Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) (48 page)

The other man stuck out his hand. "Andy Thompson. That's Ron Tremont up there."

Riley shook his hand. "Dave Riley. This is Kate Westland."

Thompson nodded. "I know. We were told you all might be hanging around here."

Westland took the offered hand. "Where you from?"

The man shrugged. "I'm not supposed to tell you that, but suffice it to say that I'm from the same place you are, Dave. Used to be in 7th Group myself. We're here to help you all out with your mission."

Riley's suspicions were confirmed. They had to be from Delta Force. "What were you briefed our mission was?"

The man pointed down toward the villa. "From what we were told there's a very bad man living there who isn't supposed to see the sun rise tomorrow. We've got a plan we think will do that."

Riley shook his head. "There's a complication."

Thompson frowned. "What complication?"

"My team sergeant is a prisoner down there."

"What!" The man shook his head. "We weren't told about any hostages. Shit. I'm going to have to call the old man and let him know. Fill me in while I get the radio set up."

As Riley updated him, Thompson slipped the ruck off his back and pulled out a SATCOM radio. He unfolded the tripod legs of the little dish and angled it up to the sky, then hooked in a scrambler and put on a small headset. He did a trial shot and got a successful bounce back from the satellite, indicating he was on the right direction and azimuth.

Satisfied he was set, Thompson keyed his mike. "Eagle Leader, this is Snake Leader. Over."

The reply came back in less than two seconds. "Snake Leader, this is Eagle Six-Kilo. Wait one while I get the Six. Over."

After about thirty seconds another voice came over the radio. "This is Eagle Leader. Go ahead. Over."

"Roger, we've linked up with the surveillance element down here. They're in good health. We've got the compound under surveillance. There's a slight complication. Riley says there's an American hostage in the villa. His team sergeant who was captured during an earlier op. Over."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Roger. I'll have to talk that over with the planning cell. I'll let you know what we come up with at the 1800 contact. In the meantime continue on as planned and find out as much of the information we need as possible. Over."

"Roger. Over."

"Out here."

The radio went dead and Thompson switched it off. Riley and Westland looked at him expectantly. They had been able to hear only his end of the conversation. Thompson looked up at them. "Our forward element is down in Panama by now. They're going to work in the hostage. They'll let us know if there are any modifications at our 1800 contact."

Riley nodded. "What's the plan in the meantime?"

"We wait and observe. I've got a whole list of questions we need answered about that place down there."

4:38 P.M.

Riley was beginning to feel a bit like Tarzan with all this hanging around in trees. Tremont was on the other side of the trunk, continuing to scan the compound through the scope on the rifle he carried. Riley had never seen that particular sniper rifle. It was bolt action with a bulky covering around the barrel.

Tremont seemed more than happy to explain his weapon. Riley had found that most military men liked talking about the tools of their trade.

"This is an Accuracy International Model PM sniper rifle, made by the Brits. We used to use the M21 like you guys in SF, but this thing is more accurate. Fires 7.62 match ammo. It's single bolt action because the receiver is high-carbon solid steel. Tightens up the whole action. The barrel is free floating and never comes closer than an eighth of an inch to the stock."

Riley pointed at the barrel. He'd never seen an accurate silenced sniper rifle. "That a suppressor?"

"Yeah. It's an integral one, like the one on your MP5."

"What about the round? Don't you get the supersonic crack?"

Tremont enjoyed being the expert. "Nope. I use Lapua subsonic match ammo. I lose some range but I can still hit out to about eight hundred meters and put someone down forever, and no one will hear a thing."

Riley was impressed. "How fast can you reload and fire?"

Tremont looked down at the villa. "At this range, at a man-sized target? I figure I can put a round out every two seconds and hit. The British SAS have ..."

Tremont paused, swung up the rifle, and looked down the hill. Riley followed suit with his M21. Two cars were rolling down the driveway, heading for the gate. It was impossible to see through the dark windshields. Riley watched until the cars were out of sight, heading down toward the main highway.

Tremont turned and looked at him. "Do you think this Ring Man fellow was in there?"

Riley shrugged. "I really don't care if he was or wasn't. What worries me is that Powers may have been in there. Let's hope not."

PENTAGON

5:15 P.M.

Linders punched in the numbers on his phone and waited. After two buzzes the other end was picked up.

"Pike here."

"This is General Linders. Just checking to see how things are going."

There was a pause on the other end. "Fine, sir. Everything's looking good to go."

Linders still wasn't feeling comfortable with the whole setup. He hadn't been involved in the actual running of the previous Hammer strikes either, but this time, using Delta Force in a selective strike, there was a higher level of compromise. Linders was surprised they were doing this after what had happened to the third Hammer mission.

"Anything else I can do for you, Mike?"

"No, sir. Everything looks good to go."

"I assume this mission goes tonight?"

Another pause. "Yes, sir, but I'd rather not go into too much detail. We're keeping this in extra tight after what happened to the last one."

Linders felt a little put off by that answer. "I understand, Mike. I assume the chairman is on top of things?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Out here."

Linders put down the phone and leaned back in the chair. The trend in Special Operations over the past decade had been for fewer and fewer people to be informed and involved in actual operations. The after action report on the debacle at Desert One had shown glaring faults in the number of people who were actively involved in the decision-making process, from the president on down. The military had pushed for less outside involvement and more autonomy for the leader on the ground.

Linders himself agreed with this: He believed that the military should get mission statements and then be left alone by the civilians to do the job. But right now he was wondering if that streamlining and canalization of operational information wasn't working against him. Something didn't seem right with this whole operation. In reality, Linders realized, he had only Pike's word that this operation was legitimate. Not that he had any problem with that. Pike did have a letter of authorization from the chairman. It was just that someday, Linders was afraid someone with enough knowledge might be able to circumvent the system. He decided to have one of his staff officers write a staff study examining whether or not that could really happen.

Linders glanced at his watch. He had to attend a formal reception over at Fort Myers this evening. He needed to head on home now if he was going to make it on time. Turning off the light, he left his office.

KNOLL 8548

6:00 P.M.

Tremont was still up in the tree. He hadn't been inactive. With Riley's help, he'd constructed a brace for his rifle, using broken branches and 550 cord he had carried in. The muzzle of his weapon now rested securely in front of him and he could scan the entire compound with ease.

Riley and Westland were on the ground, providing local security around Thompson as he made his 1800 contact. He was on the air quite a while. Riley had an instinctive distrust of staying on a radio a long time even though he knew his fears were groundless. The Colombians certainly had nothing that could intercept signals from a SATCOM radio. Still, old habits died hard. He gave a sigh of relief as Thompson shut down the radio.

Thompson gestured for Tremont to come down out of the tree. He left the rifle in its cradle and shimmied down. The four gathered in tight as Thompson outlined the plan for the evening. Riley had to admit it was a bit better than the one he had come up with earlier in the morning.

HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE, PANAMA

7:45 P.M.

"Hammer Base, this is Eagle Leader. Over." Lieutenant Colonel Edberg released the transmit button on the radio and waited.

The radio crackled. "This is Hammer Base. Over."

"This is Eagle Leader. I'm calling for final mission authorization. Authenticate please. Over."

Edberg released the send and licked his lips nervously. This was when they would find out whether the mission was a practice dry run or the real thing. Since Edberg had taken command of B Troop, Delta Force, a little over a year ago, his troop had participated in eleven deployments. Six had been in response to real-world alerts but had not progressed further than deployment and planning, because the crises had been resolved in other ways or because the politicians had decided not to commit Delta Force. On the other five deployments, they had been given, just like this one, what looked like a real mission and had forward deployed to a staging area. After completing the planning and being ready to go, these deployments had ended when final authorization was not given; an evaluation team from Delta headquarters then came in and evaluated the plans and preparations. Not knowing if a deployment was real or not kept the men honed to a sharp edge of performance but was also extremely stressful.

The radio hissed. "I authenticate Bold Gambit. I say again, I authenticate Bold Gambit. Over."

Edberg stared at the radio in surprise, then looked at the members of his assault force. It was the real thing.

"Roger, Hammer Base. I copy Bold Gambit. Over."

"Hammer Base, out."

Edberg keyed the mike again. "Tiger Leader, this is Eagle Leader. Did you copy Hammer Base? Over."

From two hundred fifty kilometers to the south the reply came back. "Roger that. I'll get it cranking. Over."

"Good luck. Out."

FOUR KILOMETERS NORTH OF THE

PANAMA-COLOMBIA BORDER

7:48 P.M.

Sergeant Major Ed Rabitowski signaled for Griffin to pack up the SATCOM. He looked at the pilot. "Crank her up, Cullen. We lift on time."

The pilot, a rated aviator from Delta, nodded and went over to start his helicopter. The aircraft was an OH-58, the military version of the Bell Jet Ranger. The twin-bladed helicopter could hold only the pilot and the three men of Tiger element.

The four men were dressed similarly, all in black, including black balaclavas pulled over their lower faces. Night-vision goggles hung around their necks, and each man wore a headset for communication among the team and with the other elements. They wore combat vests with the various tools of their trade hanging on them.

The single turbine engine started to whine as Cullen began his startup procedures. Rabitowski glanced at his watch just before getting in and taking the left front seat, next to the pilot. Since the OH-58 was the slowest aircraft involved in the operation, it would leave first, even though it was two hundred fifty kilometers closer to the target than the Eagle element up at Howard Air Force Base. This whole mission depended on split-second timing from the various elements involved.

As soon as Cullen had sufficient engine speed, the blades started turning and the aircraft began rocking. Rabitowski looked over his shoulder at the two men seated in the back. Jacobs and Griffin both gave him a thumbs-up. Their RPG rocket launchers were between their knees, muzzles pointing down.

Rabitowski nodded calmly. This was going to be a bit hairy and a lot of things could go wrong. But Rabitowski prided himself on not worrying about things he couldn't control. Twenty-nine years in the army had taught him that. He pulled his cut-down SAW machine gun closer to his side. The comforting feel of the weapon's cold metal was what he believed in. The SAW was something he could control.

Rabitowski would be retiring in one month, and Colonel Edberg had been against his going on this mission. Sergeant Major Rabitowski had been adamant. He wanted to go in his assigned place with his troop. He wanted one last live mission after twenty-nine years.

He pulled out the acetated map with their flight route on it. Written in grease pencil along the route were the time hacks for the various checkpoints on the way in. A stopwatch was taped to the map. Rabitowski checked his watch. Cullen lifted the aircraft to a three-foot hover. When his second hand swept past the twelve and the watch indicated 7:54, Rabitowski indicated go and clicked the stopwatch. Cullen pushed forward on the cyclic and they were on their way.