Wraith (19 page)

“I hope you're not as nervous about this as I am.” Danny's voice suddenly sounded distant, unreachable.

“Probably more, but thanks for making it worse.”

“Anytime. Hold on, Drake is yelling something at me. Looks like he doesn't want to say it over the radio.” There was a short pause before the intelligence officer spoke again. “Drake says don't screw up.”

“You guys are the best. I'm in position.”

“Copy that.” Danny switched frequencies. “Mother, Lighthouse, this is Hazard. Baby is in position and ready for the recovery.”

“Roger,” replied Walker. “Begin the sequence.”

“Recovery sequence in three . . . two . . . one . . . execute.”

Nick watched the bomb bay doors swing open. Immediately he felt the turbulence they created and found that he had a hard time keeping Dream Catcher steady. He knew that he was supposed to be moving up between the doors, but he had to get stable first. He held his position for a long time, trying to get ahead of the bucking and rocking aircraft.

“Hazard,” said Drake over the radio, “what's the holdup?”

Danny had also noticed the delay and was already keying his microphone to ask Nick. “Baby, say your status. Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” replied Nick, trying to mask the anxiety in his voice. “I just needed a minute to settle down. Moving in now.” He hit a toggle next to his throttle, switching the left third of his viewscreen to the upper cameras. Then he cautiously added power and pulled back on the stick. The bomb bay drew closer, and on the enhanced black-and-white image Nick could distinguish every rivet.

There was a loud
chunk
as the receiving arm released from its housing and extended. The air became even more unstable. Nick resisted the urge to stare directly at the clamps on the arm. Instead, he looked back and forth between the view above and the view in front, letting his eyes sense movement in any direction. He reacted to the changes in the air around him with barely perceptible movements of the flight controls, his wrist anchored on the arm pad, his fingers lightly holding the stick and rapidly moving it in all directions. Then a sudden burst of turbulence bumped him upward. The arm grew unnervingly large on the screen. He throttled back and dropped a few feet, struggling to settle the aircraft.

“Nick?” said Danny.

Nick gritted his teeth. “Just shut up and give me a second.”

As he began his climb for the second attempt, a bead of sweat rolled down between Nick's eyes. It hovered a moment on the end of his nose before splashing onto the panel below. Then, almost before he expected it, he made contact. A green
LATCHED
message flashed on his screen. Instinctively he ripped the throttle to idle and punched a button that shut down Dream Catcher's engine. The bomb bay doors closed beneath him. The sound of the turbulent air faded away to calm stillness.

“I'm on,” he said to Danny, hardly able to believe his own words.

He could almost hear the smile in Danny's reply. “I know. Good job.”

“Whew!” Danny stepped back from the hatch and scrunched up his nose at the blast of pressurized air. “It smells like a football team locker room in there. What's wrong with you?”

“Hey, go easy,” grunted Nick, backing himself out of the cockpit. “If your dumb engineers had bothered to build an environmental system for a pilot instead of a piece of hardware, maybe it wouldn't be so—” A great cheer interrupted Nick as he stepped off the ladder. He quickly realized that the whole team had been listening to the conversation and his face flushed with embarrassment. No one seemed to care, though, and several people walked up to shake his hand, offering thanks for putting the last piece of the puzzle in place.

Drake punched him on the shoulder. “I'd hug you, but Danny is right—you're kinda ripe.” He tried to hand Nick a beer, but Nick waved it off.

“I don't drink. Never have.”

Drake raised an eyebrow. “I knew there was a reason I didn't trust you.” He shrugged, popped off the cap, and took a swig. “More for me, then.”

Colonel Walker stepped out of the crowd and loudly clapped his hands. “Focus, people.” He pointed at Nick. “You. Get a shower. The rest of you, break this equipment down and pack it in the hard cases. I want everyone in the briefing room in exactly one hour.”

“Um . . . sir?” Danny raised his hand. “We have six more nights of flight testing. Why are we packing up the equipment?”

“There's been a development in Iraq, Captain. We have intelligence that a high-level meeting is imminent.” The colonel turned his scowl on the rest of the group. “POTUS has activated Cerberus.”

Execution

Indian Ocean

18 March 2003

Nick peered out a side window of the C-17 Globemaster, hoping to catch a glimpse of their destination, but all he could see was the endless blue ocean.

“You're not going to see it out that window, Baron,” said Walker. “You'd better go up to the cockpit.”

Taking the colonel's advice, Nick headed for the front of the jet and stepped onto the flight deck, unnoticed by the two pilots. As he searched for the island, one of the pilots tapped the other on the shoulder and pointed at the horizon. A single line of green appeared through the haze, and then another line appeared right next to it. The thin space of blue between them suggested that the forward operating base was seated on an atoll, merely a snaking line of ridges that barely broke the surface of the ocean.

At the south end, the two lines spread apart to form a C-shaped lagoon. There, the cobalt blue ocean slowly gave way to lighter shades until the terrain finally broke the surface in a thin, white beach lined with emerald palms. It was a beautiful sight, but Nick thought he was more likely to find Robinson Crusoe there than a runway.

The pilots turned the aircraft in preparation for their final approach, putting the atoll out of view. Nick went back to his seat, still wondering if those two had really found the right place.

“Not much to it, is there?” the colonel asked when Nick returned to his seat.

“Are you sure this thing can land on that little runway, sir?”

“Don't worry. It's a lot bigger than it looks from the air. Too bad you're not going to be there longer; some pretty big sea turtles frequent the lagoon.”

Nick shook his head. “Keep your sea turtles. I'd just as soon get this mission done and go home. What are they telling my wife, anyway, now that I can't make any phone calls?”

“The old cover stories are out the window,” said Walker. “Several B-2s are deploying to this base for combat action. You and Drake were listed as ADVON, the advanced personnel sent to prepare for the squadron's arrival. As far as Whiteman is concerned, you were pulled from the course early to support this operation. The wives have all been told that it's a short-notice deployment exercise—yours included.”

The aircraft turned so that the sun burst through the windows opposite Nick. He squinted at the colonel. “You're telling me that Air Combat Command is deploying half a squadron of B-2s to this island just to cover our operation?”

A heavy
thump
sounded, and the deep rush of the gear dropping into the airstream filled the cabin. Walker shouted over the noise. “No! I'm telling you they're deploying half a squadron of B-2s to this island because we're about to go to war!”

*   *   *

The pilots parked the C-17 in a large staging area. As the cargo ramp lowered, a truck pulling an olive drab cart full of two-thousand-pound bombs crossed the apron behind them, on its way to some hangar to await the arrival of the stealth bombers. Nick watched it go. He had waited so long to be a part of this war, but now that it loomed before him, he longed to rush home to his beautiful wife and hold her tight. She would rest her head on his chest. He would run his fingers through her hair and breathe in her sweet perfume. Katy would make him promise never to leave her side again, and he would gladly acquiesce. And even though they both would know the promise wasn't true, somehow, it would make them feel better.

The group filed out with their gear. Dream Catcher, enclosed in a large, climate-controlled crate, was lifted onto a flatbed truck and driven toward a pair of brand new hangars.

Nick set his bags down on the tarmac and looked up just in time to see Scott stumble out of the aircraft with a heavy crate. He ran up the ramp and caught the other side, preventing the engineer from careening headlong across the pavement. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.” Scott suddenly straightened up and wiped his brow, letting Nick take the full weight of the box. “Hey, don't drop that,” he said as Nick teetered backward down the remainder of the ramp. “It's filled with very sensitive computer equipment.”

“Right,” grunted Nick, turning toward the hangar with his new burden. “Got it.”

Nick had hoped for a small rest while they waited for Danny and Drake to arrive with the B-2, but there was no rest to be had. As soon as the equipment was unloaded and the hangar doors closed, Walker began pushing the group at a furious pace to get a command center up and running.

Finally a phone call pulled the colonel away, giving them a much-needed respite. He walked over to the secure telephone unit, which still sat on the floor, and loudly pointed out that no one had set up a table for it yet.

After a few minutes on the phone, Walker became agitated, and Nick could not help but eavesdrop. “You should have asked my permission, Joe,” the colonel growled into the receiver. “I don't need a CIA contractor working on my SATCOM unit; my people are perfectly capable. That's just one more body whose presence here I have to cover for.”

There was a long pause, and then Walker sighed. “Fine, since he's already here, he can work on the unit, but he's not cleared for the details of this op. As soon as he's done, I'm sending him back to his tent, and he'd better stay there until his flight back to Langley. Got it?”

Walker forcefully hung up the phone and turned on the group. “What are you all standing around for? Get moving!”

As Nick turned back to his work, his eyes fell on the pile of personal gear. He looked at Scott, who was sitting at one of the tables, programming a laptop. “Hey, Doc. You have any idea where we're supposed to sleep tonight?”

“Did you happen to notice a line of tents at the end of the runway?” Scott asked without looking up from his screen.

“Yeah.”

“I hope you like cots.”

*   *   *

Nine hours later, and after only a few hours of sleep, Nick awoke to the sight of Drake standing over him. “Wake up, Nick. Our targets have stepped up the schedule.”

Nick's sleep had been restless, plagued by dreams that played upon his fears for the upcoming mission. Most of them dealt with the hazards of the recovery rather than the dangers of flying over enemy territory. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The tent was dim, but a thin line of bright light poured through the split in the flaps at the entrance. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Locally it's just after eleven in the morning; just enough time to get a bite to eat and a briefing. Then it's go time.”

“Did anybody bother to ask the targets if they wouldn't mind sticking to the original schedule?”

Drake gave him a rueful grin. “I know; it's terribly inconsiderate. War has become so uncivilized. Come on, we've got less than half an hour before the briefing.”

The pilots and Danny found Scott and Walker waiting in a soundproofed conference room at the rear of the hangar. Three places were set at the table, with an unmarked binder for each crewmember. There were apples and bagels for breakfast, along with carafes of water and coffee in the center. A screen at one end of the room announced
MISSION
BRIEF
in yellow block lettering set against a dark blue background.

Nick glanced around the table at his crewmates. Drake was fidgety, playing with the stem of his apple until it finally broke off. Danny was clearly trying to maintain an air of seriousness, but his elation at being included in a combat mission was impossible to hide.

Nick reached for his glass and the pitcher of water. The two clinked together uncomfortably as he poured and he fought to steady his hands. With the glass only a quarter full he gave up, lest he embarrass himself by spilling it in front of the others. He concentrated on fighting off his nerves. He'd flown in combat before, in Operation Southern Watch, but this was different; a lot more was riding on his shoulders.

“Secure the room,” Walker ordered.

Scott masked the projector and made sure the three binders were closed before taking one more look around. “All ready, sir,” he reported.

“All right, bring him in.”

Scott opened the door and a man wearing desert camouflage fatigues with the rank of colonel on his lapels entered the room. He wore a cross above his left breast pocket and Nick noted with interest that he also wore a set of wings. Walker was not a religious man, but having the chaplain pray over the troops on their way to battle was tradition, and the colonel never broke with tradition. The chaplain knew nothing of the mission or its purpose. He knew only that the men in the room would be flying in harm's way, and that was enough.

“Go ahead, Chaplain Huckabay,” Walker prompted.

“Let's bow our heads,” the chaplain said with a gentle smile. “Father God, we come before you now as your servants. We confess our sins and ask that you take them from us and wash us clean, preparing us for battle. Take these three men, Lord, place your hands upon them and give them peace. Send your angels to guide and protect them. Grant them victory, Lord, and then bring them safely and swiftly home. Amen.”

“Amen,” the group responded as one.

The chaplain walked up to each crewmember and placed his hands on the man's shoulders, saying, “God be with you.” Then he turned and left the room.

Nick sat down and reached for the water once again. This time he poured a full glass with steady hands.

“Welcome to the first Cerberus mission brief,” said Walker, stepping to the front of the room as Scott unmasked the projector. “Tonight we'll attempt to take out two Cerberus targets with one strike. You all read the mission file on the way over, so this should be a review. Slide.”

The first slide showed the pictures of two men, along with their dossier information, one on either side of a red line down the middle of the page. On the right side, Saddam Hussein smiled back with his familiar sneer. On the left side of the page was a picture Nick had seen only in the Cerberus file, though he knew the subject well. The figure was wearing a white and gold kaffiyeh head covering and sported a thin black mustache and short beard. He did not sneer but looked placidly to one side of the camera, as if unaware of the photographer. The first line of the dossier read:
Tariq al-Majid
.

“Boys,” said Walker, “meet Tariq al-Majid. He is your primary target. Let me repeat that.
Al-Majid
is your primary target.”

The pilots and Danny exchanged looks. Drake raised an eyebrow.

“I saw that,” said Walker. “It should come as no surprise to any of you that Al-Majid is the primary. It also shouldn't matter; the idea is to kill them both. In any case, the analysts, and consequently the president, believe that he is a more difficult target to catch than Hussein.

“Al-Majid is a forty-seven-year-old Sunni who acts as the link between Bin Laden and Baghdad. He is highly intelligent, so catching up with him has been a real challenge. We don't know much about his history, but we do know that he attended—”

“Oxford,” Nick interrupted, finishing the statement. “At the time he claimed to be from Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. His bachelor's degree was in engineering mechanics, but he stayed on to get a master's in explosive dynamics.”

“Explosive dynamics?”
asked Drake. “That didn't raise any red flags with the Brits?”

Walker ignored the sarcasm and continued. “The FBI believes that Al-Majid had a hand in planning the attack on the World Trade Center. The CIA believes he is the most likely candidate to lead the resistance movement in Iraq, should we topple Hussein's regime. Both agencies agree that it is time he met his Maker.”

The colonel leaned forward and placed his hands on the conference table. “Should the targets move to separate areas of the compound, you are to focus your attack on Al-Majid's location. POTUS figures that once the regime is brought down and we have ground troops in Iraq, Saddam will be easier to flush out. But, taking a lesson from Bin Laden and Tora Bora, he believes this may be our last shot at Al-Majid. Slide.”

A map of Iraq appeared on the screen. Walker looked directly at Nick. “Dream Catcher's job is twofold. First: Get confirmation of the targets' exact locations and pass the coordinates to Hazard for the strike. Second: Get confirmation of a successful strike by taking optical and infrared pictures for the battle damage assessment. Merigold's call sign will be Haven Zero One, Captain Sharp's will be Hazard, and you will be Wraith Zero One.”

“Thanks for not making it ‘Baby,' sir,” said Nick with an affirming nod.

The colonel's scowl stayed with Nick a heartbeat longer. “You're welcome.” Then he returned his attention to the whole group. “The mission will go like this: Just outside of radar range, Haven will deploy Wraith. Then the two aircraft will proceed inbound together.” He pointed to an oval on the map. “Haven will take up an orbit here while Wraith approaches the target. He'll use whatever sensors are necessary to get confirmation of the targets' positions, then relay them to Hazard, who will program those coordinates into Haven's computers. Then Haven will proceed inbound for the strike.

“Merigold, you and Sharp will carry three five-thousand-pound GPS bombs in the left bay, opposite Dream Catcher. Use two weapons in the strike. That way, we leave nothing to chance. They are fitted with cockpit-programmable fuses, but leave them at the highest delay setting. They'll bury themselves deep into the target and minimize collateral damage to the adjacent town.”

Walker paused to take a sip of his coffee. “Questions?”

Drake raised his hand. “What about contingencies? If Dream Catcher can't make it, the mission's over. But what if there's a problem with the bomber? Is there another strike option ready so we can still take out the target?”

“Merlin is your contingency option,” said the colonel, setting his coffee down again. “He's in Kuwait, prepping a pair of F-117s—call sign Shadow. At the first whiff of this intelligence, I sent him on ahead to make arrangements. I also had Joe Tarpin at the CIA build us a secure SATCOM network that incorporates Merlin. His man is in the hangar now, making sure our end is all set up and the connection to Shadow is clean. Should you run into a problem, pass the coordinates to me and I'll relay. Shadow will take off and complete the strike.” Walker's eyes made a pass around the table. “Any other questions?”