Primary Target

18

With a keen sense of both excitement and trepidation, Jackie securely fastened her twin-cell airline-style life vest. She looked up at the moonless, star-filled sky, then donned her flip-down night-vision goggles and waited for her eyes to adjust to the greenish artificial light. The night-vision aid amplified ambient light 1,200 times, allowing her to conquer the dark.

After she felt comfortable with the goggles, she carefully checked the helo’s instrument panel and engine gauges one last time before she lifted the LongRanger off the container ship and flew alongside the bridge. With the transponder turned off and the exterior lights extinguished, the dark charcoal helo was almost undetectable as it flew low over the smooth Mediterranean Sea.

Satisfied that everything was functioning normally, Jackie set the radar altimeter for 100 feet, then added power and set course for her first navigational fix. She had flown the rescue mission in her mind dozens of times. She knew the circuitous route to the terrorist enclave like the main street of her hometown, and she had memorized every obstacle she expected to encounter, including three major centers of drug production and distribution. She was also acutely aware that the origins of illicit narcotics in the Bekaa Valley were fiercely protected by men armed with powerful weapons, including portable air defense missiles.

In Jackie’s view, the toughest part of the flight would be her descent into the valley that separated the Lebanon Mountains and the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. No matter how she approached the terrorist training camp, she would have to fly directly over concentrations of Hezbollah militias and encampments of Syrian soldiers.

Jackie smiled to herself when she touched the Hermès scarf tucked under the neck of her flight suit. Her father, Dr. E. Raines Sullivan, always sent her a dozen assorted scarves on her birthday. As much as she loved her pipe-smoking aristocratic father, his elitist and sexist values had driven her away from the family and all the trappings of inherited wealth. When she announced she had joined the Air Force, Dr. Sullivan abruptly canceled his annual pilgrimage to the Prix de Diane, France’s most exciting horse race, and vented his spleen at Jackie for two days and nights. Always an elegantly dressed and eloquently expressive man, E. Raines had had what he would later describe as an “indecorous lapse in manners.”

Without warning, a bright light ahead of the helo blinked on and off twice, then disappeared. Jackie changed course a few degrees and scanned the horizon looking for a boat or ship. The more she moved her eyes, the more she felt off balance. When the insidious “leans” began inducing the first stages of vertigo, she removed the NVGs and tossed them on the life raft behind her. She flew strictly by instruments for a few moments, then began sweeping her eyes across the sea for any sign of a ship.

After two minutes of fruitless searching, she altered course again and added a touch of power to make up the few seconds she’d lost. I must be seeing things that aren’t there. Concentrate.

Jackie’s nerves settled down as she continuously checked her time and position. She was hitting her coordinates precisely on time and on course. Sixty miles from the container ship, Jackie’s sense of well-being was shattered when she felt a shudder run through the LongRanger.

“What the hell was that?” she said under her breath, then quickly scanned her instruments. Everything appeared to be in order. Okay, take a deep breath and get a grip on your nerves.

Wearing a parachute, Greg O’Donnell coaxed the fuel-laden Cessna Caravan into the night sky and began a very shallow climb to their assigned altitude. While Scott exchanged his cargo-pilot uniform for his black jumpsuit, body-armor vest, modified rappelling harness, and paratrooper boots, O’Donnell switched radio frequencies and pointed the big single-engine turboprop toward Damascus.

After Dalton zipped up his boots and donned his helmet, he looked at the huge ferry tank bolted to the cabin floor, then stepped forward to the dimly lighted cockpit. “How much are we over gross?”

“You don’t want to know.” Greg quietly chuckled. “Let’s just say that I have enough fuel to fly from the valley to Athens, with plenty left over.”

“Well, as the British say, you can never have too much petrol.”

“Unless you prang the ship,” Greg quipped.

Scott checked the time and the Caravan’s GPS. “Jackie should be about twenty miles south of us.”

“Let’s hope so,” Greg replied with a slow grin. “How’s the chemistry between the two of you?”

“Chemistry?”

“Are you attracted to her?” Greg asked innocently. “Are you bonding? That kind of chemistry.”

After Scott gave it a moment of thought, he proclaimed, “I’d say that we get along just fine. In fact, I wouldn’t mind developing a much closer relationship with her.”

Greg adjusted the power and gave Dalton an understanding glance. “You mean, if you live through this, right?”

“Well,” Scott said as he strapped on his assault knife, “I try not to dwell on the negative aspect of things.”

“Seriously, Bubba,” O’Donnel said with a grim look. “This gig isn’t gonna be easy.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” Scott piped sarcastically.

“Well, we could start with the fact that you stood up your rescue pilot.”

“What?”

“She told me about the sailing date.” Greg laughed out loud. “Or should I say, the sailing date that didn’t happen?”

“I’m guilty as charged,” Scott admitted as he tucked his Sig Sauer into the compact nylon holster strapped to his thigh. “However, I wasn’t purposely shirking my responsibility.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Greg said with mock innocence.

“I thought you might put in a good word for me.” Scott chuckled as he donned his black, custom-made parachute. He snapped two grenades and a quick-don rappelling harness to his assault vest, then tugged at his multigrip gloves. “There’s something about her, something that makes the hormones churn.”

“Tell me about it,” Greg declared in a suggestive voice.

Scott sat down and closed his eyes. She is captivating, no question about it. Intelligent, attractive, articulate, and she has a good sense of humor. This definitely has long-term possibilities… if we live through this extraction.

Jackie closely monitored her flight instruments and the GPS until she was precisely thirty nautical miles due west of the coast of Lebanon. With an eye on the radar altimeter, she keyed the radio. “Charlie Tango,” she announced, and immediately switched to the secondary frequency.

“Transco twenty-seven on the numbers,” Greg O’Donnell radioed in his clipped fashion. The Caravan was on course and on time.

“Charlie Tango,” she said in the same abbreviated style.

“Copy.”

With her confidence growing, Jackie searched for the faint glow of lights marking Sidon, the Mediterranean terminus of the Trans-‌Arabian Pipeline. She would make landfall south of the piers and oil-storage tanks, then remain on course for another seventeen nautical miles. At that point she would turn left seventy degrees at the power plant south of the QaraaounReservoir at the southwestern edge of the Bekaa Valley. From there, it was a straight shot over the drug dealers and military troops to the terrorist camp.

After squelching her growing anxiety, Jackie finally caught sight of Sidon, also known as Saida. Nearing the city, she glanced at the thinly scattered lights of the boats moored in the picturesque harbor. The small port was surrounded by orchards of oranges, banana, and loquat trees.

She allowed a small grin to crease her face as she initiated a climb to clear the mountain ridges leading to the Bekaa Valley. Jackie slowly moved her head from side to side in order to ease the tension in her neck. Just a few more minutes.

Approaching the gateway to the ancient world, Scott and Greg were treated to an unforgettable experience as the ambient glow of Beirut slowly gave way to a vista of shimmering lights. In the distance, the mountains rising behind the legendary city were painted with softly glowing lights that blended into a sea of twinkling stars.

At this early hour of the morning, most of Beirut’s 1.5 million residents were fast asleep. The air traffic was sparse, and, for the most part, the pilots and controllers exchanged very little in the way of casual conversation.

Passing almost directly over Beirut International Airport, Greg checked the Caravan’s Global Positioning System against Scott’s portable unit. Both receivers were in harmony.

“Six minutes, thirty-five seconds to go,” Greg announced as he punched the timer. “Recheck your gear and fittings.”

“Workin’ on it,” Scott said as he methodically smeared his face, neck and ears with a camouflage stick, then went through the familiar routine of rechecking his equipment. While he was tightening his parachute harness, random thoughts began to drift through his mind.

“The last time I was in Beirut,” Dalton said calmly as he inspected the two grenades attached to his assault vest, “I spent an entire afternoon at a cliffside café. I met a girl who was going to med school at Tulane, and we had a great day just knocking around and—”

“Hey, Bubba,” Greg interrupted. “I don’t mean to throw a damper on your party, but it’s time to start focusing on the present.”

“I’m trying to relax,” Dalton said, then opened the Caravan’s modified cargo door. “I’ll focus on the present when I jump.”

“Partner,” Greg said emphatically, “this is the Super Bowl of jumping. If you screw the pooch on this deal, you only get penalized once — I’m talkin’ about graveyard dead.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Scott said while he checked the strap over his thigh holster. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, Scott’s heart was beginning to pound. “Thanks for the comforting words.”

“Semper fi,” O’Donnell said firmly as he donned his night-vision goggles. We’ve gone too far this time. I should’ve talked him out of this crazy shit when we were in Alaska.

The sounds were muffled, but Maritza recognized voices outside her spartan quarters. She quietly made her way across the darkened room and peeked through one of the small windows. What she saw frightened her. Instead of the usual two or three men standing guard at this early hour, there were at least a dozen armed militants walking around inside the perimeter of the compound.

What’s going on? she nervously asked herself, then moved away from the window. She carefully removed a bundle of wooden sticks and paper from her makeshift closet, then opened a small tin of matches and stuffed them into the compact bundle. When she was finished, she shoved the package under the foot of her wood-framed bed. Something is wrong with this picture.

A moment later Maritza held her breath when she heard footsteps near her door. With her heart pounding, she slipped into bed and waited for the door to open. Ten minutes passed without another sound. She reached under the bed and gripped her Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic, then slid the weapon inside a pocket sewn into her Islamic garb. Maritza was about to swing her legs over the side of the bed when she heard footsteps walking away from her quarters. Be patient.

Greg O’Donnell eased the throttle back and began slowing the Caravan. “Twenty seconds,” he announced, darting a glance at the GPS while he stabilized the big turboprop. “Negligible wind drift.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Scott made a final adjustment to his night-vision goggles, patted the flap over his Sig Sauer, then gripped each side of the door frame. “I’m ready to do it — let’s go.”

“Ten seconds,” Greg said over the wind noise whipping around the back of the cabin. “We’re almost over the target.”

Dalton’s heart was thumping like a trip-hammer. Concentrate… Take it one step at a time.

Greg continually tweaked the elevator trim as the Caravan slowed to just above stall speed. “Five seconds.”

Scott took a deep breath, then—

“Four.”

— sharply exhaled.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“Go!” Greg said as Scott flung himself out of the airplane and disappeared into the moonless night.

O’Donnell slowly added power and keyed his radio. “Ball four — he’s taking a walk.”

“Copy the runner going to first,” Jackie said hastily.

“Roger that,” O’Donnell calmly replied.

She checked to make sure that all of the helo’s exterior lights were off, then quickly switched to the frequency for Scott’s helmet-mounted radio. Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.

Fumbling with her sat-phone, she punched in the code that would signal one of the Low Earth Orbit (LEO) satellites in near-polar orbit to trigger Maritza Gunzelman’s miniature phone. When the connection was made, Jackie spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Take the midnight train.”

“Copy train,” Maritza replied in a tense voice. “You’re flying into an ambush. There’s at least a dozen armed men waiting for you.”

“Say again.”

“We need to abort,” Maritza said as loud as she dared. “It’s an ambush!”

Stunned by the unexpected revelation, Jackie finally found her voice. “What’s going on? Give me a sitrep.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, except that the compound is alive with armed men. We need to abort.”

“Negative!” Jackie’s heart raced as she thought about Scott. “The jumper is on the way down. Get ready to go.”

“I’m all set,” Maritza whispered as she heard a faint noise near her door. “Gotta go,” she said, and terminated the connection.

Jackie snapped the sat-phone shut, then concentrated on flying the helo as close to the ground as she could. While she waited for Scott’s radio call, she continually scanned her instruments and the rising terrain. Something didn’t feel right. She couldn’t locate any of the telltale landmarks she expected to see by now. Is the GPS giving me erroneous readings?

Without warning, the bright stars at her twelve o’clock position vanished. Startled by the sudden change, she flicked on the 30 million candlepower searchlight and gasped as she froze on the controls. She was staring straight at an outcrop of rocks surrounded by dense vegetation. Jackie desperately pulled on the collective, then rolled the helo to the right to avoid colliding with a cemetery at the top of the ridgeline. With her hands shaking, she leveled the LongRanger and quickly turned off the powerful “Night Sun” spotlight. You ‘re making too many mistakes. Get it together.

A few seconds later the stars appeared to rise above the ridge, prompting Jackie to let out a sigh of relief. She cleared the mountaintop by twenty feet, then turned to her original heading and began a rapid descent into the bowels of the Bekaa Valley. The topography of the valley provided a wide variety of landing strips for helicopters and rugged light planes.

Less than two minutes after entering the valley, Jackie was startled when a stream of tracer rounds flashed past the right side of the LongRanger. She jinked twenty degrees to the left, made an abrupt descent, jinked to the right, then climbed steeply. She continued the evasive maneuvering as more tracers slashed by the left side of the helo, then stopped as quickly as they had begun.

After tumbling head over heels a couple of times, Scott finally stabilized his body in a classic free-fall position. He looked straight down and tried to locate the terrorist camp, but the vertigo-inducing counterclockwise rotation he’d developed was causing him to lose his situational awareness. He attempted to orient himself, then gave up and pulled the rip cord.

The parachute opened with a muffled report, snapping Dalton upright. He peered at the ground through his night-vision goggles while he completed a 360-degree circle.

Where the hell is it? Scott asked himself as he spiraled down toward the valley. He was about to yank the NVGs from his helmet when he finally spotted the compound. Able to clearly see the camp, Scott removed the goggles and tossed them away. He gazed at the surrounding countryside and quickly oriented himself to the irregular clusters of lights.

“Charlie Tango, bull’s-eye,” he radioed to Jackie.

“I’m over the hump,” Sullivan replied as she chewed uncertainly at her lower lip. “Three miles and… ah, rapidly closing.”

“I’ll be on the ground in about a minute,” Scott replied.

“We have approximately a dozen armed guards waiting for us,” Jackie said as she squinted to locate the compound.

“Shit!” A long pause followed. “Maritza confirmed that?”

“Yes. She’s standing by.”

Disturbed by Jackie’s tone, Scott looked down at the dark compound. She doesn’t sound very confident. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure about the GPS. It seems like—”

“Give me a quick flash on the searchlight!” Scott said firmly. A second later he saw the powerful spotlight flick on, then off. “Come left about ten to fifteen degrees, and hustle the descent.”

“I’m on my way,” Jackie said as she increased her rate of descent, then flexed the yellow snaplights attached to the two nylon rappelling ropes. She shook the colored lights and quickly released the 150-foot ropes. “I have the camp in sight, and the lines are out!”

“Good work,” Scott radioed in a hushed voice. “Better hustle.”

“If I go any faster,” she said with a great deal of tolerance in her voice, “I might run over you before you’re on the ground.”

“I’m almost on the ground,” he said as he approached the compound. “I should’ve popped the top a little earlier.”

“I’m comin’ down like a brick!” Jackie had to force the words out, knowing that Lady Luck held their lives in her hands. “I’ll be there!”