“What was that?” Conner asked.
“Nothing.”
Vicinity Luia, Angola, 11 June
“I can’t see a fucking thing in this jungle,” a man with an Australian accent whispered in the dark.
Quinn tapped his top kick, Trent, who scooted back and edged down the line of prone men, searching for the whisperer. Through night vision goggles, Quinn continued to scan the forty-foot section of trail that was directly in front of his position.
A grunt and a few hisses told Quinn that his senior noncommissioned officer had found the source of the errant whisper and there would be no more violations of noise-and-light discipline. His men didn’t need to see a damn thing; he had the goggles and he could do all the seeing necessary. He knew the exact placement of every one of his eighteen men and their weapons. All they had to do was fire between the left and right limits of the aiming stakes they’d carefully pounded into the ground during daylight and the kill zone would become just that to anyone unfortunate to wander into it.
Quinn had chosen this spot because it was where the trail ran straight for a while, with a steep slope on the far side. Anyone on the trail would be caught between the weapons of Quinn’s men and the slope, which was carefully laced with some of Trent’s “specials,” as Quinn liked to call them.
Trent and Quinn had served together for four years now. A very long time in the life of a mercenary, in fact well past the effective life expectancy of those who stayed in the job. There were four or five men in the group that Quinn felt comfortable working with. The rest, well, they were what one got on the international market. Men searching for quick money and life on the edge. The problem was that most of the men wanted the first and weren’t too keen on the second. Nine of the sixteen men were brand new to Quinn, picked up just before they’d crossed the border from Zaire into Angola two weeks ago.
They were here because the money was here, Quinn knew. He himself had earned enough here in Angola over the past three years to easily retire in comfortable style. It was such a perfect scam that even Quinn, hardened as he was by combat in half a dozen spots around the world, had to wonder sometimes.
He got paid by the Angolan government to kill rebels, and then he got paid again by a private party to collect what those he killed carried. It all added up to quite a bit of change.
But the money didn’t matter much to Quinn. Even if he wanted to retire, he wasn’t sure where he could go. Not many countries hung out welcome mats for mercenaries. He’d always planned on South Africa, but that was out now with the recent changes. Maybe somewhere in South America if one could stay away from the cocaine cowboys. Namibia was a possibility if rumors he had heard about the future of that country came to fruition.
There was no way he could ever go back to Canada. Dear sweet Canada, where the fucks in their fancy uniforms had been so readily done with him after what had happened in Somalia. He’d served, and served well, in the best that mother Canada had to offer: the Canadian Airborne Regiment. The reward for being the best was a paltry check and a kick out the door. He’d heard that they’d finally done away with the Regiment itself because of the Somalia scandal, and that was the last straw. He’d never go back there. Not that he would be allowed back in.
Quinn interrupted his train of thought when he heard someone moving behind him. He assumed it was Trent, and that was confirmed when the NCO tapped him on the shoulder. “Andrews has a message on the SATCOM. He’s copying it down.”
Quinn twisted his head and looked over his shoulder into the thick jungle. Andrews was back there with satellite radio, their lifeline out of this hellhole. What did those nitwits want now?
No time for it, Quinn realized as he heard noise coming from down the trail. He returned his attention to the matter at hand. There was the sound of loose equipment jangling on men as they walked; even some conversations were carried through the night air.
Bastards must think they’re damn safe, Quinn thought. And they should be. This location was over two hundred kilometers inside rebel territory. And you could be sure the Angolan government forces, the MPLA, wouldn’t be out here in the daytime, never mind the dark.
The point man came into view. Jesus, Quinn swore to himself, the fool was using a flashlight to see the trail. And not even one with a red lens! It looked like a spotlight in the goggles. They must be in a real hurry, he thought. Quinn adjusted the control and looked for the rear of the column.
There were thirteen men and two women in this group. There were more shovels than weapons scattered among them. They were also carrying two of their number on makeshift litters—ponchos tied between two poles. They were excited about the closeness of the border with Zaire and getting out with their load of contraband, and they must be in a rush because of the two wounded, Quinn thought.
Quinn pulled off the goggles, letting them dangle around his neck on a cord. He fitted the stock of the Sterling submachine gun into his shoulder. His finger slid over the trigger. With his other hand he picked up a plastic clacker.
The man with the flashlight was just opposite when Quinn pushed down on the handle of the clacker. A claymore mine seared the night sky, sending thousands of steel ball bearings into the marching party at waist level.
As the screams of those not killed by the initial blast rang out, Quinn fired, his 9mm bullets joining those of his men. The rest of the marchers melted under the barrage. A few survivors followed their instincts instead of their training and ran away from the roar of the bullets, scrambling up the far slope, tearing their fingernails in the dirt in desperation.
“Now,” Quinn said.
It wasn’t necessary. Trent knew his job. In the strobe-like flashes from the muzzles of the weapons, the people fleeing were visible. Trent pressed the button on a small radio control he held in his hand and the hillside spouted flames. A series of claymore mines Trent had woven into the far slope at just the right angle to kill those fleeing and not hit the ambushers on the far side of the kill zone wiped out the few survivors.
“Let’s police this up!” Quinn called as he stood. He stepped among the bodies and pulled off his bush hat, placing it, top down, on one of the few parts of the trail that wasn’t covered with blood and viscera. “All the rocks in the hat.”
He pulled up his night vision goggles and watched. Trent took up position at the other end of the kill zone. Quinn’s mercenaries descended like ghouls upon the bodies, hands searching. A shot rang out as one of the bodies turned out to be not quite dead.
Quinn pulled a Polaroid camera out of his butt-pack and popped up the flash. He took several long-range pictures of the bodies. Then he took close-ups of faces and made sure he had each body accounted for, stowing the pictures in his breast pocket as the men continued their search. In the brief light of the flash, various black faces appeared, frozen in the moment of their death. Some of the faces were no longer recognizable as human, the mines and bullets having done their job. Quinn was satisfied with getting an upper torso and head shot of those.
As he got to the one of the bodies that had been carried, he saw a female’s face caught in the viewfinder, the eyes staring straight up, the lips half parted. He could tell she had been beautiful, but she was covered in blood now and there was a rash across her face—broad red welts. Quinn walked over to the other makeshift stretcher. The body in there was in even worse shape. There was much more blood than the round through the forehead would have brought forth. The same red welts across the face. Quinn reached down and ripped open the man’s shirt. His body was covered with them. Quinn snapped a picture, then slowly put the final picture in his pocket.
“Let’s get a move on!” Quinn yelled out, moving back to his hat. After five minutes, the men began to file by, dropping their find into Quinn’s hat until it bulged with raw, uncut diamonds.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina, 11 June
“ODA three one four’s mission is to deploy to AOB Cacolo in the country of Angola and perform reconnaissance missions throughout Operational Area Parson at the discretion of the SFOB Commander.”
Riley stood in the back of the briefing room, watching and listening. The officer who had just spoken, Captain Dorrick, was the detachment commander of 314. The rest of the team was seated in a line along the left side of the room. Colonel Burrows and his staff, along with Conner Young, were seated in a cluster of chairs in the center faced forward. Behind the captain were maps showing Angola.
Riley checked the right side of the room and smiled. The team’s code names and other essential pieces of information were listed on easel paper taped to the wall—all within view of the team so that, when they were questioned, a memory lapse could be covered up with a quick read of the opposite wall. Riley had always had his team do that trick, and he was glad to see that it was still alive and well.
“The politico-military implications of this mission,” Captain Dorrick continued, “are immense.”
Riley glanced down at the mission briefback format he had xeroxed out of the new FM31-20, Doctrine for Special Forces Operations. This part of the briefback was new, and it was one that Riley had never heard briefed before.
Dorrick began explaining why the implications were immense. “The United Nations has issued a mandate in conjunction with the Organization of African States, OAS, regarding Angola. Our mission is in support of enforcing that mandate. The political and military goals are fivefold.
“First, to end the civil war that has raged off and on in that country since 1975. Second, to prevent intertribal and ethnic warfare from breaking out upon the cessation of the civil war. Third, to end famine and introduce new agricultural techniques to the country to make it, at an absolute minimum, self-supporting in food. Fourth, to consolidate the natural resources of the country for the benefit of the majority of the people. Fifth, to improve the health and educational infrastructure of the country.
“Our higher commander’s intent,” Dorrick said, looking directly at Colonel Burrows, “is to focus our primary efforts on reconnaissance and intelligence gathering in the Lunda Norte province of Angola in preparation for the deployment of elements of the Eighty-second Airborne Division into the region.
“My intent, as commander of this team, is to divide the team into two reconnaissance elements to accomplish all assigned missions.”
Riley looked down the team and focused on the team sergeant. The man was huge: a six-foot-three-inch rock of ebony. His name tag said “Lome” and his patches showed a combat infantry badge, master parachutist, and Ranger tab. Lome appeared competent, but the look on the man’s face told Riley he didn’t think the same of his own team leader. Riley had to agree with that assessment after hearing the captain’s intent for his team: not original, to say the least, or well thought-out.
As if sensing Riley’s thought, Dorrick turned toward the team sergeant. “Each member of the detachment will introduce himself, and then the detachment’s acting intelligence sergeant will brief the intelligence preparation of the battlefield.”
Lome snapped to his feet and his deep voice boomed out. “Master Sergeant Lome. Detachment operations sergeant and senior noncommissioned officer.” He remained standing as the introductions went down the line.
“Sergeant First Class Comsky, senior medic and acting intelligence sergeant.”
Riley surpressed a smile as he looked at the squat, barrel-chested medic. Comsky and he had served together back in 1989 on the same team in Korea. They’d participated in a mission into mainland China that was still highly classified. It was a mission during which Riley had been shot and Comsky’s medical skills had saved his life. Riley had felt great relief upon entering the briefback area when he’d spotted Comsky seated among the team members. There was at least one man present he knew he could trust.
“Sergeant Hoight, junior medic.”
“Staff Sergeant Oswald, senior weapons.”
“Sergeant Byers, junior weapons.”
“Sergeant First Class Pace, senior communications sergeant.”
“Sergeant Hampton, junior communications sergeant.”
“Staff Sergeant Brewster, detachment senior engineer.”
“Sergeant Tiller, junior engineer.”
Lome executed a right face. “Detachment. Take seats.”
All except Comsky sat down. Captain Dorrick joined them, sitting next to Lome. Comsky walked up to the maps at the front of the room and picked up a pointer.
“I will be doing the intelligence portion of this briefback. Operational Area Parson is in the northeast corner of Angola. It is bordered on the north and east by the international border with Zaire. On the south by Route 2, the major east-west highway in Angola, which is also the line of demarcation between American and Pan-African forces. Our western boundary is the Cuango River. Total area is approximately four thousand square kilometers.
“The land is primarily plateau grassland with rolling hills. In the river valleys and other low areas, particularly the northeast part of the AO, the terrain is heavily vegetated jungle.
“The immediate threat in the area is the UNITA rebels, under the overall command of Jonas Savimbi.” Comsky slapped the pointer onto the map. “Savimbi is headquartered in Huambo, which is not in our AO. The chief rebel stronghold in our area is in Saurimo.
“This area, while not on the front lines between UNITA and the MPLA, is critical. Lunda Norte and adjacent Lunda Sul are the center of the diamond-mining area in Angola. Illegal exportation of these diamonds is UNITA’s primary source of monetary support. There have been reports that UNITA representatives have directly traded raw diamonds for arms on the international black market.
“Intelligence analysis at Special Operations Command places control of the diamond mines as the third priority for our forces, after the destruction of the UNITA armed forces and neutralization of—”
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Colonel Waller, the group S-3, quickly cut in. “But, please, confine yourself to your team’s area of operations and missions.”
Comsky stared at the colonel. His bushy eyebrows turned in the direction of Conner, then back to Waller. “Yes, sir. To continue.” He walked over to the map and dropped an acetate overlay down over it. “The rebel order of battle in the area is very incomplete.” Comsky scratched his head. “I suppose that it’s our job to figure it out when we get there. The AOB is working on several initial targets that we will designate for air interdiction upon arrival in country. After that, we will be searching for the enemy.”
Riley smiled. Sergeants often had a way of saying things blindly, and it cut against the formal grain of language in mission letters and operations orders. From his time serving with Comsky, he knew that the man would probably summarize their mission in one sentence and that would be that: We go in, eyeball the place, and report what we see.
“Although we don’t know the disposition or strength of the rebel forces in our area, we do know their capabilities. They have individual and crew-served weapons, to include heavy machine guns and mortars. Hand-held air-to-ground missiles of the SAM-7 type are common throughout the country. There have been no sightings of armored vehicles in our area, but the rebels do possess various types of armor and contact cannot be ruled out.
“The local population...” Comsky paused and shrugged. “We don’t really know what the local population thinks or feels. The indigenous population is most likely concerned with survival. There are numerous smugglers and black marketers in the area working the mines. There is no doubt they aren’t going to be happy to see us show up. In some cases these criminal elements are armed as well as, if not better than, the rebel or government forces.”
Captain Dorrick stirred and made a small hand gesture, indicating for Comsky to stay with the planned briefing and cut his editorial comments.
Comsky coughed and looked at the map, re-railing his train of thought. “Uh, the effect of terrain and weather on our operations.
“Movement by air should be unrestricted, and we expect to have complete air superiority. However, if our air assets are not available, movement on the ground will be difficult at best. Maps show few roads, and the reliability of the roads marked is questionable.” Comsky smiled. “We always have our feet, of course.”
“You’ll have air assets,” Colonel Burrows growled. “You won’t have to worry about that.”
“Yes, sir,” Comsky said, throwing a glance toward Riley at the back of the room. They’d both been on board the Black Hawk that had gone down on their way out of China in ‘89. They’d done a lot of walking there after having been assured they would have air support.
“This time of year is winter in Angola, but since the country is so close to the equator, the temperature is mild at best and hot at worst. It isn’t the monsoon season, so rainfall won’t be a major problem.”
Riley listened with only half his brain as Comsky droned on about Angola and the intelligence the team was supposed to gather on their reconnaissance. Riley was troubled. Comsky had yet to say anything that Riley and Conner didn’t already know from their research on a computer database available to any citizen. That meant, as usual, that the intelligence people in the Pentagon didn’t know squat about the situation on the ground in Angola. Of course, Riley reminded himself that was the whole purpose of these advance teams going in. To gather intel before the 82d Airborne, the big force, came in and cleaned things up.
It was better than the way the military had gone into Somalia and Haiti. In one case they’d been unlucky. In the other, lady luck had smiled on them. Obviously, the army didn’t want to trust to luck in Angola. Riley had accompanied Conner to Washington, and he’d listened and watched. This Angola mission was a gigantic political gamble. If it worked, it would reverse the trend in the United States to back away from working in the international arena. If it failed, the administration would go down the tubes, not to mention the soldiers who would die as the down payment on the gamble. Operation Restore Life was being mounted against a massive groundswell of isolationism in the country.
The point that had allowed the president to sell the mission to Congress was the modified chain of command. At no time in the operation would U.S. troops work under UN command. There was a UN mandate authorizing the mission, but both the UN and Pan-African forces would be answerable to their own governments.
While that made for good home-front politics, Riley wondered what would happen if something occurred to make the coalition unravel or if different countries developed different objectives during the course of the operation. There would be no overall commander to coordinate things.
Riley knew from talking with men he’d served with who had done some UN duty that by far the biggest complaint military personnel had with working under UN command was not what civilians and politicians would expect or understand. The media made a great issue out of the lack of resolve by the UN Security Council to employ force in such places as the former Yugoslavia, but the soldiers were much more concerned about the lack of logistics support and expertise shown by the UN Security Command. Modern warfare demanded a high volume of logistical support, and the UN had neither the resources nor the expert personnel to do it anywhere near adequately. United States forces working under U.S. command could at least count on their own logistical support. Without beans and bullets, the best-trained army in the world was worthless.
Comsky wrapped up the intelligence portion and Master Sergeant Lome replaced him at the podium. Lome went through the team’s deployment from Fort Bragg through arriving at the AOB in Cacolo. Riley tuned back in when Lome outlined the rules of engagement. Lome’s deep voice calmly enunciated orders that made it clear that the team was going to shoot first and ask questions later. They’d come a long way from marine guards standing outside a compound without a magazine in the chamber while a suicide truck bomb drove by.
The rest of the briefing told Riley little more other than to show that the team had done its homework and was prepared to deploy. Unlike a normal mission briefing, this one was short because no one really knew what was going to happen until they arrived at the AOB and the commander on the ground there gave them their specific mission taskings.
At the end, Captain Dorrick stood back up. “Sir, as you can see, ODA three one four is prepared to conduct any and all missions it might be assigned. What are your questions?”
Colonel Burrows nodded. “It sounds like you have prepared well, Captain. I notice you’re short a team executive officer and an intelligence sergeant. Will that affect your ability to perform your mission?”
“No, sir. Sergeant Comsky is qualified to act as the team’s intelligence sergeant.”
“What about the possibility of contact with rebel armor that Sergeant Comsky mentioned?” Burrows asked. “Are you prepared for that?”
Staff Sergeant Oswald, the senior weapons man, popped to his feet before Dorrick could answer. “Sir, we will be carrying AT-4 antitank rockets. I have trained every member in the use of the rockets, and it will stop the types of armor we have been told the rebels might possess. Every member is also trained on laser designation of targets for air interdiction and how to call for fire support from air assets.”
Burrows opened the floor up to the rest of the staff, and they asked several questions. Riley could tell it was mainly a show for Conner’s sake. He wouldn’t be surprised if the team hadn’t done a briefback earlier in the day for Colonel Waller to make sure that they didn’t screw up in front of the reporter.
By the time it was over, it was past eight at night, and Colonel Burrows escorted Conner out of the isolation area, back to Group headquarters. Riley waited as the rest of the hangers-on filtered out, until only the team was left. Comsky walked over and gave him a bear hug, lifting him off his feet.