Strike Force Delta (24 page)

The
Psyclops
crew was now part of the team. Just like other disparate groups the Ghosts had met along the way, they had joined up. It was just as soon as they'd landed at Obo after their in-flight kidnapping that the
Psyclops
crew found out the mysterious special ops team had been their abductors. They knew well the achievements of the Ghosts—as all Americans did by now. At Hormuz and Singapore and within the United States itself, the Ghosts had been carrying on their own war against Al Qaeda while the majority of the U.S. military was up to other things.

For this reason, and after having the situation explained to them about Khrash, the Patch, and the girl named Li Cho, to a man the
Psyclops
crew agreed to stay on and help the Ghosts see it through. They'd been briefed about the final option and were getting ready for the adventure of their lives.

One of the most unusual cargoes the
Psyclops
plane carried was a large box filled with American flags. Made of a tough fiberglass substance that actually looked and felt like cloth, each flag was five feet by three feet and could be folded up and stored away in no space at all. The plane carried the flags as another part of its psychological operations. Whenever they made a propaganda leaflet drop on a targeted village, something that took place a couple times a month, they would drop
a smaller box containing some of the American flags as well, hoping those same people would display them as part of the ongoing hearts and minds program. But now, as part of the final option plan, they had been asked to give all the flags to the team's shock troops, several hundred in all, for use somewhere down the line.

One of Dow's guys had just returned to the plane from delivering the flags when the White Screen blinked on again. This time was just as much a surprise as the first. The light filled the cabin, and when the screen cleared of static they saw it was Murphy again. He wanted to have a private meeting with the EC-130's crew, out of sight and earshot of the other team members.

The crew gathered around the screen now. They felt like they'd known Murphy all their lives, a common reaction by those who'd met him. He said he had something to ask them and it was a bit complicated.

“That igloo thing you have attached to the bottom of your plane,” Murphy said, “can it do what I think it can do?”

The question caught the
Psyclops
crew off-guard. In their initial mission for the Ghosts the
Psyclops
had served as a very loud, very intimidating photo plane. They had performed what was asked with perfection, but in reality taking pictures was one of the most pedestrian things their big plane could do. Breaking into radio broadcasts, commandeering TV stations, speaking through amplifiers that intentionally made them sound like the Almighty, these things the civilian crew could do with ease.

But now Murphy was asking about the Snowball. That was something different entirely. That was
ultra
–top secret.

In times like this, only Dow could speak for the crew.

“I know better than to give you the standard denial about it,” he told Murphy evenly. “But you, above all, have to be sensitive to something like this. That thing is so top-secret, we're not sure the President even knows it exists. At least that's what we've been told.

“We are here with you today because we believe in what you guys are trying to do. But who knows what will happen tomorrow—if any of us is still around? You know how the military is. Things can flip in the blink of an eye. I'd hate to be the reason that we all get court-martialed and thrown in Leavenworth for life at hard labor, just because I started blabbing about the Snowball.”

Murphy understood and told them so. “Believe me, I know what it's like to give up secrets that might come back to haunt you,” he said. “And I don't want you guys to put yourselves or any of us in jail. I just want to make sure we can make use of all our options in what's coming up, should things start to go that way.”

There was a long silence. Dow didn't know what to say. They'd all taken a security oath not to talk about the Snowball and what it could do—but just by being here, in the Obo, with the Ghosts, it seemed like national security laws didn't matter that much anymore.

No one was talking, so Murphy asked the question again.

And finally, after an approving glance around to his crew, Dow nodded yes. “Let me put it this way: Just by asking the question as to what it can do, you've probably guessed right.”

But he quickly added this caveat: “And I want to say that we appreciate what you guys are trying to do out
here, and we're proud that you've let us help. But I have to tell you that as far as employing the Snowball, I can only do it as a very last resort . . . .”

They saw Murphy smile slightly.

Then he saluted them and said: “Thanks, men. That's all I have to know.”

Ryder was back in the cockpit again. His plane was moving very slowly, heading toward the runway one last time. He could almost imagine the tips of the variable-wing fighter scraping the ground, so many bombs were hanging underneath him.

The small strike force was laid out before him, lined up on the short taxiway leading to Obo's bumpy airstrip. Again because of the lack of communications between them—the jets' radios simply didn't work—they were going through a series of hand signals to get everyone on the same page for takeoff.

They weren't all going, though. Two of the Marine mechanics would be staying behind at Obo. One aspect of the operation included a possibility that one of the Blackhawks might come back to take on the very last of the fuel and any ammunition that might remain. Leaving someone at Obo was insurance that if the copter needed two more warm bodies aboard, they'd be available. But if the two Marines, volunteers both, were unable to get on the copter at that time or if the copter never came back, they were to make their way to friendly lines in eastern Afghanistan, with help from the Zabul. If they
made it to Kabul, then at least someone would be able to tell the world someday what had happened here.

As for everyone else, they were anxious to go. Before they'd all climbed into their respective aircraft—the shock troops into the helicopters, the
Psyclops
guys into their weird aircraft, Curry and Ryder into the Bombcats—Ryder had gathered the team around him. Did everybody understand the part they had to play in the upcoming operation? he asked them first. Did everyone know the final option plan by heart? The reply came back unanimous: Yes, everyone did.

His second question was a little more difficult. Did anyone want to jump ship right now, with absolutely no shame attached?

Again, the response was unanimous: No one wanted to back out. They were all going. Together.

This was what Ryder was thinking about now, sitting in his cockpit, doing a final check of the few working instruments he had left. The team was standing firm, new guys and old, committed to what lay ahead. But why was
he
here? The team was out here to kill mooks and to avenge the loss of one of the team. But what was his motive? His
real
motive? It was a strange question, especially since he was the CO of the mission, yet he'd been asking it of himself since leaving the
Ocean Voyager
. These and other thoughts, haunting him for days, were coming from so deep down in his soul that he couldn't understand them, at least, not at first.

He started fiddling with his wedding ring as the rest of the team finished moving into position. He hadn't taken the ring off since the day his wife died. He'd vowed then that he'd never take it off again. But looking at it now unleashed a flood of emotion. Again, what was
he
really
doing here? Whose ghost
was
he chasing? By avenging Li's death, was he forgetting about his wife? How could that be? How could he ever forget her?

It was all very confusing, and unsettling, and very unlike him. It was changing him, just like taking over the team had changed him, but this change he didn't like. He felt like a hypocrite, but he didn't know why.

These thoughts were broken by the sound of someone banging on his canopy. He looked left to see one of the young Marine mechanics had pushed a ladder against the F-14 and climbed up beside him. He had the yellow cell phone with him, the only secure communication line the team had with the outside world. Ryder had carried it on his person every moment since Murphy gave it to him. But shortly before the team got ready to depart this time, it was decided that it would be best to leave the cell phone at Obo. After all, Murphy had told them it was the most secure line in the world. Putting it on one of the aircraft risked it being compromised should that plane get shot down. And no one wanted that. So, it was being left with the two mechanics who were staying behind. This kid banging on Ryder's canopy was one of them.

But why was he bringing the phone to him? Ryder had just had a last conversation with Murphy before he climbed back into the plane. That conversation had been brief: Murphy just wanting to know if they had crossed every T and dotted every I for what lay ahead and Ryder telling him they had. They wished each other good luck and thanked each other for all they had accomplished and that was it.

So what was this about?

Ryder lifted his canopy and the kid handed the phone to him. It was indeed Murphy.

“I didn't know whether to make this call or not,” Murphy told Ryder. His voice sounded very somber and far away. “But I thought I owed it to you at least.”

Ryder really didn't know what he was talking about.

“It just arrived,” Murphy told him. “Li's execution video. We just dragged it down from the Al-Qazzaza tele-link.”

Ryder felt his chest cave in. His ears began burning. His eyes filled up. He'd been waiting for this inevitable piece of bad news ever since they'd left the
Ocean Voyager
. He'd been steeling himself, expecting the crushing blow he knew it would bring. Now that it was here, it was almost too much for him to take.

“I just thought you'd want to know,” Murphy went on. “The thing was time-stamped. It was filmed four days ago. So, at least she went quick.”

Ryder choked up. Li had been dead for only four days? It seemed like four years.

“Bates has the footage now, down in the White Rooms,” Murphy concluded. “He volunteered to watch it. God knows I could never do so. But he'll study it, see if we can come up with something that might help us, in the future. If there is a future. But again, I just thought you should know.”

Ryder thanked him, hung up, and gave the phone back to the mechanic, who promptly disappeared.

He breathed deep from his oxygen mask. And that's when he finally had his answer. He would have liked to think that they would still be doing this if it had been himself or Fox or Ozzi or Curry or any of the team members, right down to one of the
Ocean Voyager
's sailors or the Marine mechanics who had been kidnapped
by The Patch and executed. That they would come here and kill those who had killed them.

But this
was
different, because it was her. Li . . .

This beautiful girl . . . now gone.

He took another deep breath, and got back into himself again.

Between his legs was the bag of money Murphy had given him back on the ship. He'd kept it with him this entire time as well. Now, he threw the bag back into the unoccupied space behind his seat. Then he revved up his engines and started moving again.

Once last look around told him they were all as ready as they were ever going to be. Ryder would be the first to take off. The others would follow. He was about to hit his throttle and pop his brakes when he caught himself looking down at his wedding ring again. He closed his eyes and it was Li's face he saw, waving to him as she left aboard the CIA helicopter, the last time they would ever see each other.

He opened his eyes again, and wiped them. He thought a moment . . . then slowly, with shaking fingers, he removed the wedding ring and put it in his pocket.

Then he popped his throttles and took off, climbing steeply and quickly becoming lost in the stars.

The first copter touched down on the eastern edge of Khrash just two minutes before midnight.

The landing spot was close to the place where the city's three main drainage culverts converged into one. On the team's final option plan, this area was called Weak Point East.

Ten heavily armed soldiers jumped off the helicopter, quickly taking up positions on one side of the cracked concrete culvert. These were all Delta guys; their squad had been designated 1st Delta for this operation. The squad god was one of the original Ghosts, Sergeant Dave Hunn. What they did in the next sixty minutes would determine whether this long-shot battle would be won or lost.

The copter took off immediately after dropping Hunn and 1st Delta. It rose almost straight up into the sky, parking itself about one thousand-feet above the joining of culverts. Hunn did a head count; everyone had made it to the ground OK.

He trained his night scope goggles in toward the city. They were about three-quarters of a mile from the center of Khrash, just a few hundred feet from the edge of a dead-end street. It was lined with clay and wooden houses for several blocks before the edge of the city proper began. This was the cluster of slum buildings where the city's Taliban fighters had settled.

Hunn could see lights in most of these hovels; he could also see armed men milling around outside some of them. The Superhawk copter that had dropped them here was nearly silent, but all it would take was for one sharp-eyed mook to look up into the sky and see the thing hovering up there and the game would be up.

Hunn checked his watch. One minute to go. He scanned the Taliban neighborhood again; if anything, even more armed men seemed to be moving around inside the dilapidated buildings.