Call to Duty (45 page)

Fastback’s captain allowed a terse, “Hell, plans are man-made, not God-made. Run it past Hammer.”

Kamigami gave a sharp nod and Mackay’s radio operator handed him the mike. In their own way, the men of Delta had voted. They weren’t about to let it go after coming so far.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

“Put me in contact with the national security adviser,” Pontowski told the staff officer managing the Situation Room.

“Mr. Cagliari is in the NMCC,” the lieutenant colonel said, “on line one.”

Pontowski picked up his phone and motioned for Mazie Kamigami and Leo Cox to do the same. “We’ve seen the message recommending the attack be delayed thirty minutes while Bigboot moves into place,” he said to Cagliari. “What do you and Admiral Scovill think?” Scovill was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

“I recommend we abort now, Mr. President,” Cagliari answered. “Admiral Scovill says to give them the thirty minutes and if it doesn’t go down then to get the hell out of Dodge.”

The President held the phone lightly on his shoulder, suddenly feeling his age. The ultimate decision was his to make. He had set the operation in motion, had given the orders that put Delta Force in harm’s way, and now he had only minutes to decide if it should continue. No matter what he decided, someone was going to die. How perverse life is, he thought, just like the run on Amiens jail in 1944. Would his history never let him go? He remembered the time he sat in a Mosquito fighter-bomber on Hunsdon Airfield in a driving snowstorm that threatened to turn to rain. And he remembered wanting to go regardless of the risk.

Cox caught his eye. “Sir, Dr. Smithson is on line two. He says it’s urgent.”

The bulldog image of Winston Churchill standing alone in his library came to him. “You always saw their faces, didn’t you?” he muttered aloud. He scratched a brief one-line message on the note pad in front of him—his decision—and handed it to Cox. The chief of staff read the message and looked at him. “I’m going to the hospital,” Pontowski said. “Will you please stay on top of things here.” He rose and walked out of the room, now an old man, but still upright and walking alone.

1944

“Mr. Pontowski,” the voice urged, dragging him out of a deep sleep. He was vaguely aware that it was still very early and, as usual, the central heat in the room was off. He could see an image standing in the partially opened door to the room he and Ruffy shared in the officers quarters. His vision cleared. It was his batwoman.

“What is it, Barnes?”

“You’re wanted in the Operations Block, Mr. Pontowski.” She hesitated to be sure he would not fall back asleep. “Just you, sir. Mr. Ruffum isn’t needed.” When he sat upright and placed his feet firmly on the floor, she closed the door. “Coo,” she mumbled to herself, “wouldn’t mind him getting a leg over.” She had a vision of herself as the other participant in that activity. A few minutes later, he was fully dressed and headed out the door. Barnes was waiting with his overcoat. “Nasty outside,” she told him as he put it on. He nodded and disappeared into the early-morning dark. “Please come back, sir,” she whispered.

Squadron Leader John Maitland was waiting for him. Fatigue and strain had turned his fire-scarred face into a hard mask. “Pick’s inside with Embry,” he said. “Well, old boy, it’s today or not at all.” It was Friday, the eighteenth of February, 1944.

“Christ,” Zack swore, “have you seen the weather? It’s miserable. Driving snow and rain.”

“I do look out the window” came the answer.

Inside the office, Pickard paced slowly back and forth,
puffing on his pipe. Air Vice Marshal Embry, the commander of 2 Group, sat quietly at the desk, staring at the message in his hands. He came right to the point when the two men entered. “The Gestapo has set the executions for tomorrow. We don’t know the times and the French Underground has sent a desperate appeal. It must be today.”

“The weather is absolutely rotten,” Maitland said.

“I am aware of that,” Embry said. “Met says it should be clear over the Continent. So it’s really a matter of launching, isn’t it?”

Pickard puffed on his pipe. “And joining up in formation, and navigating at low level to avoid Jerry’s radar, and making rendezvous with the Tiffies, and finding the bloody place.” The men could tell he was straining at the leash, wanting to have a go at the prison.

“What does Bill say?” Embry asked. Flight Lieutenant J. A. “Bill” Broadley was Pickard’s friend and navigator.

“You know Bill,” Pickard answered. “If I can get the Mossie into the air, he can get us there.”

“What about your man?” Embry asked Zack.

“Much the same story,” Zack replied. He almost added that the ability of the crews was not the deciding factor—it was the lousy weather. He had seen it before and fell silent. The two commanders were caught up in the agony of decision, a decision that spelled the death of some of their men. It was a personal equation that each had to work through, weighing factors that could not be quantified, visualizing how each man selected for the mission would perform, wondering if one or two was nearing the “twitch,” that nervous tic that warned of combat fatigue, calculating if the cost was worth the result.

“There really isn’t a choice,” Pickard finally said. “If this bloody weather cracks and we can get off the ground, we go.” Embry nodded in agreement. “I’d like to lead the mission,” Pickard said. Embry’s face froze but he said nothing. “I’ll go in with the second squadron,” Pickard continued, “and see if we need to call in the third squadron to complete the job. If the walls have enough holes in them and I see prisoners escaping, we’ll all scamper for home.”

Embry drummed his fingers on the table. “Charles,” he said, before biting his words off. Embry had originally in
tended to lead the wing himself but was sidelined by his superiors. Now he was worried because Pickard had recently come off night ops and had only flown six daytime missions. Was he fully tuned into daytime operations like Zack was? Again, Embry ran through his personal agony. Pickard was a natural leader, that rare combination of skill, personality, and physical presence that men trusted and would follow through hell. He sensed that Pickard’s presence on the mission increased the chances of success. And that was the bottom line. “Well, then,” he finally said, his decision made. “Which squadron shall do the honors and lead the attack?”

“We’ll toss a coin at the briefing,” Pickard said. Zack felt better knowing that Pickard would be leading the mission.

“When shall we rouse the crews?” Embry asked.

“I had planned for a six o’clock call with the briefing at eight,” Maitland replied.

“I’ll be at the briefing,” Embry told them. “Please keep an eye on the weather.”

The word went out and the crews were awakened at exactly six o’clock. Most of them glanced out of the window in disbelief. Blinding gusts of snow obscured most of the base. The meteorological staff was on the short end of many obscene comments as the men made their way to the dining room. They fell silent when healthy servings of eggs were ladled out. Eggs and the number of crews called out meant a big op was in the making. At ten minutes before eight o’clock, the Tannoy squawked and sent the crews to the briefing room in the Operations Block.

The men were numb from the cold and were slapping hands and stomping their feet when Pickard entered. They came to attention when Embry followed him into the room. He took the low stage and began with the traditional first words. “Gentlemen, your target for today is Amiens.” The surprise came next. “We are going to attack not the railroad marshaling yards, which you have all come to know intimately, but the prison.” Pickard removed the sheet over the papier-mâché model. Embry said, “The Gestapo is being its usual bloody self and is going to execute more than a hundred French Resistance workers tomorrow. Both men and women. We are going to breach the walls, break Amiens wide open, and give them a reasonable hope of escape. I asked the
weather prophet if God was helping with the weather and he reports moderate visibility in the target area. I do hope that is the case. The French tell me that the prisoners would rather be killed by our bombs than German bullets.

“We’re calling it Operation Jericho, very appropriate under the circumstances. Group Captain Pickard will be leading the wing”—the quiet looks and nodding of heads among the eighteen crews indicated it was the right choice—“and Squadron Leader Maitland will cover the details. Right, then. John, it’s all yours.”

Maitland stood up and covered the attack and the route that had been selected to ingress the target area. “We want to keep Jerry guessing until the last minute as to the actual target Even when he identifies Amiens as the target, he should be looking at the marshaling yards, not the prison. But the ‘boys from Abbeville’ should be up and about. So remember the daytime rules: in fast, out fast. Don’t go around for reattack. Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day. We’ve seen some recent improvements in the Focke-Wulf. The kite is definitely faster than a Mossie above twenty thousand feet, so don’t go there. You still have the speed advantage down low. Use it By the way, there will be a Mossie from the Film Unit going along to see what job you make of it. Look pretty, please.”

There was no doubt in Zack’s mind that every man in the room wanted part of the action. “No doubt,” Pickard said as he stood up, “you’ve been wondering who will go in first.” He looked at the three squadron leaders who commanded 21, 464, and 487 squadrons. “Coins please, gentlemen. First toss for who flies in reserve. Odd man out.” They flipped the coins and 21 Squadron, the British component of the wing, came up odd. Rude remarks from the British pilots. “It’s between the Aussies and Kiwis,” Pickard said. “I’ll call it in the air.” The two men flipped their coins. “Heads leads the attack,” Pickard said. The New Zealanders won the toss and a grim feeling of determination washed over Zack. His squadron, 487, would lead the attack and go after the walls while 464 Squadron, the Australians, would bomb the main building.

“Makes one proud to be an honorary Kiwi.” Ruffy grinned. “Good thing the Aussies got part of the action,” he added.

“Why’s that?” Zack wondered.

“This is all red meat. Look at them. They would have skinned and tanned their commander if he had come up reserve.” Ruffy was right. The Australians were definitely out for blood on this one. The British pilots did not look happy.

Call signs were given out next. “Four-eight-seven Squadron is Dypeg,” Maitland said. “Four-six-four Squadron is Cannon and Twenty-one Squadron is Buckshot. Your Typhoon escort its Garlic. Navigators, you have the list of all other call signs you might need so please use them properly. The brass is concerned your R/T procedures have been getting sloppy.” Rude comments from the crews echoed around the room and for the next two hours they pored over charts, photos, and the papier-mâché model, memorizing every facet of the mission while the armorers loaded the Mosquitoes. Then the Tannoy ordered them to their aircraft. By ten-thirty, the aircrews were at their aircraft, ready to start engines. Only Pickard had not manned his aircraft.

“Miserable weather,” Zack complained. “But I think we can take off.”

“Landing might be a bit of a problem,” Ruffy replied. “This is no weather to go flying in.”

“We’ve got to do this,” Zack said.

“More red meat, no doubt,” Ruffy said.

Zack thought about it for a moment before replying. Was there a killing lust on him? “Not this time,” Zack replied. “It’s not a killing heat spurring me, not now. All I want to do now is to survive and get on with my life.”

“What will you do after this is all over?”

“I’m thinking of law school and maybe running for office.”

“Politics?” Ruffy was astounded. “You must be mad.”

“Perhaps.” Zack grinned at him. “But then war does that to a person, doesn’t it? Do you still plan on going back to Cambridge?”

“Should do,” Ruffy answered. “An inheritance from my parents will see me through. I am thinking more and more of taking a degree in psychology.”

“The disturbed science? And you accuse me of being crazy!”

“All the better to study the aberrations of our elected leaders,” Ruffy told him.

“Ah, I can see your thesis now,” Zack kidded hm. “‘Ab
errant Behavior and Low Intellect Among Politicus Animus.’”

“It does have potential,” Ruffy laughed. “But intellect has little to do with being a politician. It’s more a matter of temperament.”

“Then I’m dead in the water,” Zack replied.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Ruffy’s voice was serious.

The two men fell silent and waited. From their position, Zack could see the main operations building and Pickard’s car parked in front. Then a bright red roadster drove up and parked beside Pickard’s car. He could make out the figure of a tall woman getting out of the car. Willi! he thought Then it came to him—Chantal was one of the prisoners. Zack felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. “I think it’s slacking off a bit,” Ruffy said. Then they saw Pickard come out of the building and hop in his car. The car sped across the ramp toward them and Pickard jumped out. Zack watched as he climbed through the hatch of his aircraft,
F for Freddie
.

The mission was on.

The Golden Triangle, Burma

The German anthropologist rechecked the three trucks parked alongside the narrow road to make sure the Burmese drivers with their ever-present family members had left. Satisfied that all was secure, he walked fifty meters back down the road and lit a cigar. He puffed the cigar down and lit another, worried about the long delay. He was about to leave when he heard a whispered “Daisy cutter” from the shadows. It was the code word he had been expecting and replied with “War rose,” the only acceptable response. He braced himself. If the exchange of bona fides was screwed up, he was a dead man. A huge figure materialized out of the deep shadows—Kamigami.

“You’re late,” the German said. “The trucks”—he gestured at the waiting vehicles—“are the same ones that come every morning. The service gate won’t be opened for about another hour, but the guard won’t be surprised if one or two arrive early. The.Burmese are pretty casual about it all. The keys are in the ignition.” He made a come-here motion at the shadows. “There’s someone here you should talk to.” Kamigami shot his right arm straight up above his head and made a circular motion, the signal to assemble. Then he pointed up the road to the trucks, the assembly point. Dark figures moved out of the shadows and trotted to the trucks while Mackay, his radio operator, and Fastback’s captain joined Kamigami and the German. Samkit emerged from the shadows. “She’s my contact inside the compound,” he told the men. To Samkit, he said “Tell them what you told me.”

The frightened woman looked at the wet and hulking figures in their jungle fatigues and boonie hats. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Then it all came in a rush. “An execu
tioner arrived late yesterday. He uses a sword. I heard the general say he will cut off the head of the man and the woman called DC to entertain his guests.” She used a diagram of the compound to show them where she had moved Heather and where the cells were located.

“This helps,” Fastback’s captain said. “The cells are in a building that is part of the outer wall. We can go through the wall to get them out. That only leaves Courtland and the third objective. This is exactly what we needed,” the captain said, “if it’s true.”

Kamigami drew his Bowie knife and purposely examined its edge. Samkit almost fainted. “It is the truth,” she moaned.

It was the sergeant’s way of confirming what they were hearing. The intelligence Samkit had provided was critical and they had to be sure she was telling the truth—their lives and the success of the mission depended on it. It is a rare thing when the cutting edge, the operators, the men who must do the job talk face-to-face with a primary intelligence source. Normally, the intelligence they receive is funneled to them through a variety of agencies and bureaucratic levels where it is evaluated, analyzed, correlated, confirmed, and massaged. Too often, basic information takes on the “spin” the bureaucrats want, making it conform to their view of the world. Kamigami cut through all that and reduced it to basics. “She’s been dead on, so far,” the German reassured them. Kamigami jerked his head and sheathed the knife.

Mackay rallied his team leaders around him and they quickly modified the attack to exploit Samkit’s information. While the team leaders briefed their men, Kamigami checked on the demolition team rigging the lead truck. “How soon?” he asked.

“Almost done,” the demo man answered from under the hood. He was double-checking the platter charge he had rigged on the back side of the radiator next to the fan. The steel plate that was backed with a heavy charge of C4 explosive was securely clamped in place and he jammed an M-122 remote detonator into the heavy charge of C4. He lowered the hood. “God, I just love demo,” he told Kamigami.

“Your job is to blow the gate down, not make a parking lot,” the sergeant told him.

“No problem,” came the reassuring answer.

The two colonels sat in the small command module that had been loaded on board E-Squared’s MC-130, which had seemingly become a permanent fixture of the aircraft. E-Squared was tired of serving as an airborne taxi driver for the command element called Hammer and longed for some action. “I wish we could eavesdrop on the SatCom,” the copilot told him, showing the same boredom.

“It would only scare the shit out of you,” E-Squared replied. The copilot shot him an inquisitive look. “Because,” the pilot continued, “you’d see how fast the heavies can screw things up and get our sweet asses in a crack.”

In the command module, Mallard and Trimler were trying to avoid that particular predicament as they conferred with the NMCC over the SatCom radio. “I’m not going to push for an abort until I hear it from Mackay on the ground,” Trimler told Mallard as they waited for the decision on the mission from the NMCC.

Then the NMCC relayed the President’s decision. “Well,” Mallard said to Trimler, “they got it right this time.” Trimler only nodded and hit the transmit button to give Mackay his marching orders.

Mackay was tethered to his radio operator by an eight-foot cord that ended with the handset grasped firmly in his hand. His face glistened black, wet with sweat and rain but impassive, giving no indication of what he felt. “Roger, Hammer,” he said. “Copy all. Stand by.” He cradled the handset against his shoulder and motioned for the captain and Kamigami to join him. “Hammer says the ‘go/no go’ decision is ours. Your recommendations.” He felt an explanation was in order. “Apparently, that decision came from the White House.”

“No change,” Kamigami counseled. “Go if Bigboot can make it. No more extensions.”

The captain stared at his boots, trying to weigh all the things that could go wrong since they had already slipped the attack thirty minutes. “We can handle the thirty-minute delay,” he said. But he was still worried. “Colonel, I know we got to be flexible and worship Gumby. But this time it’s got to be by the clock. No more fuckin’ around.”

Mackay nodded and spoke into the handset.

The men were little more than flickering shadows moving down the side of the road. Most were bent forward under the weight of their eighty-pound rucksacks and only the soft pad of their footfalls and heavy breathing broke the dark stillness of the early-morning dark. Every head was mounted on a swivel as each man scanned the darkness looking for some signs of life—anything that would indicate they had been seen. Peter Woodward kept checking his watch as he maintained the pace, driving Bigboot on, determined to reach the compound in time. He couldn’t believe their luck since they were violating every known rule of special operations by running the road so near their objective. He tried to find some consolation in the fact that they hadn’t been discovered—yet.

“Fuckin’ A, Captain. This sucks,” the man following Woodward grumbled. Then he fell silent, conserving his breath, determined to keep up the relentless pace the British SAS officer was setting. Woodward picked up the faint outline of a shack set back from the road and he slowed, being careful to sneak the men by. He used the break to check his position and again glanced at his watch. We’re not going to make it, he raged to himself. Got bogged down too long in the bleedin’ jungle.

Headlights flickered on the road behind them and the men disappeared into the foliage beside the road. A few moments later a mini pickup truck that had been converted to taxi duties passed them. The rear guard keyed his Motorola 360 radio and told Woodward that it was transporting people, probably the first of the workers who arrived at the compound every morning from the nearby villages. Then he reported a second set of headlights coming down the road. Woodward made his decision. “If it’s a truck, stop it.” One of the men spotted a water buffalo tethered near the shack and led the animal onto the road while four men moved into position.

On cue, another pickup truck appeared and slammed to a stop amid a babble of voices from the rear. The driver jumped out to shoo the water buffalo off the road. He never saw the man who grabbed him from behind and ripped a knife across his throat. The six passengers were frozen into silence when four men materialized out of the shadows and
motioned them to get down. “What do we do with this group?” one of the men radioed.

Woodward glanced at his watch. Did they have time now that the situation was back in control? He didn’t want to kill people needlessly. His reply was a terse “Jab ’em.” The six Burmese were quickly bound with plastic flex-cuffs and an adhesive bandage was slapped over their mouths to gag them. Then they were led into the foliage beside the road and a needle was jabbed into each’s arm. The knockout injections worked quickly and they would be out for at least four hours. The four Americans ran for the road and were the last to pile into the overloaded pickup. The delay had cost Bigboot ninety seconds. “Go!” Woodward barked at the driver. “We’ve got seven minutes and three miles to go.”

The second and third trucks in line were loaded and waiting to go. Only Mackay, his RTO, a sniper, and Sergeant Jim Isahata, the small and wiry Japanese-American who had volunteered to drive the empty truck in front had not mounted. Isahata finished stripping off his equipment, cammy makeup and shirt and pulled on a dark, loose-fitting shirt the German had given him. Mackay stood back and checked him over. “You’ll pass for a Burmese in the dark. Just do it like the man said—drive the truck right up to the gate, kill the engine, switch the lights off and get out like you’re going to take a leak. If the guard yells at you, wave at him and keep moving. If he doesn’t buy it, we’ll take him out. Get back to the trucks because we’re moving in exactly six minutes, into the compound if Bigboot does their thing, or beating feet for an extraction.”

Isahata gave Mackay a hard look. “Got it all, Colonel.” Then he grinned. “Trust me.”

“And I’ll respect you in the morning,” Mackay grunted. He gave Isahata a sharp slap on his backside when he swung into the cab. Isahata started the engine and moved out while Mackay waited for the two other trucks to drive up. He spoke to the drivers, gave them their final instructions, and hopped in the back of the last truck. Then the two trucks followed Isahata with their headlights off, giving him a two-hundred-meter head start. The two trucks stopped just short of the last
bend before the straightaway that led up to the service gate at the rear of the compound and waited.

Within moments, Isahata appeared. “Piece of cake,” he told Mackay. “It went as advertised. I drove it right up to the gate, got out, and walked away. It’s parked right up against the gate.” He was scrambling back into his gear, anxious to be ready in time.

Mackay rechecked his watch and got out of the truck. He would remain outside the compound with his RTO and his ammo bearer, who was also a very proficient sniper, when Fastback went in.

The pickup carrying Bigboot coasted to a stop, its lights out. Silently, the men jumped out and moved into the wet foliage. Woodward followed two shooters, one a sniper who was carrying a carefully wrapped and camouflaged rifle, and his security man. The three men moved through the bush and made for a small hill that was less than three hundred meters from the south side of the compound. They reached their position within minutes and the shooter stripped the camouflage wrap away from his rifle while Woodward checked his watch. The sniper braced the rifle’s bipod on a fallen log and sighted through his night scope while the other shooter covered. “Get ready, mate,” Woodward said in a low voice.

The sight picture was exactly what the sniper had expected. He could clearly see the main gate and the high guard tower that rose above it. He switched to a higher magnification and laid his cross hairs on the lone guard pacing slowly around the small platform. Woodward again glanced at his watch, waiting. He steadied his own night scope on the watchtower, seeing the same greenish-yellow image the sniper saw. The bright spots glowed in the scope, making him think of a photographic negative, and he could see the guard lean over the edge of the railing, obviously bored. Then he checked his watch one last time—ten seconds to go. He did a mental countdown as he refocused on the guard. “Now,” he said, his voice dead calm. The sniper squeezed off a shot.

The key to the compound was surprise and it was inserted by that single shot. The same shot also started the attack clock. Woodward watched as a greenish haze erupted from the guard’s head. The sensitive scope had captured the
guard’s head coming apart as the bullet penetrated the right cheek bone and blew out the left side of the head. The force of the impact knocked the guard back onto the platform, out of sight. A second shot was not necessary. “Spot on,” Woodward allowed.

“What the fuck did you expect?” the sniper growled. Two teams of sappers keyed on the rifle shot and ran out of the shadows as Bigboot unleashed a mortar barrage on the compound. The sapper team from Fastback made for the east wall while the team from Bigboot crossed the open area in front of the south wall. The first two mortar rounds struck the guards’ barracks inside the compound as the sappers placed the charges and retreated to safety. The charge placed by Bigboot’s team blew a hole in the south wall large enough to drive a truck through. The hole made by Andy Baulck, the ISA operator, for Fastback was more surgical. A four-man team darted through the small breach in the wall and directly into the building that contained the cell block. They knew exactly where they were going as Bigboot’s next two mortar rounds impacted inside the compound.

Now the two trucks carrying the rest of Fastback moved around the bend in the road and headed for the supply gate. “Make it look like we’re trying to make the compound for safety,” Kamigami told the driver,

“I know the goddamned drill,” the driver replied as he honked his horn and flashed his lights, trying to get the attention of the guards inside the compound. Kamigami counted down from five. When he said “One,” the driver slammed on the brakes and ducked as Kamigami fell on top of him. The truck Isahata had parked against the service gate moments earlier erupted in a fireball as the platter charge was detonated. A fireball charged with metal fragments from the steel plate and the truck mushroomed out, blowing the gate down and vaporizing the guard who was trying to open the gate and let the trucks reach safety inside. The windshield of Kamigami’s truck shattered over him and showered his back with harmless shards of glass. The concussion of the blast had killed the engine and the driver ground the starter.