Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (31 page)

15 March: 1630

“I just don’t understand why all the fuss over these Goddamn nukes! We can’t use them anyway. One of the Air Force guys told me they’ve all been deactivated remotely. Washington flipped a switch and
poof
! The insides are dead. Now they’re so much expensive, radioactive scrap metal. He called it a Permissive Action Link or something. There’s just no point to all this crap anymore.” The Humvee’s gunner peered between his legs into the crowded truck, looking for a reaction.

None of the Freedom Brigade fighters pulling security liked that perspective. This was “The Big Mission.” Everyone was counting on them. The driver chimed in and gave his two cents.

“Maybe, but once we get these things back to Cali them lab coat wearing types will figure out a way to fix ‘em. Once we got a real deterrent the East will have to back off and quit fucking with us.” Most of the crew nodded at his more hopeful prediction.

Mr. Know-it-all, with a flourish of borrowed knowledge, had a response even to that.

“I doubt it. They say bypassing one of these PAL’s is like performing a tonsillectomy while entering the patient from the wrong end. We’d have been better off sneaking into Texas and stealing a bunch of tanks. We could put them to a lot better use than these damn bombs.”

The driver popped another piece of nicotine gum. A poor substitute for the real thing. “Man, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Who needs tanks when we got nukes? Once we get this stuff working, the war’s as good as over.”

The gunner kicked the radio mount for attention. “Here, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. Somehow, the bright boys figure out a way to rearm these things. What then? We aren’t crazy enough to use them in America, inside either border, I mean. Washington knows that. We’d look ridiculous and desperate threatening to nuke the East Coast over which government you should pay taxes to. As for those Washington assholes, they want to take over the country, not destroy it. You know what I’m saying? Who the hell is cold blooded enough to ever fire a nuke in this so-called war?”

Jamal, cramped in the tiny rear seat, reached into the front passenger seat and clapped the quiet woman there on her Kevlar-coated shoulder. “I bet Sophie would! She’d nuke ‘em all and have the war over by dinner. This gal has got more balls than all the brass in Sacramento combined!” Either from fear or respect, or both, but ever since their “wall to wall” counseling session he’d been loyal as a puppy.

Sophie kept her poker face on. She had her own ideas, but now wasn’t the time. It was time to be a buzz kill NCO. “Nukes or guns, the tools don’t matter. There’s still plenty of killing left to do. Plenty of Feds and sympathizers willing to dish it out our way as well. So, quit the gossiping and scan your lanes. Those Fedefucks want their toys back real bad. You saw what they did in town. Imagine what they’d do if they knew exactly where we were.”

With the escort mission almost over everyone was too relaxed. Not a good thing. She reached for the radio mike and reminded the other two Humvee crews in her section to, “Cut the damn chatter. Stay alert and watch your sectors.” The men in the other vehicles marveled at how she could possibly know they were screwing off. Uncanny, that woman.

Her gut had better timing and more tactical awareness than any of the professional soldiers around the FedEx cargo plane, three hundred yards behind the Freedom Brigade cordon on the airport tarmac.

Special Forces operate in small groups well behind enemy lines. To pull off the crazy things they do, surprise is their most powerful weapon. Once surprise is gone, shock is their next most potent tool. When all else fails, overwhelming firepower is used to steamroll the enemy into rapid submission. In this case, the federal SF team descending on McCarran International Airport had all of the above advantages.

The Californian National Guard element had just finished loading the last of one hundred 12-foot long nuclear bombs into the chartered freight plane. Even though all other flights were temporarily grounded, no one paid much attention to the sound of helicopter blades whooping closer. After all, an airport is a big and loud place. Everyone sure heard the four National Guard armored cars, providing close-in security around the plane, suddenly explode though.

The Californian brigadier general in charge of this nearly successful operation stood in the cargo bay of the plane, personally overseeing the loading. He dashed from window to window as his troops disappeared under a deluge of Hellfire missiles. He caught quick glimpses of Blackhawk helicopters making high-speed, low altitude passes around him.

These weren’t the boring utility model either. Those apparitions of death were the so-called “Battle Hawk” mod. A dreadful hybrid of a transport and attack helicopter… and the favorite ride for the US Army’s Delta Force. Every few seconds a salvo of 70mm rockets or a hundred rounds from the 7.62mm mini-guns would ripple out from each bird. Even worse, there were four of the deadly apparitions running in circles around him.

The general hollered into his squad radio. “All elements: move to cover in the nearby hangers! Get off the damn tarmac!”

He had nearly a company out there, but only static answered him. In the 30 seconds it took for him to comprehend the situation, every soldier farther than 10 yards away from the transport plane was shredded.

Sophie and her section, pulling the outer cordon several hundred yards away, stared open mouthed at the devastation. This was, suddenly, their first real combat mission. It sure as hell wasn’t like anything they had ever heard or imagined. Nearly a hundred well-armed, professional soldiers and some 16 vehicles were not just destroyed…but simply erased from existence.

Remarkably, the cargo plane in the middle of the inferno was completely unscathed. By the time the Freedom Brigade amateurs could comprehend what was going on and wondered what they should do about it, the choppers began deploying their primary weapons: riflemen.

Eighteen Delta Force operators fast-roped down from two hovering helicopters. One team dropped on each side of the plane. In less than 19 seconds, they sanitized the crew and any surviving guardsmen without taking a single casualty. Including the pilots, since one unwisely picked up a weapon. No big deal. A couple of the Fed troopers were rated to fly this simple freight job, if need be. The other two choppers dropped their loads on the large hangers and warehouses just to the west of the tarmac. Eighteen more high-speed, low-drag, “regular” Special Forces cleared those structures in less than sixty seconds.

Sophie’s LT figured it out quicker than most. Over the radio came his stern, but reassuring voice. “Ok everyone. Things just got real. We have zero chance to retake that plane. There’s no point in even trying to stop them. Stay well away from them and the choppers might not notice you. Looks like they won this round, ladies and gentlemen. Let these people do whatever they want. I repeat, do not engage. Do not do anything to hinder their recovery of the nukes. There’s nothing more we can accomplish here. All stations acknowledge, over.”

Even as he briefed the platoon, he forgot that not everyone was listening into that radio frequency. His own gunner, for example, didn’t hear a word. He was too focused on the enemy helicopters. Those were dangerous machines, all right, equipped with expensive anti-missile countermeasures and flown by some of the best pilots in the world.

On the other hand, when hovering in place less than a hundred feet over the ground, they were sitting ducks to his .50 caliber machine gun. He sighted in on one of the whirly birds and depressed both fire buttons, grinning as smoke poured out of the enemy machine a second later. He was positively laughing when that smoke gave way to fire and the chopper spun several times before finally crashing just to the side of the big transport.

He wasn’t laughing when another Battle Hawk instantly identified him, acquired his vehicle in the heads up display, and blasted off a laser-guided Hellfire at them. The missile, intended to kill 72-ton main battle tanks, didn’t leave much left of the 2-ton fiberglass and aluminum Humvee. Nor of the five flesh and bone men inside.

Sophie wasn’t the most senior or even the most experienced surviving militia NCO after the LT was cremated. However, she was the only person in the platoon with a plan. That gave her all the authority she needed. She clicked on her radio and took charge of the rest of the Freedom Brigade militia.

“All vehicles: dismount now! Everyone rally at the Reno Avenue business park gate. We’ll take these fuckers on foot! Leave your trucks and rally on me!”

*

The only thing more impressive than the whole platoon rallying on her position in less than 10 minutes, without attracting the helicopters’ deadly attention, was that they even followed her lead. At least until they were all in one location. When she explained her plan of breaching the warehouses, clearing out the enemy and then besieging the plane, fear quickly overtook discipline.

One of her fellow squad leaders balked first. “Are you fucking crazy? Those are Navy Seals or whatever over there. We don’t stand a chance. You heard the LT. I’m not going to throw my life away over this shit.”

Sophie stepped closer to him and tried to give a pep talk. He waved her off.

“No, not another word from you, Kampbell. You’re trying to get everyone killed and I’m sure as hell not going to be a part of that.”

Jamal came up on the guy from behind with murder in his eyes, but Sophie delivered the fatal blow. She wrenched his rifle straight out of his surprised hands and pointed away from the field.

“I will not have you shitting on the memory of our people. Get out of my face, you fucking coward. Move, now! You just resigned. The rest of us have work to do.” He stormed off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

She probably could have gotten away with shooting him, but the example she set held her fighters in place far better than violence. Punishing the cowardly just wasn’t an efficient motivator. A warrior who fears death as much from his own side as the enemy will do his best to avoid contact with either. Eventually, they become more of a liability to friendly’s than a threat to the enemy.

Shame, on the other hand, was incredibly effective. The fear of letting down your comrades, of losing their hard won respect, held the fighters firmly in place and guaranteed they wouldn’t be following that other guy. Common sense had now been equated to cowardice. It was an ancient trick, dating back to the Spartans, to spur soldiers into overcoming that paralyzing fear of death.

Sometimes, old tricks are the best tricks.

*

The Special Forces operators occupying the warehouse closest to the plane were mildly curious who these new actors were. They wore old style BDU’s and not modern digital ACU’s, but were decked out in the coolest looking tactical gear money could buy. They rocked the latest super-duper tactical vests and belts with more modular pouches than you could imagine.

Those fancy foreign rifles were brand spanking new as well. Oh boy, did they also have all sorts of expensive optics, laser designators, halogen lights and God knows what else filling up the rail systems! Each one was a running “tacticool” advertisement for Ranger Joe’s. They sure must have felt high speed.

Oh, they looked the part, no doubt, but they didn’t act it. Their movements as they worked their way towards the building were an imitation of tactical action. Someone had shown them how to bound and stack on entry, and obviously they must’ve even practiced somewhat, but they clearly weren’t professionals.

There was just too much communicating going on. Not just how they kept shouting at each other instead of giving hand signals, but why they felt they needed to. It was evident they didn’t have real trust in each other yet. A somewhat organized group, but not really a team yet.

Unfortunately, for these young braves and their insurance carriers, the men they attacked were an elite team. A team that had worked, trained and fought intimately together for over three years. Each member instinctively knew exactly what their partner would be doing, without looking. They shared targeting information effortlessly and without excitement.

Sophie and most of the platoon crouched among maintenance vehicles in the parking lot and provided over watch. Her best squad stacked on a side maintenance door in the middle of the nearby warehouse. How eerie the quietness. She expected, and hoped, the enemy inside would engage as they approached. With her greater numbers and firepower the enemy shouldn’t last long. Assuming she could find them first.

Instead, Sophie had to wait for her team to gain a foothold inside before sending in the rest of the unit. Her people were trying their best, but motivation is a poor substitute for experience. They spent too long organizing themselves before finally kicking in the door and surging inside…in a tight cluster. Had they lived, the militiamen might have learned. Unfortunately, combat doesn’t work that way. The first test is often the final exam. Where an F grade stands for being “fucked.”

A mini hurricane of gunfire broke loose as soon as the last fighter disappeared inside. Two distinct sets of fire could be heard. One stutter of disciplined, rapid short bursts and several long video-game style automatic rips. Sophie prayed that at least some of the disciplined fire came from her people. In less than 30 seconds, all was quiet again.

She waited two minutes for a situation report or any other sound from her team. No one ever came outside.