Текст книги "Dreamland"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Actually, they weren’t kidnappers. Third World or not, they were members of a serious army. They had a command structure and obvious discipline. Smith was the intruder and criminal; it was very possible that they had legal grounds to execute him.

Not that they needed legal grounds. They had more than enough weapons, one of which poked itself now into the side of his neck.

“You, Captain, you will come this way,” said a voice with what sounded to him like a British accent. Smith followed the prods, quickening his pace as a hand gripped his sleeve. He tripped over a low riser and heard his feet echoing over a porch of some sort. A door opened ahead of him. Two men shouldered him down a hall to a set of carpeted stairs. They started him upward slowly, but then another hand pushed from behind. With his legs chained, he flailed for balance; the guards on either side picked him up by his elbows and carried him to a landing.

Down another hall, into a room, into a seat—hands grabbed at his face and his eyes flooded with light.

“You will tell me your name,” said the blur in front of him.

“Why?” said Smith, trying to focus.

“Because at the moment your status is quite in doubt. Spies are shot without trial.”

The man was short, a bit on the round side. He wore a long, coatlike gray garment. He had a beard; his face was white. A small turban, gray, topped his head.

“I’m a prisoner of war,” said Knife.

“Then you will tell me your name and rank, and we will go on from there,” said the man, his English softened by a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. He did not smile, but he spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were dealing with a young child.

“Major Mack Smith.”

“You are with the U.S. Air Force,” said the man. “You were flying an F-16. What is the name of your unit?”

Smith didn’t answer.

“Your call sign was Poison,” continued the man. “You bombed an installation of the Somalian government.”

“It was an Iranian base.”

The man finally smiled. It was faint and brief.

“Major, the base is under the control of the Somalian government. The men who captured you and brought you here were Somalian. I assure you, there are no Iranian soldiers in Somalia, or anywhere in Africa.”

“What about you?”

“I am an ambassador,” said the man. “An advisor. Nothing more.”

“I’m your prisoner?”

“No. You are no one’s prisoner. You don’t exist.”

“I’m free to go then,” said Smith. The pain in his ribs stoked up as he mockingly jerked his body upright.

“If you were to leave here now, you would be shot.”

Middle-aged and obviously a cleric of some sort, the Iranian exuded calmness, as if he were projecting a physical aura of considered peacefulness. Two men stood in plain brown uniforms behind him; neither uniform had insignias or other marks of rank, and they were not carrying weapons. About a dozen troops, Somalians apparently, stood near the door and the sides of the room. It seemed to be a classroom; a blackboard filled the wall in front, its shiny surface glaring with the reflected overhead lights. There were several rows of seats, though no desks that he could see, behind him.

“Are you hungry?” asked the Iranian.

“No,” lied Smith.

“I would suggest it is in your interest to be truthful,” said his captor. He turned to one of the men in the uniforms and said something. The man nodded, then left.

Knife gazed around the room, trying to memorize details. Yellow parchmentlike shades were drawn down over the windows on his right. The floor was covered with seemingly new linoleum, the kind that might be used in the kitchen of a modest American home. A crucifix was mounted above the middle of the blackboard.

Maybe he was in an old mission school? Or certainly some building that didn’t specifically belong to the government.

Or maybe it did. He wasn’t in Boise.

The aide returned with a tray. A large bowl of rice and some sort of vegetable sat in the middle. There were no eating utensils. Smith looked at it doubtfully as the tray was placed on a wooden chair and set down in front of him. A thick reddish brown liquid covered the rice.

His manacled hands moved toward the bowl. Stopping them seemed to require more energy than he had. Smith scooped a few fingers’ worth of food into his mouth, then quickly consumed the contents. The liquid was sweet and sticky in his throat; the rest of the food was bland.

“And get him some water,” added the Iranian.

Two other Iranians in plain brown uniforms came in with the man with the water. One of the men had a small Sony video cam, the kind a family might use to record their child’s first steps. Smith held his head upright, staring blankly into the lens.

“State your name, please,” said the Iranian cleric. “Mack Smith,” he said, taking the metal cup of water. “Are you injured?”

He considered what to say. “I think one of my ribs is broken.”

“How did that happen?”

He hesitated again. If he said they had beaten him, they would simply erase that portion of the tape. Besides, it wasn’t true.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“Where are you?”

“Good question.”

The Iranian cleric smiled and nodded. Finally he said something to the man with the camera, apparently telling him to turn it off, since he did so.

“The bruises on your face—did they come from the ejection?” asked the Iranian.

“What bruises?” asked Knife. He hadn’t realized his face was injured.

“The, force of the ejection would have been severe. Your parachute was found near where you landed, on the side of a sheer cliff. You are fortunate that your legs were not broken.”

“Yeah, I’m one lucky dog.”

“You will find in time, Major, that that is very true.” The Iranian motioned to the guards behind him. Two strong arms levered him upward from his chair; caught by surprise, Mack dropped the water, splashing it on his uniform and the floor. The two men behind his interrogator bristled, stepping forward quickly as if he had made a threat.

“An accident, I’m sure,” said the Iranian, holding them back with a subtle gesture of his hand. He looked at Knife the way an older relative might, as if he had known him all his life, as if he were comparing the man before him with a mental image of the child he had been. “I must attend to some business, Major Smith.”

The Iranian started to leave.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Smith asked.

“Possibly, you will be put on trial. If that happens, I will be your advocate.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Iman or Teacher. I am your advocate,” said the Iranian. He swept from the room, the two brown uniforms and half a dozen Somalians in tow.

“GODDAMN FAGGOT IRANIANS,” MELFI TOLD JACKSON.

“Least they could have done was beat the shit out of us.”

“Yeah,” said Jackson.

He’d been shot in the leg and Gunny could see the pain hit him in waves. Worried Jackson might pass out, the sergeant continued to talk and joke, hoping to keep him going.

“Stinkin’ pilot’s probably making a deal for us right now, what do you think?” said Gunny. “Bet we’ll get dancing girls and blow jobs.”

Jackson snorted. His eyes started to close.

Gunny jumped up from the bench. Ignoring the two Somalians standing near the basement steps, he grabbed Jackson by the shirt and shook him.

“Yo, stay with me, boy. Yo. You’re mine, shithead. Don’t go nowhere.”

“I’m okay, Gunny. I’m just tired.”

“Hey, you douche bags—get me a fucking doctor here, okay?” Gunny yelled to the men. “You faggot bastards, don’t you understand English? Hey! Hey!”

The door to the basement opened. Still holding Jackson, Gunny watched as a man in a long robe descended the stairs. It was the Iranian who had questioned them earlier. Several other Iranians and Somalians followed him down.

“Hey, Ayatollah, where the fuck is that doctor?”

The others rushed around the two Americans. One grabbed Gunny; before he could slug the SOB, his arms were pinned behind him.

“We need a fucking doctor,” Melfi told the Imam.

“Your soldier will receive what attention is available,” said the Iranian. He nodded, and two of his men lifted Jackson up and carried him away. The Marine’s head flopped to the side. “The wound does not appear serious.”

“I’ll tell you what. Give me a fuckin’ AK-47 and you can find out how serious it is.”

“Your false bravado is hardly appropriate.”

The Imam nodded again. Gunny was thrown to the floor. Before he could manage to get up, his arms and groin were pinned by heavy boots.

“This ain’t exactly Geneva Convention style,” growled Gunny.

“This isn’t Geneva, Sergeant,” said the Imam.

A man with a video camera appeared from behind the cleric. A red light flashed on near the lens; Melfi spat and stuck his tongue out. The videographer continued for a few more moments, then snapped off the camera.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the Imam, seemingly amused. He said something to the others. One or two of the men grinned.

“You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, Ayatollah,” said Gunny as the others released him. He rolled up and sat on the floor, watching as the Imam walked back up the stairs. Most of the others followed. A young soldier came down with a tray of rice mush similar to what they’d given him a few hours before. Gunny took the bowl, made a show of sniffing it, even though he figured they wouldn’t bother poisoning him—they’d just shoot him and be done with it.

Grub wasn’t as bad as some of the crap the Navy served on their aircraft carriers. He spooned it quickly into his mouth with his fingers. Like before, the soldier waited for the bowl quietly a few feet away.

“Here ya go, Sport,” Gunny said, tossing the bowl back. The kid was skinny; he’d be easy to overpower. But he didn’t have a weapon, and the Somalians near the stairs did. Odds were they’d be too jumpy to hold their fire, even if he had their comrade around the neck.

“You find a beer up there, you let me know, huh?” Gunny said as the soldier disappeared up the steps.

Hell of a jail, he thought. Reminded him of the storage room in an old NCO club in Florida. Guys used to help one of the waitresses rearrange the boxes downstairs.

Ooo-la-la.

The door above opened once more. A pair of black boots appeared, followed by the Somalians in their beat-up sneakers.

Major Smith.

Gunny tried to keep his expression blank as Smith was prodded down to the basement. Unlike Gunny and Jackson, Smith was wearing a set of manacles on his hands and legs. He walked slowly, then stood at attention a few feet away. Neither man spoke as the soldiers turned back and went up the stairs.

The instant the door closed, Smith collapsed on the floor.

“Jesus, Major, you all right?” said Gunny, not quite in time to keep Smith’s head from slamming on the hard-packed dirt.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Smith. His eyes were closed. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Jail, I think,” said Gunny.

“Upstairs looks like a school or something. We still in Somalia?”

“They had us in the back of a van the whole time,” Gunny told him. “I’m not sure. I think so. We were headed west, maybe northwest, I figure. Near the coast, but not on it. Some Iranian guy’s in charge. Raghead.”

“The Imam,” said Smith.

“Looks like Khomeni,” said Gunny.

“This guy’s our lawyer or something.” Smith groaned. “Or he’s pretending to be, so we trust him.”

“Lawyer?”

Smith pulled himself forward, finally opening his eyes. “Ribs are killing me,” said the major apologetically.

“Yeah. They beat you up?”

“Haven’t touched me.”

“Us neither. Strange. They must be scared.”

“No. They’re going to put us on trial. They don’t want us hurt before then. We’re propaganda.” Smith glanced toward the two Somalians standing at the foot of the stairs. They were holding South African 9mm BXPs, Uzi-like weapons with telescoping stocks and air-cooled muzzles. “What happened to Jackson?”

“They took him upstairs. He got shot in the leg.”

“How about you?”

“Head hurts like shit,” said Gunny. He pointed to the scrape on his scalp where he’d been nicked by a bullet. “Otherwise only thing that smarts is my pride.”

Gunny told Smith how Jackson got hit and went down right after they were spotted. Gunny tossed a smoke grenade and went to get him. Somewhere around there another grenade went off, tossed by Jackson or the Somalians, he wasn’t sure. Either it was a concussion grenade or a dud; in any event, all it had done was slam the sergeant to the ground. When he tried to get up he found half a dozen Somalians in his face.

“I guess I got shot somewhere along the way,” added Gunny. “Lucky for me it hit my head and bounced off. Hit me anywhere else and it would have gone right through.”

“Let me see it.”

Melfi bent down and let Smith examine the wound, even though Jackson had already said the bullet had only grazed him. The major agreed, describing it as the sort of red singe a barber’s razor might make.

“What happens next, you figure?” Gunny asked. “Take us to wherever the trial is.”

“If we don’t get rescued first,” said the sergeant. “Or bust out first.”

Smith gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, we’ll just have to bust out.”

“I got a knife blade in my buckle,” whispered Gunny.

The major didn’t understand at first. Finally he nodded. “My radio,” he told Gunny. “Somebody should have got the signal.”

“They’ll come for us,” said Melfi. “Don’t worry, Major. Hell, Jackson and me are expendable. But you’re a fuckin’ officer. You bet your ass they’re going to come and get you back.”

Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.

MACK FOUGHT TO KEEP HIS EYES OPEN. THE BASEMENT smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.

A medical attendant—the man clearly had not been a doctor—had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few times upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.

Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or planning what they would and wouldn’t say with the Marine sergeant. But the pain and his fatigue and the stench were overwhelming. Thoughts flew in and out of his head like dreams. He saw himself running at the two men near the stairs with their guns, saw their bullets tearing him apart. It might be a relief.

The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.

The fourth man was dumped on the ground.

It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.

“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”

“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.

“There’s another pilot,” said Jackson. “They’re going to move us soon. Tonight.”

“That’ll be our chance,” said Gunny. “We’ll break out then.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll kill them all,” said Mack, feeling his head slip back as darkness fell over him.

Naples, Italy

22 October, 1405 local

TO JED BARCLAY’S UNTRAINED EYE, THE PLANE LOOKED like a 707. And in fact, the JSTARS E-8C was indeed a former commercial airliner that had been almost completely rebuilt. It had extensive command and control equipment, not to mention heavy security. The NSC staffer had been issued special code-word clearance just to board the craft.

Which impressed the Army major standing and barring his way at the entrance not a whit.

“But I’m Cascade,” Jed repeated.

“Good for you,” said the major. “You’re also too young to shave.”

“I get a lot of that,” said Jed. “If you just let me take the retina scan—”

“What makes you think there’s a retina scanner aboard?” said the major.

Two Navy officers trotted up the steps. The major nodded at them and let them pass into the interior of the plane.

“You didn’t even ask for their creds,” said Jed.

“This is a Navy operation,” said the major. “I’m only providing tactical assistance. Besides, they beat the pants off me in a poker game last night.”

“Actually, this isn’t a Navy operation at all,” Jed told him, momentarily wondering if he might get further by suggesting he played poker as well. “We’re still working with Madcap Magician.”

Jed was fudging—overall command of the operation was due to shift to the Navy as soon as the command staff could arrive, which wouldn’t be for a few hours.

“And you think that’s going to make a difference?” said the Army officer.

“To be honest, it makes no difference,” said Jed. “Listen, Major, no offense, but I spent several hours this morning talking to the ambassadors of Egypt and Saudi Arabia about their refusal to allow U.S. planes to use their bases. Then I had to listen to an Iranian cleric, obviously a madman, denounce me for a half hour. Even more frustrating was talking to the State Department’s Middle Eastern desk, trying to explain to them why quick military action and not diplomacy was required. To be honest with you, I’m in a really pissy mood.”

The major frowned at him, but finally moved back from the door. There was no retina scan—in fact, there was no security device at all.

“You don’t want my NSC card at least?” Jed asked him.

“I’ll throw you in the ocean if you don’t check out,” said the major, pushing him into the operations area. “Don’t touch anything. These monitors here—”

“Are slaved to different parts of the SAR, which gives you approximately a sixty-degree view of a selected battlefield area. Smearing of the image is countered through interferometry calibration, as well as the Litton LR-85A Inertial Measurement System. There are a total of eighteen consoles aboard this craft, which is an upgrade from the original twelve and the seventeen powered stations in the first production models, though of course one could argue that there are never enough. Frankly, the main concern with JSTARS is not the physical operation of the battlefield view and coordination system, which demonstrated its potential in the Gulf War, but rather the temptation to use the craft to micromanage the battlefield, robbing individual officers, ground– and air-based, of their decision-. making role. The same concern was raised—and to some degree remains valid—with AWACS operations. And I’d be up for any poker games you do manage to organize. I assume we’re not taking off for hours, right?”

The major frowned, but said, “You’ll do,” before turning and walking away.

Northeastern Ethiopia

22 October 1996, 2000 local

“WE’RE NOT STOPPING.”

“I know that,” Bree snapped, working to hold the Megafortress on the rain-slicked tarmac. Flaps, brakes, reverse thrust, and a hurried Hail Mary seemed to have little effect as the big plane hurtled rapidly toward the end of the runway. Shapes loomed left and right, lights streaming with the rain. Breanna’s arm locked as the Mcgafortress’s nose bounced harshly across the poorly maintained concrete. A jumble of low buildings lay ahead; the Megafortress threatened to slide into them sideways, her left side trying to jerk forward.

Finally the plane’s forward momentum eased, the brakes or maybe the prayer catching. Breanna eased the big plane back to the center of the runway, managing a full stop three yards from a large puddle that marked the end of the concrete.

“That wasn’t four thousand feet,” said Chris. “Let alone six. And I thought it never rained in Ethiopia before January.”

Breanna edged her throttles carefully, turning the EB-52 toward the side access ramp on her right. As she did, a Hummer with its lights on approached from the right, driving along the apron. She guessed that it had been sent to show them where to go. Rolling slowly, her heart returning to normal, she turned the Megafortress onto the path. The truck pulled a 180 and began speeding away toward a hangar area.

The runway had had minimal lighting, and this access ramp had none; Fort Two’s lights provided a narrow cocoon for her to steer through. Breanna saw another plane standing at the far end of the ramp—a parked MC-130 Hercules.

“Must be the place,” said Chris, spotting the military transport. “We’re going to have a hell of a time taking off in this rain,” he added.

“We’ll round up some volunteers to push,” she told him, watching their guide truck disappear to the right. Breanna leaned back in her seat, the exhaustion of the long flight finally taking its toll. They had pushed Fort Two about as fast as it had ever gone for much longer than it had ever flown. While she and Chris had switched on and off—and the computer autopilot had helped considerably—Bree’s brain was crispy and her legs and arms felt as if they had been run over by a steamroller. She hadn’t slept now in more than twenty-four hours, and had needed three caffeine pills—she didn’t like anything stronger—en route.

Four large Pave Lows and a civilian DC-8 airliner were parked at the far end of a group of buildings that looked more like warehouses than hangars. The Hummer spun off and blinked its lights; Bree began to swing the plane around into the designated parking area. Two Marines with M-16-and-grenade-launcher combos appeared from one of the buildings, sauntering up as if they landed Megafortresses here all the time.

“Gee, where’s the brass band?” asked Chris.

CAPTAIN FREAH WAITED IMPATIENTLY AS THE BOMBER trundled toward its parking area. He’d been able to sleep only a few hours, but felt a burst of energy and excitement as the big plane finally stopped. Undoing his restraints, he bolted up from the uncomfortable jump seat and grabbed his gear. Squeezing into the hatch area, he pulled down the handle to open and lower the access ladder. It sounded like a bus tire puncturing as it burst open; Danny took it two steps at a time, ducking his head and scooting out from beneath the plane. A pair of rain-soaked Marines waved him toward a nearby pickup. After the cramped quarters of the Megafortress navigational bay, even the warm but heavy rain felt good. Danny stood out on the tarmac getting soaked while the rest of his team disembarked. Leaving Hernandez behind to wrestle with their gear in the storage bay, they hopped into the rear of the pickup. The rain surged as the truck started, but it seemed to be a final burst, for by the time they reached the low-slung building at the far end of the base it had slowed to a drizzle.

Freah jumped over the side of the truck, walking double-time inside. Hal Briggs greeted him in the hallway.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Briggs, slamming Danny with a shoulder chuck. “Damn. I thought the ETA you gave was a typo.”

“You didn’t think I’d let you have fun without me, did you?” asked Freah. His men filed in behind him; Danny introduced them.

“Grub’s that way,” said Briggs, pointing down the hall. “You’ll find a cafeteria, whole nine yards. You have a half hour,” added Briggs, glancing at his watch.

“Just a half hour?”

“Ospreys should be here by then.”

“Ospreys?”

“Since you busted your hump to get here, we’ll give you something real to do,” said Briggs. “Come on. Let me fill you in over at the terminal building. It’s our command bunker.”

“What is this place?” Danny asked.

“Russkies built it as a commercial strip place back in the seventies, then abandoned it when they realized the area was too rugged to support any sort of industry. Thank God for Commies with money, or at least bulldozers and cement, huh?”

Freah followed the major back outside. They walked around the side of the building to a Humvee. Briggs got in and Danny followed; they drove back toward the area where the Megafortress had parked.

“Shit. You came in a Megafortress?” said Briggs as they passed the plane.

“How do you think we got here so fast?”

“They had room to land?”

“I guess.”

Briggs turned right between the last and next-to-last buildings, then made a sharp right onto a long access road. They followed it as it circled around a row of small hangars; they looked more like sheds.

Three F-117 Nighthawks and three F-16 Vipers were parked beyond the sheds, guarded by a dozen air commandos. Briggs slowed just enough to let the guards know it was him, then sped on toward a large terminal building. Even in the dark it was obvious the building had been abandoned for some time. Lights shone eerily inside, and shadows seemed to leak from the broken windows. Two more Air Force Special Ops guards with M-16’s met them as Briggs pulled to a stop. Danny recognized one of the men, but barely had a chance to nod as Hal walked briskly inside.

A group of men clustered inside the empty reception hall, examining a series of maps spread over a trio of tables. The maps spilled over the sides; there were clutches of satellite pictures and a few rough sketches arranged around them.

“This is Danny Freah,” said Briggs, introducing him around. Quickly, Briggs filled him in on the situation. A Marine assault team supported by four F-16’s had attempted to take out several batteries of SAM missiles and a Silkworm base on the Somalian coast, while a flight of four F-117’s went after a pair of Silkworm bases a few miles to the northwest. Both of these bases were more extensive and better defended than had been thought, and the team came under heavy fire. An F-16 and one of the F-117 stealth fighters were downed. The F-117 was apparently lost to an SA-2; the long-wave radar was able to detect the vortices caused by the plane, and it was especially vulnerable while launching its missiles.

“We don’t jam the radars—or I should say we didn’t—since that costs us the element of surprise. Our targets were destroyed,” Briggs added. “Frankly, the SAM had only about a one-in-a-hundred chance of getting the plane. It was an acceptable risk.” He jabbed his finger at the map, pinpointing a spot on the hilly plains just south of the coast. “We have a strong suspicion that the pilot was alive because we have radio intercepts from an Iranian MiG about a parachute in this area. His name’s Stephen Howland. Captain. Twenty-six. From Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.”

Danny nodded.

“Our intelligence is limited,” admitted Briggs, “but we think that the Somalians have already recovered at least the plane. CIA has a source saying he saw an airplane on a flatbed truck out on this road. It’s not really a highway; more like a dirt road with pretensions that runs through these mountains and hills. Anyway, it would make sense, because this road goes right to Bosaso, on the northern coast, which is within five miles of where we think the plane went down. From Bosaso they might go down to Mogadishu. Or maybe they’ll try for Libya, heading west on this highway here. It’s been improved recently; we think the Iranians have helped widen and repave it. It hooks up with Burao. From there they would have a highway, a real highway, through Ethiopia, the Sudan, Libya, wherever they want to go.”

“Why Libya?”

“Libya has signed up for the Greater Islamic League,” said Hal. “So bringing the prisoners there might be one way of guaranteeing that their partner is involved. The Iranians may also figure that with a Presidential election coming up, pounding Tehran will be an enormously popular thing to do.”

“Would it?” asked Danny.

“I don’t know about the politics,” said Hal. He quickly went on. “They also know we’re sending ships up from the Indian Ocean. They also suspect that we could base forces in Kenya. So to the Iranians it might seem safer to go by ground. They might not think we’re watching.”

Briggs slid one of the satellite pictures around and pointed at it. It covered an area near the northeastern coast of Somalia. “One of our satellites is being repaired by the shuttle, and the remaining birds aren’t positioned very well for coverage. We’re also having a hell of a lot of trouble because of the weather and the clouds,” said Briggs. “This image is several hours old. We’re trying to arrange an overflight in the morning. We have a Delta Force team ready to go in as soon as we have a target. But we’re talking several hundred square miles to cover. And it’s nearly four hundred miles from here. We’d like to get the stealth fighter back, or at least blow up the wreckage. As soon as it’s located, we go. Same thing on the pilot.”

“What about the F-16?” asked Danny.

“You may know him—Mack Smith. He was at Dreamland. Tall guy. Typical pilot ego.”

“Sure.”

“He went out over here, a few miles away. Mack seems to have stayed around to help the Marines. The Marines credit him with saving their necks, because their helicopter was under fire. Two members of the assault team apparently saw it get hit and left their helicopter to help Smith.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah. Like I said, their helo was getting hit and in the confusion the pilot decided his best course of action was to get out,” Briggs said. “He didn’t know he was missing two men. In any event, he did manage to save the rest of the team and the helicopter.”

Briggs slid the satellite image away, jabbing his finger at a yellow blotch on the map. “We’re getting an intermittent signal beacon from this spot here, about two, two-and-a-half miles south of the Silkworm base, back in these hills here. We haven’t been able to raise the pilot. We sent a rented Cessna and managed to get this,” he added, moving around the papers to find some sketchy photocopies of snapshots.

“We think it’s the wreckage of the plane. Satellite will survey this area as well,” said Briggs. “We’re sending a team at first light. Worst case, we can destroy the wreckage. We’ll also have a team overfly the area of the radio transmission. If Smith’s down there and can work the radio, they’ll grab him.”

“That our job?”

“No. We want you to help secure this site here. Your team and a small group of Delta operators, hitting them from two sides, airlifted by Ospreys. It’s a village about ten kilometers further west that the Iranians have been using to train the Somalians. The feeling is that if Smith and the Marines were captured, they’d be held there.” Briggs pulled a pair of reconnaissance photographs and some hand-drawn sketches from the other side of the table and showed them to Danny. “These were taken a few hours ago. They give the general layout. This school here used to belong to a Catholic missionary order. You see the gun emplacements. And this here is a SAM site.”