Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER SIXTEEN OWNERS OF THE NIGHT

The putrid yet cool swamp had suddenly turned into a thick, muddy mass that made every step an extreme effort. Perspiration covered most of Ortiz’s face as his muscular legs burned. Rolling beads of sweat washed away the insect repellant he had rubbed on his hands, neck, and face. But perhaps it’s better to be in thick mud, Ortiz thought, recalling a section of the intelligence report that mentioned the possibility of alligators — or rather caimans, their close cousins — in the region. He had not been very pleased in reading about that, but since the chance of finding caimans went down dramatically as the swamp thickened, Ortiz was not as concerned as he’d been at first. Thus he became more focused on the mission rather than wondering about being surprised by one of the prehistoric-looking beasts.

About two hours had passed since they had landed, yet it seemed like an eternity as Ortiz struggled to move his body forward. He kept his Colt Commando pressed against his chest, left hand under the barrel, right hand by the trigger casing. The weapon was covered with a thin plastic wrap to prevent its jamming if it accidentally fell into the swamp. Just the sensitive sections were covered, providing Ortiz with enough control of the weapon to fire it at a moment’s notice.

Long gone was the soothing feeling of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d first stepped into the swamp. He forced himself to ignore the extreme burning pain in his legs as he struggled to maintain him momentum in the waist-deep waters. The night was moonless and dark, forcing him to strain his eyes as he scanned a cluster of trees twenty-some feet ahead of him. He estimated they were less than a mile from the objective. The possibility of sentries became all too real.

Ortiz had a fairly good idea of the opposition’s force from Marie’s information, but he knew he shouldn’t get overconfident. Given recent events, security around the complex could be much tighter than she had described. Ortiz had to assume the opposition could be everywhere, more reason to be glad that night was moonless because, unless the enemy also had access to night-vision gear, Mambo would have an edge over them. Actually, Ortiz decided, that would be the second edge Mambo would have over the enemy, the first being the element of surprise. Ortiz knew the importance of that edge. Now technically inside enemy territory, Mambo operated under an important disability — they lacked a home-court advantage. Mambo’s hardware was limited to the automatic weapons each man carried plus the Javelin missiles on the two-man raft being pulled by the two trailing men. The enemy, on the other hand, could not only have hundreds of men available, but also an unlimited supply of firepower. Ortiz shook his head at the thought of their position being discovered by the enemy before the rescue helicopter arrived.

He reached the cluster of trees and twisted his body to correspond with the bends in the heavy foliage. Ortiz had never been anywhere else besides Panama, California, and the southeastern United States, but based on what he had read and what he had been told by veteran soldiers, Guiana was definitely one of the most inhospitable places on-

Damn!

He reached with his right hand and scratched the back of his neck.

Fucking mosquitos!

It had not taken long for the flying invertebrates to figure out that the repellant had washed off.

Ortiz placed the Colt under his left armpit and reached with his right hand into the Velcro-secured pocket on the camouflage gear vest he wore over his fatigues. He squeezed some repellant into his hand, stowed the tube away, and gently rubbed the cool paste all around the back and front of his neck. He frowned when he felt a few lumps already growing on his skin. His annoyance with the insect bites only compounded a growing headache. Ortiz reached for another pocket and grabbed a small plastic bag. It held six extra-strength Tylenol caplets. Ortiz popped two in his mouth and replaced the bag. He took a small sip from his canteen to swallow the caplets.

Firmly clutching the Colt once more, he left the small cluster of trees behind, moving slowly forward. Every step required serious effort as he dragged his exhausted legs through the thick mud. He leaned forward to help his momentum, but still the swamp acted as a brake, pulling him back. He cleared the trees again. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and doubted that he could realistically escape an attack while in the clearing.

He scanned the dark skies. They were clear, star-filled, and moonless. Ortiz reached for the battery-operated Sopelen TN2-1 night-vision goggles. Again, he tucked the Colt under his armpit, put the goggles on, and activated the thermal-imaging system. Suddenly, the dark surroundings came alive in a palette of green hues related to heat signature. The hotter the image, the lighter it showed through the goggles. He looked behind him and instantly spotted Zimmer’s light-green silhouette against a dark-green background. Ortiz quickly did a three-sixty scan of the clearing. There were no anomalies in the dark green pattern.

Continuing toward the next cluster of trees, fifty feet ahead, he heard a sound he’d hoped he would not hear — the low flopping sound of a helicopter.

His mind raced through his options. There weren’t that many. Actually only two. Race as fast as he could toward the tree line — something he didn’t think would be successful. Or… Ortiz spotted the thermal image of the engine exhaust as the helo loomed above the trees.

He didn’t have a choice. He was not sure what the rest of the platoon would do, but he knew what had to be done. Without a second thought, Ortiz bent his legs and lowered the upper part of his body, Colt and night goggles, down into the putrid mud.

Suddenly it all went away. The noise disappeared and a cool, soothing sensation enveloped him. Ortiz kept his eyes shut and silently cursed his bad luck. He wasn’t sure how much time he needed to spend under the mud.

How long is long enough? Twenty, perhaps thirty seconds? A minute maybe?

It didn’t matter. His instincts forced him down until his lungs couldn’t take it any longer, and even then he squeezed out a few more seconds. With his lungs about to burst, Ortiz pushed himself up just enough to keep his head above the surface.

“There you are, Tito. Jesus, brother! We thought you were lost or somethin’.”

Ortiz was momentarily confused. Where was the helo? Why was Zimmer next to him? Why wasn’t he covered with mud like himself?

“You fucking pendejo,” Ortiz hissed. He straightened up, nearly tore the night goggles off his head, and wiped the mud and whatever else was there off his face. “You mean to tell me that I stuck my whole body in shit to prevent the enemy from spotting us and you just stood there? I saw you, carbon. You were on the clearing like me. Why didn’t you—”

“Tito, you overreacted, man. I saw the helo above the trees and then I saw you going in. I was about to dive in also when it turned around and left, man, so I kept on walking in your direction.” He motioned for them to move toward the tree line.

Ortiz went first, reaching the safety of the trees in under a minute. He grabbed the hand-held, waterproof radio on his belt.

“All is clear to the tree line, jefe. Over.”

“Roger, Tito. Proceeding to meet you single file. Five-minute intervals per cross, over.”

“Over ‘n’ out.” Ortiz turned to Zimmer, who stood a few feet behind him.

“Mierda. I can’t believe I did this shit for nothing,” Ortiz whispered as he lay the Colt over a branch and grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. He could barely stand the smell. “It’s bad enough to be walking in this shit, but to have it up your nostrils… yech.”

“Sorry, man. I wish I could… oh, man,” Zimmer said the moment Ortiz finished wiping off most of the mud from his face and neck. “Look at you, man.”

“What about?”

“Leeches, man.”

“Don’t screw around. I ain’t in no mood to…” Ortiz stopped talking the moment his fingers came into contact with a slimy-feeling object on the side of his neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to control his initial impulse to vomit. “Get the fuckers off. Get them off!”

“All right, all right, but keep it down. Don’t move.” Zimmer slung his Colt across his back and pulled out a double-edge, black-painted hunting knife from his belt sheath.

Ortiz shut his eyes and held his breath the moment he felt the cold steel pressed flat against the skin of his neck. Slowly, the blade moved upward, almost as if he were shaving. In that short period of time the leech had already managed to attach itself strongly enough to leave behind a patch of bloody skin on Ortiz’s neck.

“Got one. Fat little bastard.”

Ortiz opened his eyes and stared at the disgusting-looking creature crawling on Zimmer’s knife. Zimmer simply threw it back in the swamp. “Two to go. Guess you won’t have to shave tomorrow, man.”

“Just get them off, man.”

Zimmer grinned and pressed the knife against Ortiz’s neck, removing a second leech along with a chunk of skin. The third one had partially attached itself to Ortiz’s right ear. Zimmer removed it with his fingers.

“All right. You’re back to your pretty self.”

Ortiz managed a thin smile. “Thanks, hermano.”

Zimmer smiled back. “Anytime.”

“You think this thing still works?” Ortiz pointed to the night goggles.

“They fuckin’ better.”

Ortiz cleaned the thermal-imaging system as best he could, put it back on, and activated it.

“Well?” Zimmer asked.

“It’ll do,” Ortiz responded as he scanned the area and satisfactorily noted the dark-green surroundings… shit!

He moved against a tree and motioned Zimmer to do the same.

“What’s going…” Zimmer stopped talking when he noticed Ortiz putting a finger to his lips. Zimmer quickly reached cover behind an adjacent tree.

Ortiz moved to the left and briefly checked the area directly ahead of them. He saw two — no — three sentries. Their light-green silhouettes shone beautifully against the stark background. He looked at Zimmer, also wearing night goggles. Zimmer nodded his head.

Ortiz reached for the radio and turned the volume down.

“Found three sentries. One hundred feet ahead. Permission for silent engagement, over?”

“Careful, Tito. Is Tommy there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Permission to move out. I’ll get two men in there to cover you. Hold for twenty seconds before moving.”

“Roger.” Ortiz holstered the radio and checked his watch. Twenty seconds. He waited.

Ortiz looked at Zimmer and pointed. Zimmer nodded and headed left. Ortiz checked his watch once more. This was it. The real thing. He warily moved to the right, always keeping an eye on the light-green figures a few feet apart from one another, his hands solidly gripping the light submachine gun. He clutched it for lack of something else. In reality he knew he could not use the Colt. That would give away his position. He wished they’d had more time to prepare for the mission, but with the two-hour notice they were lucky to have the gear they had — which was standard Special Forces.

Ortiz reached a spot over a hundred feet to the right of the sentries, and cut left to make a wide semicircle around them. He would attack from an unexpected angle, hitting the sentries from behind, from the place they would be least likely to expect any unfriendlies to come from. The sentries were near the edge of the tree line and slowly moving toward the rest of Mambo.

Suddenly a bright sparkle of green light nearly blinded him. It quickly went away and was replaced by a medium-intensity glow near the head of one of the sentries. Ortiz shook his head.

A cigarette. The idiot lit a cigarette!

That puzzled Ortiz. Are these guys so secure in their position that they don’t think anyone would dare attack from this side? Do they think an attack most likely would come from the beach?

Ortiz completed the semicircle and reached a spot a hundred feet directly behind the sentries, who were still moving in the same direction. He spotted Zimmer forty feet to his right. Ortiz lifted his right hand in a fist and slowly moved it toward the enemy.

Zimmer nodded and slung the Colt behind his back. Ortiz did the same, and reached for his hunting knife. He briefly stared at the swamp and exhaled. There was no other way. Ortiz immersed his body in the swamp once more, only leaving his head out. The sentries had stopped and scanned the clearing in between the cluster of trees where they were and the trees where Mambo would be by now. He blinked once more. A second sentry had lit a cigarette. Incredible!

Kicking his legs until they hurt, Ortiz propelled himself through the muddy hell. His neck came in contact with the swamp surface. He knew what that meant, but that didn’t matter any longer. Only the sentries mattered. If they could be called that, he thought as he closed the gap to fifty feet. He could hear their voices. Sound traveled well over a smooth surface.

Forty feet. He looked over his right shoulder. Zimmer was there. Also up to his neck in it. Ortiz lifted one hand out of the mud and pointed to the right-most sentry. Zimmer nodded. Ortiz shifted his gaze back toward the enemy. Thirty feet. He clutched the knife’s handle so hard his fingers grew numb from lack of circulation. He couldn’t help it. His mind was almost on automatic as he closed the gap to less than twenty feet.

His approach was quiet, calculated. He used the noise created by the sentries to mask his own. He knew Zimmer would do the same.

Ortiz briefly gazed upward. Toward the stars. The crystalline sky looked majestic, dazzling, peaceful. He enjoyed it for another brief second before training his eyes on the left-most sentry. The one with the cigarette in his right hand. The man took another draw and turned his head to the side. Ortiz saw his profile. A young man, he noted.

Ten feet. Ortiz heard a few words. They were speaking in French. They were too close. Ortiz knew he had to act right away or risk detection. Would he be able to propel himself out of the mud fast enough?

He eyed Zimmer, the right-most sentry, the left-most sentry, and back to Zimmer. Their eyes locked. Ortiz held up his left hand and counted one, two, three with his fingers.

Now!

They lunged simultaneously, knives extended in front, aimed for the throat. Ortiz reached his prey in less than three seconds, catching him entirely by surprise as he was about to take another draw from his half-smoked cigarette. The sentry’s hand never made it to his face. Ortiz drove the ten-inch blade into the base of the sentry’s neck. He heard the nauseating sound of broken bone and ripped cartilage as the stainless-steel blade went deeper and exited through the larynx. An explosion of air and foam followed as the sentry brought both hands to his neck before falling face-first into the swamp. Ortiz let go of the knife and turned to the sentry in the middle, whose face showed obvious surprise. His eyes were open wide in fear as his fumbling fingers tried to reach for the automatic weapon that hung loose from his left shoulder.

Ortiz lunged and pushed the sentry on his back and forced him into the swamp. He grabbed the sentry’s lapel with one hand and pushed his head back with the palm of the other hand. The sentry let go a half scream before his head went under. Ortiz eyed Zimmer. He had disabled the right-most sentry. Ortiz shifted his gaze back toward the sentry he had pinned down in the swamp. The sentry’s body was under except for his arms, which viciously flapped in a desperate attempt to free himself from Ortiz’s death lock, but Ortiz kept up the pressure. He knew it was just a matter if time. The sentry had screamed before his head went under. That meant he’d exhaled instead of inhaled. The more the sentry fought the faster he would use up the little air that remained in his lungs. Ortiz was right. The arm movement slowed to a halt. Ortiz counted to thirty before letting go. When he did, he noticed the arms slowly sinking.

“Damn, Tito. You sure can be one mean bastard.”

Ortiz stared at Zimmer. “Can’t say I was proud of it, but we can’t let their people know we’re here.” He reached for his handkerchief and wiped off his neck. “How many, hermano?”

Zimmer got close. “Just one. How about me?”

Ortiz examined Zimmer’s neck. “Two.”

A few minutes later he reached for the radio. “Ortiz here. Sentries neutralized. Area’s clear.”

“All right. Let’s move it, Tito. You two hide the bodies and keep moving forward. We’ll catch up with you. This area is likely to be roaming with patrol helos in a few minutes.”

“Roger. Moving out.” He replaced the radio. “You heard the boss, Tommy. Let’s get outta here.”

“You got it, brother.”

Vanderhoff picked up the phone on the first ring. “Yes?”

“Sir, I think we may have a situation.”

“Explain.”

“A helicopter just made a routine run east of here and they can’t get a response from the patrol team on the ground.”

“Equipment breakdown perhaps?”

“Ah, no, sir. Each man carried a portable radio. I doubt all three are malfunctioning at the same time.”

Vanderhoff inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself down. He checked his watch. Less than an hour to go before the launch. He had to keep the intruders away for another hour. After that it would be over. There was nothing anyone would be able to do.

“Send all available men out!” he snapped back. “I want those two helicopters delivering security personnel out there immediately. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Vanderhoff slammed down the phone and tightened his fists. This was the most critical phase of the operation. It was the only way to be sure Lightning would be destroyed. Doing it otherwise would leave too much to chance and would give NASA time to figure out a way to save the wounded orbiter.

Wearing a set of GEC Avionics “Cat’s Eyes” Night Vision Goggles, Lieutenant Crowe stared at the fuel drogue on the end of the sixty-foot-long hose hanging down and behind the tail of the KC-97 tanker. Crowe’s wingman, Stallion Two, patiently took second place behind him. The advanced NVGs, secured to a bracket mounted on the front of his helmet, superimposed two smaller combiner lenses in front of Crowe’s eyes. Intensified outside light, reflected onto the combiner lenses through a mirror and prism design, provided Crowe with a bright, green-tinted view of the moonless night.

Crowe lifted the collective lever and twisted the motorcycle-style throttle grip at the end, increasing main rotor RPM and also changing the rotor blade profile, creating additional lift. The maneuver empowered the 36,000-pound heavy assault transport helicopter to climb to a comfortable one thousand feet at 160 knots.

He eyed the approaching drogue and then his helo’s seven-foot-long refueling probe extending out from the right side of the nose. The drogue was less than ten feet away.

Crowe inched the cyclic forward. The trick was to approach the drogue fast. A slow approach would cause the drogue to be pushed down by the air from the main rotor. Crowe eyed the drogue. He aligned the refueling probe as best he could with it. Then in one move, he gently pushed the cyclic forward. It took about one second for the Sikorsky helicopter to leap forward.

Contact! The probe reached the drogue and snagged it.

“Leaded or unleaded, Stallion One?”

“Don’t matter,” he responded. “They all come from the same tank anyway. I’ve only got five hundred pounds of juice left. Top me off.”

“Will do, Stallion One. Are you gonna want the windows washed?”

“Ah, no thanks.” Crowe smiled. Someone was in a good mood aboard that tanker.

Two minutes later he eyed the fuel gauges. “All right, guys. I think that’ll just about do it. Thanks a bunch.”

“Our pleasure, Stallion One. Good luck on your exercise.”

Crowe raised his right eyebrow. Exercise? Okay, so someone had given that explanation to the tanker’s crew. They — whoever “they” were — wanted to keep the number of people involved at a minimum. It made sense, he decided. That way, when things go ape-shit, “they” don’t have to tell too many people to keep a lid on it. Covert operations. He’d flown them enough times in Vietnam to be able to smell them and this one stunk. The worst part of it was that he had no idea what was going on. Just that he had to pick up an Army Special Forces team. Nothing else. He had been given a rendezvous point and a time. He was to wait for no more than five minutes and would keep rotor RPM high enough to leave in seconds.

Crowe gently maneuvered his helo to the side to make way for Stallion Two. He flew without a copilot. The two rookies were onboard Stallion Two, which approached the drogue too slow. It went under.

Crowe spoke on his voice-activated headset. “Back off and go back a bit faster.”

“Roger, Stallion One.”

The Stallion let the drogue move forward about twenty feet before it moved in again. This time Crowe watched approvingly as the large helo approached the drogue at a higher speed, snagging it.

“Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Crowe checked his watch. They had forty-five minutes left.

Vanderhoff finished dialing Chardon’s private number. He heard it ring twice before the general’s rough voice crackled through Vanderhoff’s speaker box.

“Oui?”

“Wake up, General. We’re in trouble and I need the service of a team of your elite Force d’Action Rapide. I might be getting paranoid, but we just lost contact with three of my men minutes after their deployment. There is a chance Stone might have reached his people. We can’t afford to take a chance with the launch thirty minute away.”

“You’re right, monsieur. I’ll give the order immediately under the pretext of a possible terrorist attack on the facility.”

“That will be perfect.”

Crowe kept his height just ten feet above the green-tinted waves at a comfortable 150 knots. He watched the KC-95 tanker disappear in the night to his north as it headed back to Howard. He eyed the fuel gauges and estimated he had roughly two hours of flying time. Just enough to go in, pick up his load, and get back to Blue Ridge before all hell broke loose.

He frowned. Not only was he wired out of his mind from the several cups of coffee he’d had before leaving, bus his Sea Stallion was essentially unarmed. His helicopter was strictly a rescue craft, not a light infantry division air-support aircraft like the Sikorsky UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter or so many other support machines. All he had to protect his helo were the two armed Marines in the back. They could use their M-60 machine guns to give the ground troops some level of cover during extraction. Besides that his bird was vulnerable. Crowe was relying on the night and his proficient flying and combat experience to get him and the ground troops out of this one alive.

He eyed the radar altimeter and noticed it inching upward a bit. He couldn’t afford to go above fifty feet or risk being spotted. Although it was nighttime, the NVG provided Crowe with a clear image of the ocean’s surface. He lowered the collective and applied forward cyclic pressure. The Stallion dropped back down to a radar-safe altitude.

He looked to his starboard, to Stallion Two, also flying a few feet over the waves. A couple of good sticks, he reflected. Inexperienced but good.

The coastal lights became visible. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to rendezvous time. Right on time.

Ortiz was the first to spot the ten-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the compound. He noticed that most of the compound appeared to have been created by filling in the swamp.

The edge of the swamp ended roughly fifty feet from the fence. Ortiz could not have been more relieved than he was the moment he stepped out of the muddy waters onto solid ground. He dropped to the ground and hid behind several palm trees, obviously brought there from the coast to isolate the compound from the stark surroundings. Zimmer crawled next to him. Both removed their night goggles.

“What do you think, Tito?” he barely whispered.

Ortiz pointed to his right. Zimmer looked in that direction and slowly nodded. Ortiz then pointed to the left. Same thing.

Zimmer looked at Ortiz, who held up his hand holding out two fingers. Zimmer nodded once more and then slowly rolled to the left, Ortiz to the right. They allowed a twenty-foot gap before stopping and rising to a crouch. There were two sentries, also spaced by twenty feet. They stood guard on the outside of the fence facing Ortiz’s direction. Less than thirty feet from where Ortiz was hidden in the trees, the guard was brilliantly backlit by the powerful halogens that bathed the large rocket a few hundred feet away on the other side of the fence. The lights gave Ortiz an advantage. Ortiz could see the guard but the guard couldn’t see him.

Crawling on his knees and elbows over the sandy terrain, Ortiz twisted his body as he sneaked through the trees. He stopped every few feet and remained still for a minute. The guard gave no sign of alert. Fifteen feet. Ortiz removed the hunting knife from the sheath and held it by the blade between his right thumb and index fingers, preparing to execute another often-practiced Special Forces technique.

Ten feet.

Ortiz slowly rose to a crouch, hiding behind the light undergrowth at the edge of the gravel road that surrounded the compound. He shifted is gaze to Zimmer, who was already waiting for him. Ortiz clicked his radio once, twice, thrice, giving the signal. He raised the knife above his head and threw it with all his might. The knife left the darkness and briefly reflected the halogen lights as it streaked across the air and plunged itself into the guard’s chest.

Ortiz lunged, closing the gap in a few seconds. The guard looked down in disbelief. He was about to scream for help when Ortiz jammed his left hand over the guard’s mouth and drove his right knee into the guard’s groin. His right-hand palm struck the knife’s handle, driving it deeper into the sentry’s chest. The knife stopped on something. A rib maybe. Ortiz struck it again. This time the knife went all the way in.

His gaze locked with the sentry’s eyes until Ortiz saw there was no life left in them. He yanked the knife out and jumped to the side as blood jetted from the wound and the body fell to the ground face-first. Ortiz dragged the corpse back to the jungle and hid it in the undergrowth. Zimmer did the same with the body of the other guard.

Ortiz reached for the radio. They had achieved a “beach-head.”

Vanderhoff turned his swivel chair and looked at the Athena V rocket. The restraining tower slowly moved to the side. T minus five minutes. Just a little while longer, he thought.

Ortiz and Zimmer helped get the raft past the palm trees and through the light undergrowth as the rest of Mambo took defensive positions near the fence. Siegel deployed his men efficiently — three teams with five men each. Siegel, Ortiz, Zimmer, and two others would remain with the Javelins. They would be Mambo One. Mambo Two would take a defensive position fifty feet up the gravel road. Mambo Three was fifty feet in the other direction. As a backup, Siegel had selected a spot near the landing zone as their emergency fallback position in case things went sour.

“All right, Tito. It’s your show now,” Siegel said.

Ortiz nodded and leaned over the raft. “Say, Tommy. Gimme a hand, would ya?”

Zimmer walked next to him.

“Help me take the plastic off these missiles.”

The weapon of choice was the British-made Javelin instead of the commonly used Stinger for the simple reason that the Stinger was a heat-seeker, which meant there was a possibility of the missile going for the wrong target during launch, since the hottest point of the rocket’s exhaust lay several feet below the nozzle. The Javelin, on the other hand, could be manually guided to the target.

Ortiz took the shoulder-launched aiming unit and removed the protective plastic. He then grabbed the first missile-canister combination and clipped it on to the aiming unit. “There. I’m ready anytime.”

Zimmer gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? That’s it?”

“Yep. That’s all there is to it.”

Siegel approached them. “You guys about—”

His words were cut short by the fast rattle of several automatic weapons. Ortiz jumped back when three bullets erupted from Siegel’s chest, propelling him against Zimmer. Both landed on the ground. Siegel lay convulsing.

“Jesus Christ, man! They hit Siegel. Siegel’s been hit!” Zimmer screamed as he tried to drag Siegel to safety.

Ortiz grabbed Zimmer by the shoulder, pulled him away from the raft, and glanced back at Siegel, who lay still on his side, facing them. His wide-open eyes told Ortiz all he needed to know. There was nothing they could do for him. As platoon sergeant, second in command, Ortiz was now in charge.

The entire world appeared to erupt around them as bullets showered the gravel road and sandy terrain. Ortiz went into a roll. He rolled as hard as he possibly could. The sky and sand changed places as he gained momentum with every roll. He had to reach the safety of the palm trees. He continued rolling. He would know when to stop. Soon, he thought, estimating he covered three or four feet with every roll. Rocks and other ground debris bruised him. He slammed hard against the wide trunk of a palm tree. It hurt but was expected. Ortiz knew what to do next.

As the ear-piercing whine of near-misses rang in his ears, he swiftly twisted his body around the palm tree and cautiously rose to a deep crouch on the other side. He rested his back against the tree and quickly shifted his gaze to the right. Zimmer was there. Ortiz looked to his left, saw no one there. Puzzled, he looked back at Zimmer, who shook his head slowly and pointed toward the light undergrowth. Ortiz understood. Three had died in their team, including Siegel. Ortiz reached for the radio.

“This is Mambo One! Situation report!” Ortiz screamed as loud as he could.

“Mambo Two. We’ve taken three casualties. Someone’s sneaked up on us. Can’t tell where the fire’s coming from. Must be using flash suppressors. The bastards got us pinned down. Can’t leave the cover of the trees!”

“Keep cover ‘n’ fire only if you got a clear target. Save your ammo. Repeat, save your ammo! Mambo Three, are you there, over? Mambo Three? Mambo Two, any word from Mambo Three?”

“Ah, negative, Mambo One.”

Ortiz clenched his jaw in rage, frustration, and sheer disbelief. Mambo had lost at least six soldiers during the first twenty seconds of fighting without inflicting any damage on the enemy, not counting losses from Mambo Three. Not a very impressive record. He checked his watch. Launch was due any second now. He eyed the Javelin missile launcher assembly. It lay next to the now-deflated raft, roughly thirty feet away.

“Dammit, Tommy, can you see where the fire’s comin’ from?”

“Shit, no! Can’t even show my nose without getting’ it blown off.”

We’re in the shit now, thought Ortiz.

Vanderhoff picked up the phone. “Yes” What is all the commotion about?”

“Gunfire, sir. We spotted intruders in Section A on the other side of the fence. We have over twenty men engaged at the moment.”

“Keep it under control. The launch must go on as planned. Keep them pinned down. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Vanderhoff hung up the phone and checked his watch. Less than a minute to go.

Ortiz couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be now or never. “I’m goin’ back, Tommy!”

“What? You’re crazy, man!”

“That’s our mission, hermano. That’s what Siegel and the others died for! I gotta do it.” Ortiz dropped to the ground and began to crawl toward the raft. Then he heard the powerful roar. The earth trembled and night became day as a huge ball of orange flames erupted from the launchpad. Ortiz didn’t glance in that direction, although he did notice that the shooting had at least temporarily subsided. He kicked his legs harder and harder, gaining foot after agonizing foot of terrain, closing the gap. The raft was now a mere ten feet away. He had to reach it. He was the only one, besides Siegel, who could operate the British-made surface-to-air weapon.

Five feet. Still no fire. He dragged his body through the last few feet, and smiled when his hands came in contact with the cold aluminum canister of the Javelin system. He sat up, rested the weapon on his shoulder, and armed it. The self-contained system came to life. Ortiz quickly acquired the target in the monocular sights. The rocket was beginning to leave the ground. The cloud of smoke and debris seemed small in comparison to the space shuttle launch Ortiz had witnessed several years back, but by no means was it a minor launch.

The enemy found him. The earth exploded as rounds impacted just short. Ortiz didn’t sway. His concentration focused on the departing rocket several hundred feet away, he squeezed the trigger and felt the missile come alive and exit the aiming unit. He waited. The flares to the missile went off and were automatically detected by a sensor in the arming unit in order to gather the missile to the center of Ortiz’s field of view.

The twenty-six-pound missile reached Mach 1.8 in a matter of seconds as it made its way toward the rocket. Ortiz kept the target centered in his sights. The semi-automatic line-of-sight guidance system generated signals that were sent to the Javelin missile’s control surfaces via a radio link.

A bullet struck the side of the aiming unit. Ortiz staggered back, jerking the aiming unit toward the sky. The Javelin responded and drifted upward.

Mierda!

He recovered quickly. He glanced toward the launchpad. The rocket was roughly ten feet in the air and quickly gaining altitude and speed. Ortiz remembered Marie telling them that the best time to destroy the rocket after lift-off was during the first fifteen seconds, before the rocket shot up at great speed.

Ortiz discarded the used canister, jumped to the raft, grabbed the second missile unit, and quickly clipped it on to the aiming unit.

Even flying at treetop level, Crowe saw the initial blast as the rocket began its launch. It was visible from miles around, creating enough light that his night goggles’ automatic gain control decreased sensitivity to the point of being ineffective. He spoke into his voice-activated radio.

“Mambo, this is Stallion One, over.”

No response.

“Mambo, Stallion One here. Over.”

“Jesus, Stallion One, Mambo here. Hurry! The bastards found us. There’s at least six dead. Repeat, at least six dead. Currently tryin’ to complete mission. Can you read our signal on radar, over?”

“Affirmative, Mambo. Heading your way right now.”

This time it was different. Ortiz rested his head on a rock and kept the tip of the rocket lined up with his sights. The Javelin’s tail of smoke went straight for the target. He saw a small explosion near the rocket’s cone.

Crowe noticed something wrong. The large rocket had been slowly ascending in what appeared to be a smooth climb, but that had changed a second ago, when something had struck it. He now understood the mission of the ground team, and silently cursed his superior officers for not giving him the entire story. The Stallions were too close.

“Break left, Stallion Two! My God! Break hard left!”

Too late. The huge rocket stumbled out of control. It turned on its side and quickly accelerated toward the perimeter of the complex, straight toward them.

Crowe threw the cyclic left, forcing his helo into a wickedly tight turn. He could feel the branches tearing at the Stallion’s underside. He ignored it and kept the turn at the same level. The large rocket hit the ground at great speed. Tens of thousands of pounds of volatile chemicals went off at once less than five hundred feet from their position.

“We’ve been hit, Stallion One! Mayday. Mayday. This is Stallion Two. We’re going down!”

“Keep the pressure on the cyclic, Stallion Two! Keep the pressure!”

Instinctively, Crowe put both hands on the cyclic and pulled it back in anticipation of the downward shock wave. It came, forcing the heavy rescue helo down, but the back pressure kept the Stallion’s nose above the horizon.

Stallion One, we can’t control it. Can’t control—”

Crowe caught a bright flash to his right. It was quickly followed by a thundering roar.

“Madre de Dios, Tommy! Run for your life, hermano! One of the rescue helos just blew up!”

“I’m runnin’, man. I’m runnin’!”

Ortiz raced back toward the swamp. The blast has ignited most of the palm trees around that section of the chain-link fence, or actually where the fence had been. The heat intensified. Ortiz himself had been lifted off the ground and thrown ten feet by the powerful explosion. He had landed a few feet from Zimmer, who had remained behind a palm tree.

Now they both ran as fast as they possibly could. The area was in flames and Ortiz was certain there would be hell to pay for this. The owners of that rocket would not be pleased to see it destroyed in front of their noses.

“What are we gonna do, man? What the fuck?”

“We move inland. Back to where we came from. Back to the — look, man, the second evac helo!”

“Mambo, Stallion One here. Do you copy?”

Static.

“Mambo, this is Stallion One, over.”

Nothing.

Crowe’s fears were being confirmed. The explosion had occurred very close to Mambo’s last tracked position. He exhaled.

“Stallion One, Blue Ridge here. What in the hell is going on over there?” It was Davenport’s voice crackling through his headphones.

“We lost Stallion Two, sir. That’s what in the hell is going on. It caught debris from the rocket and exploded the moment it hit the ground. Nobody could survive that. Jesus, sir! Why weren’t we told about the rocket? We could have avoided the crash. Damn!”

“What about the ground team?”

“Got something on radar, but nobody answers my calls.”

“Radio trouble?”

“Could be. I’ll hang around for a few more minutes, sir. Maybe I can spot them.”

“What’s your fuel situation, Stallion One?”

“Less than a thousand pounds, sir, but there’s always air-to-air refueling.”

“Stand by, Stallion One.”

Crowe pushed the cyclic forward and flew at less than five feet over the swamp with his landing lights on. They have to be around here somewhere, he thought as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the radar screen and the horizon.

He hit the intercom switch. “You guys see anything back there? he asked the two Marines.

“Ah, no, sir. Not a thing yet… wait… wait. I got something! I see a few men running away from the fence and into the swamp.”

“Which way?” Crowe pulled back the cyclic and stopped in a cold hover. He added right rudder and did a three-sixty scan. There! He spotted them. About three hundred feet to the right.

“Stallion One, Blue Ridge. Standing order is to return immediately. Repeat, return immediately!”

“Sir, I got soldiers in plain view. They look like our men, sir.”

“Have you made contact with them?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Listen up, Stallion One. This order comes straight from the top. Get your ass back here. You’re low on fuel and we have no authorization to get a tanker back this way. Come home. Repeat, come home now!”

Crowe tightened his grip on the cyclic. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Those men were so close. If he could only take a closer look, perhaps he—

“Kenny, if you ever want to fly again, get your ass back in here right now! We can’t afford another crash!”

Crowe eyed the fuel gauges. Nine hundred pounds plus a five-minute reserve. Barely enough. He hastily added power and rudder, and turned the helo around.

“Stallion One, returning to base.”

“Wait! Wait! We’re here! Come back!” Ortiz shouted when he watched the helicopter turn around.

“They’re gone, brother. The bastards left us!”

Ortiz turned his head left. Zimmer had just come up from his right. His face was covered with mud, save for his eyes and open mouth.

“Damn! I can’t believe they didn’t see us, Tommy.” He reached for his radio. It was gone. “Mierda!”

“What is it?”

“My radio. It’s gone.”

Zimmer looked for his. It was still strapped to his belt. He retrieved it and handed it to Ortiz.

“Puta! This is incredible,” Ortiz said upon inspecting the hand-held unit.

“What is?”

“Your radio’s busted. Look.” He showed Zimmer the crack along the back.

“Try it anyway.”

Ortiz exhaled and brought it to his lips. “Mambo One. This is Mambo One. Anyone out there, over?”

Not even static came through the small speaker. Ortiz shook his head.

“Well, this is just fuckin’ great,” Zimmer said. “What the hell are we supposed to do now? They probably think we’re dead!”

“Damn.” Ortiz set the radio back to emergency-transmission mode. The unit responded with a small blip. That portion of the radio was operational. He shifted his gaze back to Zimmer. “At least they’ll know where we are. It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.”

Zimmer shook his head. “That could help another rescue helo to pinpoint us, but what about the rest of Mambo?”

“I don’t know. There were two radios per team. At our last radio check, Mambo Two had at least one working radio, but Mambo Three didn’t — that’s if any of ‘em’s still alive. So Mambo Two’s our only chance. The problem’s that the rocket exploded closer to them than us.”

“You think they…”

“Don’t know, hermano. All we can do is head for the rendezvous point ‘n’ hope the rest of Mambo does the same. If we can get a group of five or six, we might have a chance. Now let’s go before the enemy gets here.”

Stice hung up the phone. The operation had been a success but at the cost of one helicopter and a platoon of men. He would report it like that to the President.

He thought about a rescue operation, but in his mind that was too risky. Mambo was a disposable asset. They had done their job and now the U.S. government would take care of their families and at the same time issue a standard statement of denial of involvement if any part of the operation ever became public.

He closed the file and set it to the side.

“Houston? Lightning.”

“Go ahead, Lightning.”

“Things are getting too critical up here. The atmosphere inside the crew module has reached a toxic level. I’m reading seventy-six-percent nitrogen, nineteen-percent oxygen, and five-percent carbon monoxide. I’m afraid our initial estimates were too optimistic. The air is already unsafe.” Kessler kept his eyes on the oxygen level. A normal atmosphere was composed of seventy-nine-percent nitrogen and twenty-one-percent oxygen. Carbon monoxide was usually removed by Lightning’s atmosphere-revitalization subsystem, mixed with nitrogen and oxygen, and injected back into the crew module, but with Lightning operating only on one fuel cell and one oxygen tank, the subsystem could not maintain an adequate amount of oxygen in the air.

“We are confirming your reading, Lightning.”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to suit up. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe in here.”

“We copy, Lightning. Don’t take any chances. Carbon monoxide will make you sleepy. Get in your suits and call us back.”

“Roger.”

Kessler dove through a hatch and reached the mid-deck compartment. Jones was still unconscious. Kessler approached the large Texan on the horizontal sleeping station, removed the retaining Velcro straps, and gently pulled him toward the air-lock hatch.

He crawled inside the air lock, grabbed a folded personal rescue ball, and pushed it through the hatch into the mid-deck compartment. He unzipped it and brought it closer to Jones. The rescue ball was also made out of tough Ortho fabric over alternate layers of Mylar and Dacron.

He guided Jones into the ball, making sure that his upper body remained straight. Kessler bent Jones’s legs, zipped up the ball, and activated the life-support system on its side. The ball quickly filled with oxygen.

Satisfied that his friend was safe, Kessler suited up and returned to the flight deck. In the twenty minutes that it had taken him to suit up and get Jones inside the ball, the oxygen level had dropped another two percent.