Flashpoint

18

Murdock, Jaybird, DeWitt, Lam, and Dobler sat on bunks at the far end of the barracks, thinking through the problem.

“Makes more sense to go and come from here,” Jaybird said. “We’re only a hundred and seventy miles away, maybe a hundred and twenty of that over hostile territory. We can resupply from here. The chopper could come in here from the carrier with no sweat.”

They had agreed that a chopper rescue was the only reasonable way to get the remaining twelve Americans out of the embassy.

“Yeah, if they’re still there,” Dobler said. “Remember the embassy in Iran? They had our people out of the embassy almost at once and scattered all over the city.”

“From what we know so far, the Americans are still at the embassy,” DeWitt said.

“So which chopper has the range and capacity to go in and back three hundred and forty miles and carry up to thirty passengers?” Murdock asked.

“Old reliable, the Sea Knight, the CH-46E,” Lam said. “We’ve used them before.”

They looked at Jaybird, the statistics man.

“Sea Knight, okay. Most of them are out of service now, but some are left in the fleet. They can do a hundred and fifty-four miles an hour cruising and get up to fourteen thousand feet ceiling. Range is four hundred twenty miles loaded with up to twenty-five fully equipped Marines.”

Murdock stood and walked two bunks down and came back. “So the Sea Knight would do it, if this task force has one. What about protection? They have two .50-caliber chatter guns on them, but that’s not much against a few fighter jets.”

“Bring along some air cover, like a pair of F-18s,” Lam said.

“Overflight of a sovereign country,” DeWitt said. “Will the Navy and the U.S. State Department let us do it?”

“Hell, Colombia violated international law by capturing our embassy,” Murdock said. “A little technical matter like an overflight to rescue the Americans isn’t going to raise any eyebrows. Colombia probably expects it.”

“So they’ll be waiting,” Jaybird said. “Maybe it’s a trap to send all of their aircraft after the rescue chopper and escorts.”

“That we can let the brass figure out,” Murdock said.

A short time later, the SATCOM came to life, and Holt handed Murdock the mike.

“Yes, Home Base, this is Rover. You have some suggestions on the embassy situation?”

“Yes, Rover. This is Captain Ingman. We have the CAG here with us. It obviously has to be a chopper rescue. Does that work with you?”

“Yes, Captain. We are talking about the Sea Knight. Do you have any in your task force?”

“Sea Knight,” a new voice said. “This is the CAG. We have two that had been working PAV Low Three. We can pull out some gear and get it to you. Be best to go from Camp Bravo to the embassy?”

“That’s our thinking, Captain. We figure a hundred and twenty miles over hostile territory to get to Bogotá. What about some fighter cover?”

“Getting touchy there,” the CAG said. “State and Stroh tell me to do it with just a chopper. I don’t like that.”

“Won’t work, CAG. No way. They can find the chopper with one fighter and knock us down going in or coming out. I’d guess at least six Eighteens or Fourteens would be needed. No sense getting the ambassador and his staff off the ground just to KIA them in the jungle somewhere.”

“Agreed, Commander. We can request the overflight fighter protection, but State and the President will have to decide that one.”

“What’s our timetable?”

“Soonest.”

“What we want, then, Captain, is one hot Sea Knight with six F-14s for cover in and out. Suggest you fly the Knight in here as of now and if you get a go on the Fourteens, they can catch up in a rush. Our troops are ready with sixteen for combat. We’ll be at the Camp Bravo airstrip in two hours.”

“We’ve sent a request through to the White House and to State and the CNO. We should have a reply in the requested half hour. This is number one on their list, so they’ll decide in a rush. Flight time from Bravo to the embassy should be about an hour. You want a day mission or night?”

“Night would be better for us. Let’s hope the Colombians keep the Americans at the embassy.”

“We’ve launched a Sea Knight. They may remove some equipment and leave it there at Bravo. Flight time to you is less than an hour. Keep your set on receive and we’ll call as soon as we get a decision one way or the other.”

“That’s a roger. Bogotá is a big place. Hope your pilots will know how to find the embassy.”

“We have that pinpointed, SEALs. Good luck.”

Murdock stood and bellowed at his men. “We have thirty minutes to pack up, get ready for a mission. Clean your weapons and resupply regular loads of ammo. We’re going to fly into Bogotá for a quick little vacation. This is a room-to-room clearing operation, so we’ll take the MP-5s instead of the Bull Pups. Move it.”

“What about that chow and hot showers?” somebody called.

“Hell, you fight better when you’re dirty and hungry,” Senior Chief Dobler called. “We’ll try for some box lunches for the one-hour flight to the target. Let’s get humping.”

Dobler ran to the jeep out front and drove to the mess hall. They told him they could have box lunches ready in twenty minutes.

A half hour later, word came through from Lieutenant Commander Emerling on the carrier that approval had just come in from the chief of Naval Operations that the President had approved the flyover of Columbia by the chopper and six fighters to rescue the captured embassy personnel. By then it was almost 1700. It would be dark by the time they flew into Bogotá.

Twenty-eight minutes later, the sixteen SEALs were in the air heading for Bogotá. Canzoneri had been released from the hospital and was more than anxious to get in on the next mission.

“This time I get to be in on some of the fun, too,” Canzoneri said.

Once in the air, Murdock went up front to listen to the radio chatter. It was in the clear, no encrypting, and he wondered what Colombian operators who understood English would make of it.

“Slow Moe, this is Fast Duck. We have you on our magic box. We’ll circle you for a while, then will be replaced by Fast Duck Two.”

“Fast Duck, glad you’re on board. Always use a little help from our friends.”

The chopper pilot, Lieutenant (j.g.) Anderson, waved at Murdock. “Glad to have you with us, Commander. We’re forty minutes out from target. Bogotá is a big gunner, almost seven million people. We have a pinpoint on the embassy and good sight lines to it.”

“Hate to drop in at the wrong embassy,” Murdock said.

“No sweat. You want us to stay on the ground or drop you off and cut out?”

“We don’t know what kind of forces they have at the embassy, so it’ll be best if you cut and run. We’ll call you back in on the SATCOM or if it goes out, we’ll give you a red flare for when and where.”

“Sounds good to me,” Anderson said. “If we don’t get company, we’ll be spooling around at about ten thousand so our radar can get a good sweep.”

Before Murdock could reply, a silver streak flashed in front of the low-flying chopper. The pilot had kept it to less than two hundred feet above the series of mountain ranges they flew over. The jet raced away, and they saw it make a slow turn.

“I have the local fly boy on my scope,” the U.S. fighter pilot said. “That was evidently an ID run. He won’t have time to make a second. I’m locked on and firing. One AIM Sidewinder away.”

Murdock looked at the pilot, who shook his head. “We just have to wait and see. Those Sidewinders choggie along at Mach 2.”

“Oh yeah, splash one bogie,” the F-14 pilot said. “That one slipped in under our radar. We’re moving our whole system down a few thousand to get better concentration. I’m rotating out. Number two coming in. He knows what went down. Good hunting, you Slow Moe guys.”

“Thanks, Fast Duck, and take care,” the chopper pilot said on the radio.

“Time left?” Murdock asked.

The pilot looked at his instruments and then his watch. “About twenty. Time to get your men ready. I know you’ll get your troops out of there quickly. I don’t want to be grounded more than twenty seconds at the most.”

“Easy,” Murdock said. “Thanks for the ride.”

In the cabin with the men, Murdock told them about the Colombian fighter that had been shot down. “At least they’ll know we’re here.”

“If they admit it,” DeWitt said. “They might pass the crashed jet off as an accident.”

Ten minutes later, the speaker overhead came on. “SEALs, we’re over Bogotá and about two minutes away from the objective. Do good work out there, and we’ll be ready for a pickup on your call. The crew chief will get the hatch opened for you.”

They made last-minute checks, chambered rounds into weapons, and stood ready to charge out. There was no plan. They would have to play it as it came. First objective was to suppress any guards on the site. Then to find the hostages if they were still on the embassy grounds. Then get the hell out of there.

“We’re almost down, Commander. We’re landing in the parking lot of the embassy. The gate has been smashed down, and we see two military vehicles out front. We saw no soldiers coming in. Ready, we’re down. Opening the hatch.”

Murdock was the first man out of the chopper. He hit the pavement and ran flat-out for the first cover he could see: a military half-track parked thirty yards from the embassy front door. He took in the scene in a second. Two-story building that looked like concrete block. Windows along the front mostly broken out. A fire smudge at the front door and through one window. That would be the flamethrower.

He looked behind and saw the last man, Dobler, exit the chopper, and it lifted off. He dove behind the half-track just as he heard the first sound of gunfire. Small arms coming from the embassy. There were some bad guys at home.

“DeWitt, where are you?”

“I’ve got four of my guys at the near end of the embassy. I saw you head to the front. Want me to swing around to the back door and see who’s home?”

“Go. We have some shooters up here. Let me know if you get inside.”

“Roger that.”

Two more SEALs slid into the paving in back of the half-track. Murdock lifted his weapon over the front of the rig and put three rounds from his submachine gun into the nearest window. He thought he saw movement there.

A weapon fired out a window on the second floor halfway down the building. It was made like a southern plantation mansion with pillars in front. Two cammy-clad figures darted from the front door, heading for a civilian car forty yards down the lot. Two SEAL guns nailed the runners before they made their haven.

More firing came from the front windows. It was thirty yards from the half-track to the mansion. Murdock looked beside him.

“Ostercamp. Can you make this thing run? If you can, we can stay behind it all the way to the front door. Give it a shot.”

Ostercamp opened the half-track door and crawled inside.

“No keys, Cap,” he said on the radio.

“So jump it, like you used to do in El Cajon.”

That brought a laugh. After two minutes of sniping and return fire with the windows the main target, Murdock heard the engine crank over, then roar into life.

“Hooooyah!” Ostercamp bellowed. “Let’s roll.” He got the rig in gear, and it rolled and clanked along over the paving. The half-track took fire from the building, but Ostercamp was on the floor, steering with one hand over his head.

A minute later, the front bumped into the embassy’s side wall.

“Big window,” Murdock said. Behind him, Harry Ronson agreed. Murdock put six rounds through the six-foot-square window, smashing the glass. Then he and Ronson ran forward and jumped through the shattered window into the embassy.

It was a conference room. A long table with fancy chairs sat around it in the middle of the room. Oil paintings decorated the walls, and at the far door, two uniformed men stared in surprise at Murdock. Both went down in one burst from Murdock’s MP-5. Two more SEALs charged through the broken window, and Murdock used his radio.

“DeWitt, we’re inside, through a window. Watch out who you shoot if you come in.”

“Will do, Cap. We’ve found some stubborn ones back here. About ready to use some grenades on them. Busy. Out.”

Murdock had checked through the door. He pushed the bodies aside and peered out. It was a hallway that evidently led to the near end of the corridor with two more room doors showing.

“Clear them,” Murdock said. Ronson used his machine gun to cover the hall the other way. Lampedusa, Ostercamp, and Holt ran with Murdock to the first door. Lam had it low. Murdock reached across and turned the knob and rammed the door inward, then leaned back away from the opening.

Lam had a perfect view of the room from the floor level. Three men crouched at the window, looking into the front parking lot. All had rifles. Lam riddled all three with his Colt carbine on full auto, and they slammed against the wall and went down. One tried to sit up, and Lam hit him with three more rounds.

Holt ran into the room and cleared it.

Murdock hit the radio. “Ching, Bradford, Jaybird, and Dobler. Where are you? Get in the south wing at the broken six-foot window. We’re clearing rooms. Move now. Sound off when you’re inside.”

Holt edged down the hall to the next door. He took the floor position, and Lam pushed open the door. The room was empty. Behind them, Ronson sent a five-round burst down the hall as two Colombian soldiers appeared twenty yards down the way. They darted back out of sight.

Murdock and his charges went down the hall the other way. Ronson stayed ahead of them, covering the hall.

Murdock rammed open the next door and leaped back as six rounds jolted through the opening. Lam was at the floor level and sprayed a dozen rounds into the room, chewing up four men who had been at the windows. They went down, and two tried to roll over to fire back. Murdock slammed them into hell with three-round bursts.

Someone made a noise at the other side of the room. Murdock looked over and saw a small man in uniform holding both hands over his head.

“¡Me rindo! ¡No dispare!”

Holt swung around, surprised at the man, and fired six times with his submachine gun. The small man’s eyes went wide, then he crumpled against the wall and slid down it, dead by the time he hit the floor.

“What the hell did he say?” Lam asked.

“Probably that he wanted to surrender,” Murdock said. “Any more of them?”

“Room clear,” Lam said after a quick look. This had been an office, with big leather chairs, a huge desk, and fancy lighting.

“Dobler, Ching, Jaybird, and Bradford inside,” Murdock’s radio said.

“Down the hall,” Murdock radioed. “You’ll see Ronson in the hall.”

In back of the embassy, DeWitt knew he had a fight on his hands. He’d spotted six soldiers just getting out of a truck when he and his squad rounded the corner. They fired on the Colombians at once and took cover wherever they could find it.

That was the trouble; there wasn’t much: one car in the lot, a low stone wall, and two stacks of wooden boxes.

Jefferson had pitched three grenades so far, and two of them had been short. The six soldiers couldn’t get in the back door since Mahanani had it covered with his Colt Commander carbine.

“Franklin, try a forty-mike. Use it almost point-blank, bouncing it off the wall behind them.”

Franklin waved and loaded a grenade and aimed. The round exploded at what seemed the same second he fired it. The deadly grenade splattered shrapnel over three of the defenders. Two of them went down dead before they could run. The other four took off around some boxes and two parked cars and ran flat-out for the far corner of the building.

Ed’s men had no targets.

“Move up,” Ed said in the radio. “Let’s see what they were so keen on defending.”

It was a truck behind another truck. The second one was loaded with furniture, TV sets, computers, everything of value they must have found inside the embassy.

They kept to cover and stared at the back door. They had seen no one firing from the rear windows. The place was bigger than it looked at first. There was a wide one-floor section back here before it went two stories.

“All at once,” DeWitt said. “We storm the wall. Franklin and me at the door. Ready, go.”

The six men charged the wall without taking a shot. DeWitt nodded. He had guessed right. The defenders must all be working the front of the building. He tried the doorknob. It was locked. He put three slugs into it from his G-11 with the caseless rounds, and the door swung inward. He jolted his head out and looked inside, then jerked it back.

Two shots slammed through the open space. He used the radio. “Murdock. We’re at the back door. Have it open, some opposition. Check who you shoot at. We’re some distance from you guys.”

DeWitt jerked a grenade off his webbing, pulled the safety pin, and let the arming handle pop off. He delayed a full second, then tossed the bomb through the door and hugged the outside wall. The grenade exploded as soon as it hit the floor inside. DeWitt and Franklin charged inside one to the right, one to the left.

Not even the moonlight showed inside the room. Both men lay still, waiting for some enemy movement. After two minutes, DeWitt swore softly. He pulled down his forgotten NVGs and looked around the room. It was a storeroom. Looked like they took in freight and supplies there and then distributed them. He saw one door leading away, then spotted the head and shoulders of a man sprawled behind some boxes. DeWitt checked. He was dead.

“Room clear,” Ed said, and the rest of his squad rushed inside.

He pointed at the door, but the others didn’t see it. A stream of light slipped under the barrier. He eased up beside the door and tested the knob. No lock. He edged the door open an inch and tried to look through. He needed more room with the NVGs. At six inches, he could see inside. More supplies, but these were seemingly laid out in some order and set in neat rows and piles. He edged the door on open and looked all around the room.

“Second room clear,” he said and went inside. Two doors led away from there. He tried one of them and saw a long corridor. At the far end was something that looked like a chandelier. The whole place was lit up like day.

The other door led into a larger room that looked like part of a kitchen. Then he saw the kitchen through some open serving windows. No help, but no soldiers, either. He went back to the first door.

Quinley called to him. “Down here, JG. Something strange. There’s a door behind a wall covering, but the door won’t open.”

DeWitt looked at it. A door with a handle but no lock, yet it wouldn’t open. He stepped back and put four rounds about where the locking mechanism should be near the handle. Nothing happened. He fired four more times directly in front of the doorknob. The heavy door shuddered, then edged inward an inch.

Murdock waved his men back and pushed the door open slowly. Inside it was totally black. He pulled down the NVGs and looked again. He grinned.

Steps led downward. Directly in front was a rack that held a dozen full wine bottles.

“The embassy wine cellar,” he said and pulled the door closed.

Back at the long corridor, Franklin and Fernandez took the first door on the left. They kicked it open, waited for gunfire, then charged inside. Nobody home. It was a dormitory room set up with four beds. A door beyond led to a bathroom.

The next door down the hallway was similar. The third on the other side of the hall responded with a dozen rounds through the door when Mahanani kicked at it. He put six rounds into the door lock and shoved it open, staying on the wall side and out of the line of fire. Four more shots came through.

Quinley leaned around the wall and drilled a dozen rounds from his caseless-bullet submachine gun. A strangled cry came and then silence. DeWitt looked around the door at floor level. A pair of rounds ripped through the wooden jamb just over his head. A splinter gouged into his cheek.

He pulled back, took a grenade off his webbing, popped the pin, let the handle fly, and held the bomb two seconds before he rolled it into the room. It exploded in two seconds, and he and Jefferson charged into the place when the shrapnel stopped flying. They found one soldier and a darkeyed girl lying behind a low bed. Both were dead from the grenade.

The rest of the hall produced no surprises, and they edged toward the central room with the chandelier. They had heard gunfire down another hall before. Now DeWitt checked in.

“We’re in a lobby of some kind,” DeWitt said. “Lights all over the place, no bad guys.”

“We’re about four doors away,” Murdock said. “Lots of activity down here. Any sign of the hostages?”

“None. They might not even be here. We’ll hold here until you arrive.”

Five minutes later, Murdock’s crew cleared the last room, which turned out to be the ambassador’s private office, and joined DeWitt in the lobby.

“You didn’t tell me there was another wing to this place,” Murdock said.

DeWitt shrugged. “Hey, you didn’t ask.”

A booming voice in English cut through the answer.

“Americans, you must give up your try at rescuing the hostages and surrender to us. If you do not, one hostage will be shot for each ten minutes you delay. You have no chance to get to us. The hostages are in the room immediately in front of us. We can fire over them at you, but you won’t be able to fire at all without killing the twelve U.S. State Department officials. See how hopeless it is? Surrender now, or we will kill the first victim, the ambassador himself, in exactly eight minutes.”