hunter had his own: as long as one bird would stay in the air long enough to get him within walking distance, it was a green light. Hell, as long as he was still breathing, it was a go.

 

Beach Dog's ass was numb and his mind wasn't far behind. Extended range missions had a way of grinding him down with boredom. Top Guns who retired to long hauls in civilian aircraft must go out of their minds, he thought as he relieved himself in his pee bag.

As usual with a black mission, radio contact was minimal. Today the Pave Hawks were using the calls signs J
ACKAL
O
NE
and T
WO
and the remaining Super Cobra was D
RAGON
O
NE
. He laughed when he heard that the MC-130's designation was C
OWBIRD
. Those gas station attendants either had a self-image problem or they didn't get what the game was all about.

Finally they were approaching the point S
TARLIGHT
and some action. He knew it was too early to start searching for the tanker, but he couldn't help but watch the radar screen as if it were a video game. Any minute the race with his wingman would begin to see who would be the first one to make radar contact with the tanker.

The radar swept around and around on the screen. He saw a blip, then it faded. A few sweeps later, it reappeared. He was trying to get a fix on it when he heard the voice of the second Pave Hawk's pilot. “J
ACKAL
T
WO
, contact five right for forty, beaming south at 120 knots.”

“Damn,” Beach Dog whispered to himself. The first round of drinks after the mission was completed was now on him. He confirmed that the MC-130 was five degrees to their right at a range of forty nautical miles. “Contact,” Beach Dog said over the radio.

“J
ACKAL
O
NE
is channel 50, looking for gas,” Beach Dog said.

“J
ACKAL
O
NE
, C
OWBIRD
is holding at S
TARLIGHT
, three thousand feet.”

Beach Dog picked him up on the situation display. He punched the data into the flight computer and it confirmed his rendezvous heading. Pulling up on the collective, he pushed the Pave Hawk to match the plane's airspeed and worked the cyclic so that the helicopter began to climb up to meet the MC-130. He searched the dark skies for the turboprop aircraft. He had lost the beer in the first bet, but he could still win the second round of drinks from his wingman if he could be the first now to make visual contact.

Several minutes passed and he couldn't spot it, although the radar told him he was getting close. He hated to roll over and ask for an assist, but he squeezed his mike and did it anyway. “C
OWBIRD
, J
ACKAL
O
NE
. No joy. Request Christmas tree.”

A flash of red and green caught Beach Dog's eye as the Combat Talon briefly turned on its exterior lights. “Tally the tanker, one-thirty, high, seven miles,” Beach Dog said to his copilot as he spotted it. He leveled his helo out at two thousand feet, a thousand feet below the tanker and a mere three hundred above the highest terrain. Keying the mike, he said, “C
OWBIRD
, J
ACKAL
O
NE
, you're seven-thirty, low for seven.”

J
ACKAL
T
WO
also called in its position relative to the tanker, indicating that it was also below it and seven nautical miles away.

“J
ACKAL FLIGHT
, you are also cleared into the right observation position,” the commander of the tanker said, giving permission for both helicopters to approach.

Beach Dog climbed five hundred feet above the tanker and positioned himself a thousand feet abeam its wing line so that the MC-130's commander could see him. Then he heard, “J
ACKAL FLIGHT
. C
OWBIRD
has a tally. Cleared into the stabilized position, left hose. Check nose is cold, switches safe.”

Beach Dog turned off his radar and glanced at the panel to confirm that all weapons switches were off. “C
OWBIRD
, J
ACKAL
O
NE
's nose cold, switches safe.”

“C
OWBIRD
, J
ACKAL
T
WO
's nose is cold, switches safe,” the second Pave Hawk pilot said.

“J
ACKAL FLIGHT
ready,” Beach Dog said as he had hundreds of times before.

“Cleared to plug,” the MC-130 commander said as he banked the aircraft into a tight circle with the helos on the inside so that they could close on the tanker using their smaller turn radius since they didn't have excess speed to narrow the gap.

Beach Dog and his wingman were about to pull within feet of the airplane, out of sight of its commander who was relying upon intercom reports from observers watching from the aft side doors. The slightest error could cause a collision in the pitch black night.

Pucker time
.

Beach Dog lived for these moments.

Holding his breath, he studied the small yellow light on the pod hydraulic system. It was ready to plug and play. He tapped the controls, coaxing a little more speed out of the craft.

“Forward three, down two,” the commander said as Beach Dog moved toward the basket at the end of the long invisible hose trailing from the aircraft. He fought the airplane's wake as he stabilized the helicopter just below and behind the tanker. The basket was at his one o'clock. He caressed the controls and flew the fixed probe on the front of the Pave Hawk into the basket. It mated and the gas pump started.

Now Beach Dog had to keep it steady for the next seven or eight minutes. At least the air was smooth tonight. This was his most vulnerable time and he trusted the Cobra was somewhere out there, covering his back. He lowered his seat and ducked down so he could keep an eye on the green refueling light. The world faded away as he focused on the slow dance with the tanker. As much as he wanted to use his feet, he forced himself not to touch the pedals and risk overcompensating. When necessary, he lightly tapped the controls, adjusting his position.

Several minutes later, the red light came on and the transfer was complete. He reduced power and drifted aft for disengagement from the basket and to position the helo on the outer edge of the airplane's wake.

Time for the Beach Dog to surf the wave.

Banzai!

Expecting to come free of the aircraft, he felt a small vibration, then a tug, so he looked outside. The Pave Hawk was still connected to the tanker. Working the controls, he tried to gently move away from the basket. The MC-130's take-up reel was supposed to retract the hose. Nothing happened. They were stuck together in midair. The basket needed a little more convincing to let go. He cut back on the throttle and lifted the nose higher to cause drag to slow down his helo so the damn hose was jerked away by the faster plane.

He felt a jolt. The helicopter shuddered and he saw the guide lights under the plane move away. The Hawk yawed to the right, then dropped. Something smacked the windshield with a loud clap and he jumped. It whacked again and again.

Beach Dog worked the controls as if they were an extension of his own body. The Pave Hawk stabilized, but something kept whipping the helo, pounding the glass like an out of control dominatrix.

The hose
.

 

With each whack, Beach Dog was sure the window was going to give and send daggers into them. As the helicopter was thrown around and beaten, he suddenly pictured the steel hose flipping into the path of the rotors. If that happened, that would be it. The forward motion had to stop fast. His airspeed was still over one hundred knots. He shoved down the collective and tipped the nose right up to the edge, daring the craft to flip while he used the airframe to brake. His stomach did a somersault, but the Hawk slowed and the thumping stopped. A caution light flashed on the console to his left. He glanced at the center panel and a gearbox chip light winked at him. The controls were responsive, but the light was now glowing steadily. The detector screened for ferrous particles in the system and if it was telling the truth, the tail rotor's gearbox was chewing itself up.

“J
ACKAL
O
NE
, declaring an emergency and setting down.”

Beach Dog slowly looked around below him for suitable landing terrain.

Iggy grabbed the extra headset and gave orders as they were losing altitude. That guy was a true operator, never giving up, giving orders even when Beach Dog wasn't completely sure they were going to make it.

“J
ACKAL
T
WO
this is T
IN
M
AN
. Activate bump plan. D
RAGON
O
NE
, hold position and stand by.”

 

The helicopter descended straight down. Hunter had thought Beach Dog had it back under control, but they were going straight down so fast, he wasn't sure anymore. Suddenly, the descent slowed and a few seconds later it kissed the ground. Everyone clapped and whistled and Beach Dog reached over and petted his lucky cat attached to the dash.

“Sierra Hotel,” Hunter congratulated him with insider lingo for shit hot.

Hunter and G
ENGHIS
made eye contact with each other and G
ENGHIS
shook his head, closing his eyes as he said, “Dodged another one. You know my big fear is I'm not going to go in combat. I just know it's going to be some dumb-ass accident like this because somebody packed the fucking apricots and ate the goddamn Charms.”

Hunter smiled. He had never really believed the old WWII myth among mechanized infantry that every time a tank had been blown up, it had been found to have had a can of apricots inside. He told himself that the modern version about the Charms candy was equally untrue and it couldn't possibly have been the cause of the difficulties earlier. Urban combat legend or not, he wasn't about to admit that when he'd downed a MRE in Bagram, he did eat a handful of Charms before he realized what he had done. Bad juju was not something he wanted to mess with.

 

Everyone sat inside the helo waiting for the dust and sand to settle before getting out. The second Pave Hawk would be there any minute and they would swap aircraft according to Iggy's bump plan. If this helo could be fixed, it would follow with the second chalk as soon as it was airworthy. The delay shouldn't cost them more than five minutes, Hunter told himself while he tried not to think about how they were down to one Hawk, one Cobra and one team. Thinking about how bad things were could only jinx them further.

At least the weather was good, Hunter was thinking, when he saw a bright flash of white lightning, then a firestorm of arching electricity. A blue fireball ballooned about thirty meters away from them in the air, to their three o'clock, then he felt their Pave Hawk shake as the blast wave passed through them.

Oh god. J
ACKAL
T
WO.
Power lines.

An electrical line had snagged another bird.

The helo smacked into the ground and an orange fireball shot a hundred feet into the air, turning night into day. Within seconds, ammunition started to cook off and began popping and shooting out in all directions. Bullets rained on them, pinging against their Hawk while rockets screamed overhead, flames streaming behind them as they launched themselves from the crashed Hawk.
Damn Charms.

Hunter ducked, then felt stupid for doing it.

A few moments later, more rocket trails spewed wildly as their motors detonated. Hunter felt for the seven men aboard, then he realized he had just witnessed the rescue mission going up in flames.

Stella
.

 

“Beach Dog,” Iggy said as he released the safety restraints. “You think you can pry that cage off the fuel intake?”

“NSDQ.”

“Night Stalkers don't quit, I know—but did the Hawk quit us?”

“The coupling didn't disengage. We were stuck to the end of the fuel hose until the hose finally broke. Without the fuel and air pressure to hold the basket on, you should be able to pull it straight off—don't even need a hammer.” Beach Dog was already pulling out a toolkit.