“Malaria flare-up?” Quinn suggested.
“I don’t know.”
“Can they move?”
Trent smiled. “You bloody well know they’ll move. No one wants to get left.”
“They’d better stay close.” Quinn looked at his worn map in its case. “We’ll make the linkup in plenty of time.”
“I hope this fellow we meet can do his job quick,” Trent said. “Or we’re going to be up to our necks in American paratroopers.”
Abraham Lincoln Task Force, 15 June
The catapult fired and the F-18 Hornet accelerated down the deck. It was up and into the air, streaking to the east. Inside the cockpit, Lieutenant Theresa Vickers studied her CRT cockpit display. This was her second mission in support of Operation Restore Life. The first had gone like clockwork—a strike against the main rebel airfield outside Huambo.
This time she was simply going to be drilling a hole in the sky, flying overhead on-call cover in the northeast quadrant until she was needed. Her wingman, Lieutenant Chandler, had launched right after her and his F-18 slipped in off her right wing. At forty thousand feet they flew east.
After twenty minutes they were on station. Just in time to receive a call from the guardian AWACS to the southwest.
“Cruiser One, this is Eagle. Over.”
Vickers acknowledged the call. “This is Cruiser One. Over.”
“We’re picking up FM radio activity on the ground in your sector. We’ve confirmed that it is not friendly forces. We need you to check it out. We’re locking in to your computer and we’ll put you on target. Over.”
Lieutenant Vickers flipped up a switch on her control panel. “Roger that, Eagle. Ready for your control. Over.” Her F-18 was now on a sophisticated form of autopilot—basically being flown by a controller on board the AWACS. She could override at any time and regain control, but it was a good way of efficiently getting the aircraft to the desired position, given that the AWACS controllers had a better view of the sky than she did in her cockpit. After glancing out to make sure her wingman was still with her, Vickers sat back and relaxed, letting the plane fly her.
Cacolo, Angola, 15 June
Conner walked next to Sergeants Comsky and Brewster as they strolled through the town. Seeger followed, camera on them. Both had mikes clipped to their combat vests. They’d managed to get a couple of hours of sleep over the day and night, despite going out on one more mission to the edge of Saurimo to target several barracks buildings that had escaped the first wave.
She’d filmed footage a half hour earlier as the first CH-47 Chinook had come in, carrying paratroopers from the 82d Airborne. This was the beginning of the buildup of forces in the Lunda Norte area. The first few platoons had secured a designated area on the edge of town and, using supplies sling-loaded in, were beginning to build their base camp. There would be plenty of time to make it over there and get some stories. For now, Conner was doing what she had promised Riley.
After talking to him, Conner had decided on a rather unusual approach to this story. She was going to let the medic and the engineer talk freely. It was something she could edit when she got back to the States and make a story out of. Right now, she just wanted it straight.
And straight she got it. Brewster pointed down a street. “I checked with some of the local officials earlier this morning. That’s the powerhouse down there. It uses oil, which they got plenty of here in Angola. The power grids are not interlocked in this country. What that means is that if a station goes down, the power stays down until that station goes back up. There’s no way to switch power from somewhere else.” They went down the street.
“As you can see,” Brewster said, “this station has been out of commission for a while.” Through large holes in the brick wall, they could see plants growing inside the building. Brewster kicked down a board that had been placed across the door, and they stepped into the dim twilight inside.
Brewster gestured. “Those are the generators.” He shook his head. “From what I understand, the rebels were first to start taking down the power grid by blowing substations and the transmission lines. Then, when they captured this town four years ago, they tried to get the power back on line. So then the government, when it counterattacked, took out the powerhouse here.” Two of the four generators were totally wrecked.
Brewster turned and looked at the camera. “Most people don’t understand what happens when you lose your electric power source. Just think of all the things we take for granted. And not just luxuries but essentials. Without power you can’t freeze anything, so food will rot. Medicines will go bad. You won’t have electric light. Which means you can’t even work inside during the day if you don’t have windows. Sounds like no big deal until you have to live it.
“You also lose most of your manufacturing capability. No heavy machinery can be run in factories if you don’t have power. Your water system is also down because you don’t have power for pumping. Same for your sewage system.”
They carefully edged their way out of the destroyed power plant. “This country has been on an economic slide since the Portuguese pulled out in 1975,” Brewster said. “Angola lost a high percentage of their professional work force and foreign capital when independence was granted. Then add in twenty years of civil war. Railways and roads destroyed; crops burned in the fields; the men to work those fields carrying guns instead of hoes; the executions of those few professionals left by both sides because the intelligentsia is always viewed as a threat.
“The oil, diamond, and iron industries, the backbone of the Angolan economy, have been devastated by the war. It’s hard to attract foreign companies when there is always the threat that their investment is going to get destroyed in the next government or guerrilla offensive. Stability is key for growth, and it’s the most important factor missing in the Angolan economy.”
Conner glanced at Seeger, who was panning over this section of town, capturing the shacks and war-ravaged buildings. She was impressed and realized Riley was right: this would make a good, in-depth story. She was particularly caught by Brewster. The way he knew his subject matter and also the sense that he really did care about what he saw here.
At the Angolan army headquarters, Major Gungue was not impressed with Sergeant Ku’s muttered pleas to be released from duty. Granted, the sergeant did not look very well. In fact, he looked downright bad. Ku’s face was puffy and his eyes were red. His words were barely audible and he did not make much sense. He was sweating profusely and he said something about vomiting a lot.
But Gungue had seen troops drink hydraulic fluid in attempts to get themselves sick enough to avoid going into combat. Ku getting excused from duty would start an epidemic of “illness” among Gungue’s soldiers. He could not allow that.
Besides, if he allowed Ku to get out of working with the Americans, it would look bad. He gruffly ordered the sergeant to return to duty. He wasn’t quite sure if Ku understood him or not as the man shuffled out the door, but the important thing was the other soldiers around the headquarters had seen that such malingering was not to be tolerated.
Airspace, Northeast Angola, 15 June
“Cruiser One, this is Eagle. Returning control to you. Over.”
Vickers’s gloved hands took the controls. “I’ve got control. Over.”
“We’re still picking up FM radios in the area you’re now on top of. Over.”
“Checking it out. Wait one. Break. Chandler, you stay up here. Over.”
Her wingman replied. “Roger that. Out.”
Vickers banked and descended. The terrain below was rolling grassland, with heavy vegetation in some of the low area between the rounded ridges. It was also dotted with clumps of trees, any of which could be hiding UNITA forces.
Vickers spotted a flash of light and turned toward it. She saw the cause immediately: the sun had reflected off a windshield. A pickup truck was racing across the open grass heading from one clump of trees to another, a machine gun clearly visible in the bed.
“I’ve got a target. Am engaging. Over.” Vickers slowed down nearly to stall speed and armed her 20mm cannon. It almost didn’t seem sporting to run it down like this, she thought as the distance rapidly closed.
“You’ve got multiple launches!” Chandler screamed in her ear.
At the same moment her missile alert light went on and a tone sounded in her headphones. Missiles were locked on to her. She jerked hard right, and kicked in thrust. A missile flashed by to her right. She jigged back left and rolled the plane onto its left side. Another SAM went by, just narrowly missing the belly of the plane. She leveled out and felt the plane shudder; the instrument panel went berserk as a third missile hit.
“I’ve got a fire warning light!” Vickers called out. She was reacting even as she radioed the situation to Chandler. Hours upon hours of training had imprinted the proper sequence. Her hands flew over the controls. “What do you see, Chandler?” she asked.
Her wingman was still watching out for her “You’ve got fire!” he yelled into the radio. “Punch out! Punch out!”
Vickers hit her ejection lever and was out into the air, her body slammed down into the seat by the powerful rockets that separated her from her plane. The chair fell away and her chute blossomed open. She twisted her head and watched her F-18 blossom into flame and explode.
It was only then, on her way down to the earth below, that emotion kicked in. Shit, she cursed to herself. She’d lost her plane.
Cacolo, Angola, 15 June
“To top it all,” Brewster said, “we’re not helping much right now. The bridge we blew yesterday cut the main road out of Saurimo to the north. It was necessary militarily, but...” He paused. “Well, let me put it this way. In Special Forces, every time we look at a target, we engineers do what we call a CARVE formula on it. That stands for criticality, accessibility, recuperability, vulnerability, and effect of target destruction on the local area. The last one, E, is an important factor. When you go around blowing things up, you do more than simply destroy a military target. You affect the people living in the area for years.
“The only good side to all this is that once we get the rebels’ forces destroyed, we can go in and rebuild. If the government doesn’t pull us out before we get enough time to make the changes stick, we can help get this country back on its feet. We can rebuild that bridge. The power plant. Pave roads.”
Comsky cut in. “That’s if the people here want the change, and a better question is, if there are any people left.”
“What do you mean?” Conner asked.
Comsky took a deep breath, then launched into his favorite topic. “The health standards here are—” He paused as Sergeant Lome sprinted around the corner.
“Let’s go, Comsky. We’ve got a pilot down!”
Riley had Seeger and his camera waiting at the Black Hawk. The blades were already turning as Conner and Comsky jumped on board, joining Ku, Lome, Tiller, and Oswald. Riley didn’t like the way the Angolan sergeant looked. The man had his head leaned back against the webbing behind his seat and he appeared out of it. His eyelids were droopy and what Riley could see of the man’s eyes was red and puffy.
But Riley didn’t have time for Ku. He pulled on a set of headphones and listened in as Lome and the helicopter pilots coordinated with the AWACS flying.
Eight thousand feet and to the southwest, Colonel Harris was juggling several glass balls.
“Okay, Vickers, give me an update,” he said calmly.
The pilot’s voice was weak. The survival radio she was talking on didn’t have the greatest power, but Harris was afraid there was more to the lack of radio strength.
“I’m down. I think I broke my right ankle. I can’t move it. Just before I landed I spotted several vehicles moving around. Coming out of the trees. The whole thing was an ambush to draw me down into missile range. Over.”
“All right. I’ve got help on the way,” Harris said. “Stay on the air. We’ll get you out of there.”
“Roger.”
Harris grabbed another mike. “Cruiser Two, this is Eagle. What do you see? Over.”
Lieutenant Chandler’s voice came in much stronger. “There’s some vehicles moving toward my One’s position. Over.”
“How long until they’re at her position? Over.”
“Uh, I’d say about five minutes. Over.”
“Take them out,” Harris ordered.
“Roger that. Out.”
“Be careful. Remember, they still have missiles. Over.”
Harris took a deep breath. An F-18 was not exactly the greatest ground support jet. It moved too fast. Some of those vehicles would get through. Plus, he might end up losing the second F-18. The whole thing probably had been a setup. Sucking them in with the FM radios, the one truck in the open, and then ambush from other vehicles hidden in the trees. In Mogadishu the natives had quickly learned how to draw in helicopters and destroy them, and now it appeared in Angola they were learning to do the same with fast moving jets.
Harris checked his board, searching for any A-10s that might be in the air. Nothing. They were all down, refueling and rearming from the early-morning missions. By the time he got one up and in the air, and then counting flight time from Namibia... Scratch that option, Harris decided.
A radar operator turned from his screen to Harris. “Rescue One is up, sir.” Harris had implemented an alert plan as soon as Cruiser Two had called in the F-18 going down. They’d located the closest Special Forces unit to the crash site and ordered them into action.
“Rescue One, this is Eagle. You’ve got one pilot down. Injured. We have bad guys in the area. Her wingman is going hunting, but some of them are probably going to get through. They’re about five minutes out from the pilot.” Harris looked down at his display. “I have you with an ETA of… twelve minutes. We’re going to try and slow them down. Over.”
A deep, steady voice with blades thumping in the background replied. “Roger that, Eagle. This is Rescue One. We’ll take care of this. Give me the pilot’s freq and call sign. Over.”
As Harris relayed the information, he felt a surge of affection for whoever that voice belonged to. He’d heard about what had happened in Mogadishu years previously when those helicopters had gone down in the streets and Army Special Operators—Rangers, Special Forces, and Delta Force people—had gone in against all odds to pull the pilots out. There had been only two Medals of Honor awarded since the end of the Vietnam War and both had gone to Delta Force operatives who had gone in—knowing the odds were two against hundreds—to secure one of the downed choppers.