Strike Eagle (33 page)
“Good to hear from you. How’s Lonestar?”
“Salubrious and copacetic. We’re ready for pick up.”
“That is kind of hard right now, Assassin. Can you move back to your original drop-off point?”
Bruce glanced at Adleman.
No way.
“Negative on that idea. Can you pick us up here?”
“South side of the clearing?”
“Rog.”
“Ah, a change in plans. Your friend Fulton is dropping in. Will Lonestar be able to ride the balloon?”
Bruce exploded. “Negative! Get a chopper down here!”
“Can’t do that, Assassin. Too much activity. You’ll have to go the Fulton route.”
Bruce fumed. He said reluctantly, “Rog on that, Mother Hen.”
“I say again, can Lonestar handle it?”
Bruce glanced at Adleman. “Rog.”
“Are you near the pickup point?”
“Rog.”
“Glad to hear that. You’ve got some friends sitting at thirty-seven thousand waiting to help you out. After they make their run, you get that balloon up so we can get Lonestar outta there, ya hear?”
“Rog.”
“Have you spotted that HPM weapon they’re supposed to have?”
Bruce shook his head. “Negative. But I can’t see the front of the plantation house.”
“Okay. Let us know if you find out.”
Bruce waited a minute before switching the walkie-talkie off. In the distance, gunfire broke through the otherwise peaceful night. The yells had subsided as the Huks conserved their energy for the hunt.
“Ready, ready—
now!
Captain Head yelled into the intercom. Zaz grunted, then pushed the bulky package overboard. The yellow tarp covering the device flipped over in the air as it fell the fifty feet to the ground. As soon as the package was off, the Black Hawk returned to the relative safety of the trees, away from the clearing.
Captain Head didn’t find a place to duck to the ground, but a distance of a quarter mile from the plantation seemed sufficient protection.
Now it was up to Bruce.
The package hit the ground with a thud. It bounced once, then took a roll toward the jungle before stopping. Bruce spotted it as it fell.
He hesitated a moment, then slipped out from the cover of the jungle, dragging his right leg. The rain had slowed, increasing the visibility. He could now make out the plantation house in the center of the clearing. Bolts of minigun fire sizzled the ground, keeping the area clear. No one shot at him—he started to feel confident that things were going to work out.
Bruce tore into the package. He pulled out a carefully folded balloon, unwrapped the fabric and spread it out on the ground.
Next came the helium canister, then the harness and a long wind of thick cord. He swung the harness over his shoulder and grabbed the cord. Bruce attached the cord to the balloon and unwound it, backing up toward Adleman. Every two feet, tiny infrared sources lined the cord. The IR would make the line visible to the approaching MC-130 when the balloon was in the air.
Bruce backed up to the jungle, and then dragged Adleman by the arms into the clearing. His bandaged hands were soaked, and in the dim light Bruce could make out red stains that seeped through the material.
Bruce struggled with the harness, pulling it over Adleman’s limp shoulders. He laid Adleman on the ground and straddled the vice president’s stomach, grunting to get the harness fastened. Rolling off, he pulled out the walkie-talkie.
“Mother Hen—ready for pickup.”
“Rog. Inflate when ready. We’ll have to come around from the south, so you won’t be covered for about a minute. Will you be able to get through the jungle for a Black Hawk pickup?”
“Yeah. Just hurry.”
Two clicks came over the radio. Bruce hobbled back into the jungle and pulled out the M-16. He snapped in a fresh cartridge of bullets and made off for the balloon.
The MC-130 continued to hose down the clearing. Bruce couldn’t see anything move—the gunfire from the ground had almost stopped.
The quietness should have cheered him, but instead it made his gut churn. Pompano had demonstrated his ability of getting through the jungle undetected, and if that indicated the Huks’ capabilities, Bruce was in great danger.
He hopped to the helium container and quickly connected the hose to the balloon. Some gas bled away, but he managed to get the joint screw on tight.
The balloon slowly inflated. It grew first in girth, then in length. It wasn’t big enough to carry Adleman, but its sole purpose was to get airborne and carry the sensor-lined cord up with it. For the second time that night Bruce swore that he would never badmouth an Air Force training course again—especially a survival one.
Bruce punched the IR emitters on and walked the cord back to Adleman. The balloon continued to rise, moving slowly up over the trees as Bruce let out the line. He couldn’t tell how high the balloon had risen, having lost all sense of height up against the low clouds.
Bruce turned, spooked. He listened intently, but couldn’t hear anything. Even the rain had nearly stopped.
A diesel engine ran in the distance. It sounded as if the house had started a small motor to generate electricity, but no lights came from the plantation except for the distant flickering of oil lamps.…Was it the HPM weapon?
Then something else seemed wrong .…
The MC-130 was gone!
He looked wildly around and crouched, fanning the area with his M-16 at ready. Nothing.
What had Mother Hen said
—
it would take a minute before they’d be back?
And already it felt like ten.
Which meant they’d be here any second. Bruce fumbled with the radio. “Mother Hen, Assassin. I hear a diesel engine. It could be the HPM weapon.”
A voice came back over the radio. “Rog, Assassin. Keep us posted.”
He grabbed Adleman by the feet and swung him around until his head pointed north, toward the plantation. When the MC-130 popped over the tree line, it would snag the line and jerk Adleman up.
“Mr. Vice President—Mr. Adleman.” He slapped Adleman.
“Wake up!”
Adleman rolled his head to one side. He coughed. “The football …”
“Huh?”
“The nuclear codes …”
“Here.” Bruce reached out and wrapped Adleman’s arms around the base of the line. He ignored Adleman’s rambling. “Roll your head up, close to your arms. You’ll be out any second now.”
A deep roar rolled over the clearing; the sounds of turbo props reflected off the ground and rang around the area. It sounded like Mother Hen was about to make an appearance.
Cervante waited until the shooting from above had stopped. Trapped by a volley of fire, he had been unable to move from the tiny depression he was in. The jungle was two hundred yards away—but every time he tried to move, a rain of death shot through the air, pinning him. He could not even get back to the plantation!
At first he thought the silence was a ploy, a trick by the Americans so that they could kill him on the run. But after a cautious try, he started moving toward the jungle. The vice president had to be at the south end, perhaps deep in the brush by now—why else were the American bullets keeping him trapped?
As he made for the jungle, a sudden thought hit him.
What if this is only the beginning
—
if they were clearing the area for more Americans to land?
He cursed Barguyo. He should not have left a boy to do a man’s job, no matter how mature the boy had seemed. If Barguyo had been thinking, he could have downed the American aircraft.
He turned around and started sprinting for the plantation. The run did not take more than a minute. Sloshing through the mud, he nearly tripped over one of his dead comrades. When he arrived at the house, he sought out the high-power microwave weapon. One of the men cowered underneath the porch; the other was nowhere to be seen. The diesel engine used to charge the capacitors chugged away.
Cervante snapped, “Where is Barguyo?”
“Here.” A voice came from underneath the microwave weapon. Barguyo was smeared with grease. “The antenna—if one of the bullets had hit it, we could not use the weapon.”
Cervante flicked a glance at the device. The antenna was bundled up, hidden from stray bullets. “How fast can you start the machine?”
Barguyo answered as he pulled himself back up onto the truck. “Less than a minute.”
“Then start firing as quickly as you can, and do not stop.” Cervante pointed toward the south. “Aim the weapon that way. Quickly!”
Barguyo had the antenna erected by the time Cervante started back for the jungle. As Cervante turned, the three-meter dish rotated around and pointed to the south.
The
pop pop pop
of capacitors cycling through their discharge started soon after.
***
Chapter 23
Friday, 22 June
Tarlac
Colonel Ben Lutler threw his head back and closed his eyes. It had seemed like he had been on the Vulcan cannon for hours—ten minutes was more realistic.
And in another forty-five seconds they’d be done. Pick up the vice president, pull him on board, and head on back to Clark. And after a two-hour debrief, hit the Rathskeller with one hell of a war story.
Lutler opened his eyes. The young EWO still had his head buried in the screen. Lutler made for the cockpit. He looked over the shoulder of the pilot. Both the pilot and copilot wore ANVIS-6 infrared night-vision goggles, allowing them to spot the cord deployed by Assassin on the ground. Lutler didn’t want to disturb them, but dammit, he just
had
to know.
“Do you have it?”
The pilot spoke without turning. “Rog. Thirty seconds to pickup.”
The MC-130 skimmed above the tree line, not twenty feet above the top of the highest branches. Lutler wouldn’t be surprised if the mechanics found leaves lodged in the underbelly.
Pop pop pop pop pop!
“What the hell!”
The cockpit lights blinked, dimmed, then went completely off. The IR panel cracked, and the sound of breaking glass cascaded throughout the cockpit; smoke rolled through the air. Lutler steadied himself against the left-hand seat.
“What’s going on?”
The copilot leaned forward, his head in the maze of electro-optic sensors; screams came from the back of the craft.
“What!”
“I’ve lost GPS, all IR sensors!”
Global positioning system down?
What was going on?!
“Ten seconds to pick up!”
“Can you see it?”
“Rog, rog—oh,
shit!
All I’ve got are hydraulics!” The pilot’s voice sounded hysterical; he reached up and snapped an array of levers. “All electronics are down! They must have used the HPM!”
“Abort, abort!”
“NO! You’ve got to pick him up. Inform Blackcave they have the HPM.”
“We can’t even navigate, reel him in! We’ll kill him—abort! Radio’s out.” The MC-130 tipped a wing to the right, barely missing the balloon. A crashing sound came from outside the right window as the wing swept into the tops of the trees. The pilot fought to keep the lumbering craft under control. “Keep it under the clouds—we’re going VFR!”
Lutler sat unsteadily back in the jump seat, his heart racing.
VFR
—
visual flight rules.
Twenty feet above the trees and zero-zero visibility. Great. Make my day.
Bruce stared in horror. The MC-130 roared over the trees, its wing scraping the topmost branches as it missed the balloon. The Combat Talon looked as if it might crash, wheel around on a wing, and impact the ground, but it straightened and flew to the east.
The cord wobbled from the near miss. Adleman kept his head rolled up in his arms.
Bruce pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Mother Hen, what’s your status? The pick up—are you coming around?” He wet his lips and surveyed the clearing. Still nothing. The clearing seemed eerily quiet. Except for the faint sound of a diesel engine, nothing drifted from the plantation.
Adleman peeked up at Bruce. It seemed to take an effort. “What …”
“Mother Hen, come in, dammit!”
Motion. Bruce caught a glimpse of something move out of the corner of his eye.
“Mother Hen!
Where the hell are you?!” He swung the M-16 up and kept the clearing covered.
Adleman relaxed his head, dropping back down to the soggy ground. He still held on to the Fulton cord, but his shoulders had slumped back, no longer ready for the pickup. Adleman whispered, “What … next?”
Bruce ignored him and brought the walkie-talkie to his lips, still sweeping the rifle barrel around. “Mayday, mayday! Mother Hen …
anybody!
Come in! Fox One—can you hear me?”
Silence.
Bruce set the M-16 down and flipped through the frequencies. Still nothing. He shook the small radio. “Come on!” Turning the gain up as high as he could, he placed the tiny speaker up to his ear. Nothing—not even a hiss. He threw the walkie-talkie aside. “So much for high tech.”
“What … next?”
Bruce scanned the area. There was still no sight of Yolanda and Pompano. Picking up the M-16, he debated what to do. He didn’t look at Adleman as he spoke. “I don’t know. If anyone’s still alive out there, we’re sitting ducks if we stay here. But if the ’130 comes back, this is the only way to get you out of here.”
“The … radio?” Adleman coughed.
Bruce placed a hand on the vice president’s chest as he continued his surveillance. “It stopped working. Water probably got to it.”
Come on,
he thought,
think!
What would the Combat Talon do—come back? But why did they break away in the first place? Did they see something on the ground?
It had been at least a couple of minutes since the MC-130 had departed. Bruce strained to hear a noise—anything—that might give him a clue as to what was going on. But all he heard was the faint chugging of the engine, and the muted dripping of water in the jungle behind them. In the distance the diesel engine coughed, then abruptly stopped. The clearing grew even quieter.
What next?
He set his mouth—staying here was out of the question. Everyone on Clark probably knew where he was by now—they’d send somebody after them. But right now the highest priority was to get out of sight.
Bruce shifted the M-16 to his left hand. Favoring his ankle, he used his right hand to fumble with Adleman’s harness. “We’re going to get back into the jungle—wait things out.”
“The plane … is it coming back?” .
“Someone will.” He unfastened the harness and threw it back, pulling the vest off of Adleman. He squatted and placed an arm underneath Adleman’s arm. “Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so.”
Bruce pulled up Adleman’s pant leg and drew in a breath. The vice president’s leg bent at a crazy angle. Bruce debated if he should try to set the bone back in place but dismissed the thought. Their first priority was survival.
Barguyo scrambled down from the operator’s seat on the high-power microwave weapon. He squeezed past the dish antenna and climbed to the rear of the truck. Faint light from the house illuminated the generator, sitting dormant. Barguyo ran a hand over the generator. Nothing appeared wrong.…He unscrewed the top gasket.
Maybe the fuel?
He turned and found a canister lashed to the side of the truck. Heaving the five-gallon can up, he refueled the generator and tried to restart it. Nothing. He suddenly remembered the cartoon-like operator’s manual that came with the weapon.
Barguyo lowered himself to the ground and climbed into the truck cab, rummaged through the glove box, and pulled out the manual. Flipping through pages, he came to a cartoon of a soldier refueling the generator. He mouthed the words written in large English letters: Wait Ten Minutes for Engine to Cool before Restarting.
He closed the manual and smiled to himself. And he never thought that learning English back in the barrio would come to any use.
Captain Head pulled the Black Hawk up from the tree-tops. “Did you catch that?”
Gould scanned the instruments. “Yeah. It was just like what happened back at the runway, right before our electronics crapped out.”
“Think it’s that HPM stuff?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Gould flipped various switches back and forth. “Whatever it was, we were far enough away not to get zapped.” He shuddered. “Imagine going down in the jungle?”
Head didn’t answer. He flipped on the mike. “Mother Hen, Fox One.” No answer. “Mother Hen—come in. Have you picked up Lonestar? Mother Hen, Fox One.” He waited some seconds before throwing a glance at Gould. “I don’t like it.”
“What do you say we take a look?”
“We did it once. What if Mother Hen is keeping radio silence?”
“What the hell for? What if she got zapped by the HPM?”
“Look, Dick—I don’t care if they’ve got phasers. What if they got the ’130? They could have brought the plane down.”
“If they got them, they could get us.”
“Or anybody. Let’s take a look.”
Head ran over the rationale. It didn’t take much to convince him that if
they
didn’t go in, nobody would.
“You got the ’15’s number?”
“Rog.” Gould leaned forward and punched the frequency into the radio.
He clicked the mike. “Maddog, Fox One.”
“Fox One, Maddog One.”
“Maddog, we’ve lost contact with Mother Hen.”
A moment passed. “That’s a rog. We’ve lost them too.”
“We’re going in to take a look. Ah, looks like the bad guys have that HPM weapon—electronic warfare and all that. It’s probably housed in that plantation house. Supposedly it will only affect you within a thousand-yard range. If you don’t hear from us after a while, sure would be nice if you didn’t forget us.”
“Fox One, Maddog. You’ve got five minutes and we’re strafing the house, unless you say the word. Sound all right?”
“Rog.” Head clicked the mike twice, then reached down to reset the tilt of the rotor. “Keep an eye on that clock. If we’re still there, I don’t want any fighter jocks hosing us down.” Head paused. “Any trouble with the IR?”
“No, Dick.”
“Okay, you cover the sensor and I’ll look for them with the night-vision goggles. We’ll come in low over the south side of the clearing.” As he spoke, Head flipped down his ANVIS-6 night-vision goggles. “If they’re not there, we’ll get the hell out of Dodge. And don’t call me Dick!”
Cervante moved as quickly as he could. He slipped through the jungle, just outside of the clearing where the brush and foliage had not yet thickened. The south end of the clearing was not far away. He carried his M-16 with one hand and used the other to push branches aside.
Moments earlier he had seen the American aircraft divert its route.
The HPM weapon!
He smiled at Barguyo’s effort.
If the Americans were still interested in the clearing, then the vice president was still here.
