Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) (21 page)

Marzan opened his rucksack and pulled out the PSC-3 satellite communications radio and its small dish antenna. Hooking the two together, he pointed the antenna at the proper azimuth and elevation. Then he hooked the Vinson voice scrambler into the radio. He turned the radio on and checked it by getting a bounce back off the designated satellite. "She's all set."

Riley picked up the handset and pushed the send. "Moonbeam, this is Eyes One. Over."

He waited a second. The signal pulsed from his radio up to the satellite and then was relayed to its target. The radio softly crackled with a reply. "Eyes One, this is Moonbeam. We read you Lima Charlie. How do you read us? Over."

"We read you Lima Charlie. The mission is a go. I say again, the mission is a go as planned. Over."

"Roger. We read mission is a go. Will relay message. Over."

"Roger. Out." Riley broke contact with the AWACS plane that was circling somewhere over the ocean to the north. He looked at the men gathered around. "All right. Let's move on up so we can see what's going on."

4:15 A.M.

The Colombians had switched their guards at 0300. The new guards were in the same positions as the old ones. Riley glanced at his watch. Ten minutes till show time. He whispered into the headset: "Hammer, this is Eyes One. Over."

The reply was immediate. "This is Hammer. Over."

"Roger. Everything's still a go. We will illuminate the target in ten mikes. Over."

"Roger. We'll be in position in five mikes. Over."

"Roger. Out."

4:30 A.M.

The AC-130 pulled into its counterclockwise racetrack and banked to the left. The modified C-130 cargo plane started circling, with its left side pointing down. Inside, the fire control officer sat looking at a low light level television (LLLTV) screen. Swiveling the external camera, he scanned the countryside. He could make out some vehicles moving along a road far to the south. He wanted to see if he could find the camp without the aid of the laser.

Along the left side of the aircraft the gun crews were prepared. Mostly their job consisted of clearing away the expended brass from the guns. The guns themselves were automatic—aimed and fired by the fire control officer. From front to back, Spectre boasted two 40mm automatic guns, two 20mm automatic cannons, and, poking its snout out farthest back in the cargo bay, a 105mm howitzer. With the five guns, the ship could put out over ten thousand rounds a minute.

The fire control officer adjusted the focus on his night camera and found the small airstrip. He matched it against the imagery clipped to the bulkhead next to his seat. Pushing the intercom button he called up front to the pilot to adjust the racetrack slightly. Leaning forward in his seat, the fire control officer fiddled with his knobs, adjusting the cross hairs on his screen.

The AC-130 Spectre was the most modern in the line of air force gunships, a descendant of the well known Puff the Magic Dragon of Vietnam-era fame. Members of the crew of this particular ship had participated in most of the military actions of the past decade, including the invasions of Grenada and Panama. The gunship was devastating against ground targets but relatively helpless if attacked by air interceptors or by a sophisticated missile defense that could reach up high enough to hit the aircraft. Against the present target it was almost like playing a video game as the fire control officer watched his screen. He reached and flipped open the cover on his arming switch.

"Arming," he warned over the intercom, and after a second delay he threw the switch, sending power to all five guns. He then adjusted the computer program that would fire the guns. The two 20mm Vulcans were fixed and would fire along the path of the aircraft. The two 40mm guns and the howitzer were each separately controlled by the computer. The fire control computer was capable of resolving all inputs on targets to within one milirad, which translated to an accuracy of 1/1,000th of the slant range to the target. The slant range for this mission was seventy-five hundred meters, which was at the far end of the range of the Vulcans; this translated to a ground accuracy of within seven and a half meters of the aiming point for each gun system.

4:35 A.M.

"Go ahead and illuminate."

Partusi looked through the sight and zeroed in on the main building. He turned on the designator and the invisible laser beam touched the building. Riley cocked his head to listen. The gunship was so far up he couldn't hear the drone of its engine. He smiled grimly. They'd be hearing it loud and clear soon enough.

Riley grabbed the handset. "Hammer this is Eyes One. Over."

"This is Hammer. Over."

"Have you got the target? Over."

"Roger. We've got it. Give me the dimensions of the target area, since I can't make it all out under the trees. Over."

Riley scanned the target through his goggles as he calculated. "From the point we're designating you've got approximately a hundred meters north, sixty meters south, sixty meters east, and the airstrip as your left limit. The designated point is your main target building. Over."

"We'll put the big one on the designated point. We'll use our other stuff all around the target in a grid pattern, working from the perimeter in, so no bad guys get away. I've got your location on the thermals, so don't be worried if some of the stuff seems kind of close. Over."

"Roger. We're ready when you are. Over."

"We'll commence firing on my count of five. One. Two. Three. Four..."

Hearing the five, Riley squeezed Lane's ankle with his free hand. The crack of Lane's .50-caliber sniper rifle and Powers's AK-47 were lost in the roar as four lines of light extended from the sky above and ended in the compound. Each line represented a rope of bullets that tore through the sky and slashed into the earth. Intermingled was the crump of the howitzer pumping out a 105mm artillery shell every two seconds.

During previous training with the air force's 1st Special Operations Wing, Riley had heard the Spectre gunship crews boast they could put a round into every two square inches of a football field in twenty seconds. Now he believed them. The buildings were disintegrating before his eyes as 40mm cannon shells tore through them. The 20mm rounds were puffing up clods of dirt every few inches as they quartered the ground, thirsting for targets. Both walking guards had already gone down. The 105mm shells were blasting the main factory building. Riley winced as the chemicals ignited and a secondary explosion tore the night sky.

After only thirty seconds, Riley found it hard to imagine that anything could still be alive. All four guards were down for sure. It was difficult to make out where the buildings had stood only moments before. Small fires burned and secondary explosions still ripped through the area. Riley leaned over and put his head next to Lane's. "You have any movement?"

"Hell, no. There isn't anything left alive over there. Nobody made it out of the buildings."

Riley nodded. He keyed the handset. "Hammer, we don't have any movement down here. Over."

The calm voice came back. "Roger. We're going to give it another twenty seconds to make sure and then we'll shut down. Your route to your exfiltration pickup zone looks clear. Unless we get some air reaction from the natives, we'll stay up here and cover you until pickup. Moonbeam is tracking your exfil bird inbound only an hour out. Over."

"Roger. Thanks. We're leaving here as soon as you finish. We're breaking down the radio now. Out."

The sudden silence was deafening as the Spectre gunship stopped firing.

5:35 A.M.

The pickup zone was an open field only a little over a kilometer away from the target site. They made it there in under thirty minutes and settled in to wait.

Marzan had the radio turned on, with the transmitter and scrambler still in his backpack and the small dish antenna on the ground in front of him. Riley held the handset and peered out into the dark field. Powers was out there in the middle with an infrared strobe light. At exactly 0537 Powers turned on the strobe light and Riley keyed the mike. "Stork, this is Eyes One. Over."

Even through the hiss of the scrambler Riley could hear the muted roar of rotor blades in the background as the immediate reply came back. "Eyes One, this is Stork. Authenticate one seven. Over."

"This is Eyes One. I authenticate one one. Over."

"Roger authentication. We're one minute out. Over."

"Roger. One minute out. Papa Zulu is cold. I say again, Papa Zulu is cold. We've got the IR strobe on. Over."

Riley waited tensely. They could hear the helicopter now, coming in from the north. The beat of the blades sounded louder in the early morning air. Then, suddenly there it was, flaring over the field and settling down. Powers had extinguished the strobe light and was waiting. Marzan gathered up the antenna in his arms and ran with it toward the helicopter along with the rest of the team.

They threw themselves into the cargo compartment through the open right door. Gunners in the crew chief window on each side scanned the tree lines, looking over the barrels of their M60 machine guns with night-vision goggles. As the helicopter lifted, Riley caught the silhouettes of two more helicopters hovering at opposite edges of the field. As the modified Blackhawk picked up speed and headed toward the ocean, Riley pressed his face against the window in the cargo door and looked at their escort. Two Apache helicopter gunships were riding shotgun, one on either side, as they streaked just above the terrain at 130 knots. In a minute they were over ocean and clear of Colombian territory. Riley liked the escort: They were traveling in style for once.

Riley caught Powers's eye across the dimly lit cargo bay. Powers gave him the thumbs-up. First mission a go.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FRIDAY, 30 AUGUST

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

6:00 A.M.

General Pike let out a sigh of relief and turned away from the radio. "They're on their way back. The mission was successful."

He looked at Westland. "That means Eyes Two goes as planned. We'll give it until this afternoon and then re-contact Stevens and see if he has any sort of reaction from the people down there."

Westland smiled as she rubbed her eyes wearily. She was glad things had turned out well. She needed to go over to Langley this morning and update Strom. She looked at the clock on the wall and calculated. She ought to be able to get there and back before the team flew in for the debrief.

6:15 P.M.

Riley climbed slowly out of the van. He was exhausted. Pike had been waiting at the airfield to welcome them back as they got off the C-130. Riley had immediately noticed that Westland was not there and for some reason that had bothered him. He wasn't quite sure why he had expected her to be there.

Returning to the isolation area, Riley and his team were greeted by the members of Eyes Two as they entered the operations room. Pike indicated the hot food and drink laid out on a table. "Why don't you all grab some chow. Westland should be back with the debriefer in a couple of minutes and we can start then. I want the other team to listen in, too, so they can know what to expect."

Riley nodded and walked over to grab himself a cup of coffee. Westland should have already been here, he thought to himself. What did she have that was more important than this debriefing? Her not being at the airfield had bothered him personally, he finally admitted to himself, but her not being here on time for the debriefing bothered him professionally. A debriefing needed to start immediately, before any important information was forgotten.

CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA

6:15 P.M.

Roberto Ramirez, better known as "The Shark," ranted and raved and screamed. His closest advisers stoically weathered the storm. After fifteen minutes, he subsided and grew silent. For five minutes, he stared straight ahead out of the bay windows of his mansion overlooking the ocean. Then he turned and faced his men.

"I want whoever was behind this. I want a name today!" He turned to his right. "Miquel. I want you to take the plane to Bogota. Go to the Ministry of Defense. Find out if they were behind this.

"Jaime. You check our contacts in Suarez's outfit. See if his people were involved.

"Carlos. Check out that pig who calls himself Ring Man. I wouldn't put it past that scum to try a stunt like this."

The Ramirez patriarch worked his neck to relieve the tension. "It had to be one of those. Whoever it was will pay."

Miquel Ramirez shook his head. It was dangerous to interfere with his father when he was like this, but it was up to him as the second-eldest son to point out some things that might prevent disaster. "Padre. We must worry about our shipments. We have the load down at the docks that will go out this week, but after that we have nothing. We lost our next three months' inventory in the destruction.