THIRTY FIVE.
Rain fell in heavy
sheets as the United States Marine Corps CH-53E Super Sea Stallion
helicopter cruised toward its destination. The wipers worked
furiously to clear the cockpit windscreen but it was useless. The
pilots were flying by instrument.
At a standstill,
visibility was a scant two hundred feet, but flying at 110 mph it
was reduced to zero. Fortunately, the wind was manageable. The
slow-moving front had stalled over the Philippines, dumping rain
from Manila in the north to Davao in the south. Nothing was moving
that didn't have to.
While most people
sought cover, and either cursed Mother Nature's power or watched it
in wonder, there were those who embraced it. Twenty-five such
individuals sat in the back of the cold, sterile cargo hold that
was designed to carry up to fifty-five marines. All were dressed in
black neoprene scuba suits. Twenty-four of them were U.S. Navy
SEALs and one was an employee of the CIA.
The rain was a real
blessing, enabling Rapp to move up his timetable and launch early.
Nightfall was still several hours away, but you couldn't tell.
Emboldened by the weather and the updates from Coleman that it
looked like the guerrillas had settled in to wait the storm out,
Rapp jumped at the opportunity to get things moving. He considered
alerting Kennedy that they were starting the op but decided against
it. It was three in the morning in Washington and that would
involve waking her up and then bringing her up to speed. He had
neither the inclination nor the time to open the door to
suggestions from the strategists and politicians back in
Washington. At this point they would more than likely complicate
the mission. As far as getting final approval went, he wasn't
worried. The precedent had been set when the President authorized
the rescue operation earlier in the week. The United States wanted
its citizens back and the aggressors would pay.
The original plan had
been to take two Sea Stallions, load up the operators and four
zodiacs, and drop everyone off five miles from the beach one hour
after sunset. When the front finally moved in Rapp consulted with
the pilots and Jackson. The pilots felt the storm would mask their
approach to the point where they could get in close enough to drop
them a mile from the beach with no fear of being spotted or
heard.
Rapp and Jackson had
no problem coming to the same conclusion;
lose the zodiacs and
put everyone on one bird. These types of operations were
complicated enough. Any chance to simplify was an opportunity that
had to be taken. The men were more than capable of off-loading the
zodiacs in the roughest of seas, but it was nonetheless something
else for them to do. And then once ashore they would have to take
time to stash the boats. All of this was preferred to a five-mile
swim when they were up against the clock, but that was no longer an
issue. A one-mile swim for the men was nothing.
One of the crew
members came through the cabin holding up two fingers. There was no
sense in trying to yell over the three turbine engines and six
rotor blades. Those who hadn't already strapped on their fins began
to do so. At the one minute mark the back ramp of the big chopper
was lowered into the down position. On Jackson's command all the
men stood and steadied themselves as best they could.
At the back ramp one
of the crewmen was tethered to the chopper by a safety harness. He
leaned out the open hatch and called out the bird's slow descent
via the in-flight headset. The pilots could see almost nothing
through the windscreen. Instead of holding a true hover the bird
crept forward at five mph. This was intentional, so the men
wouldn't land on top of each other as they entered the water. At
ten feet above the drink the pilots decided they were close enough
and ordered the crew chief to get the men out.
In twos, the
warriors, wearing their big black fins, waddled like penguins to
the sea. Jackson counted the sticks as they jumped off the ramp and
when he and Rapp were the only two left, he grabbed the spook by
the shoulder and in they went.
As the helicopter
climbed into the storm, the men paired off and lined up for the
swim to shore. A quick head count was taken, their position was
verified by GPS and compasses were consulted. Jackson ordered them
to move out and the twenty-five waterborne warriors began slicing
through the water.
Three hundred feet
from the beach the formation halted. The landmass was but a darker
shadow through the curtain of rain. Jackson briefly tried once
again to send in two of his combat swimmers to reconnoiter the
beach, but Rapp overruled him and took off on his own.
Using only his feet
he kicked his way through the salty water until his hands touched
the bottom. He took off his dive fins, secured them and then
removed and stowed his mask. Reaching under the neck of his wet
suit he grabbed and donned the headset of his secure Motorola
radio. Lastly he retrieved his suppressed MP-5 submachine gun from
the swim bag and took it off safety.
He'd outfitted the
weapon with an AN-PVS17 night vision sight and after turning it on
he did a quick check of the jungle. He'd opted for the gun-mounted
scope over wearing the goggles. The reasons were twofold. First, it
was harder to shoot wearing the goggles and second, there was a
good chance the goggles would help to precipitate a headache. He'd
rather trust his eyes and use the gun-mounted scope as he needed
it.
Warm fresh water
pelted his face as he looked up and down the beach. There was
nothing but the rain; rain splashing into the water about him, rain
pelting leaves of the jungle, rain hitting the beach. It was a
serene, steady patter that would deaden almost any man's senses if
exposed to it long enough. Rapp was counting on it to put the
guerrillas to sleep.
So much rain had
fallen that the beach was streaked with gullies of water pouring
from the jungle. Rapp stood there in the water, his senses alert to
all that lay before him. After less than a minute of observation he
decided the chance that Abu Sayyaf was keeping an eye on this one
spot of beach, in this torrential downpour, was minuscule.
The SEALs had been
killed the other night because of an intelligence leak, and this
time he'd made sure no such leak could take place.
After picking his
spot he radioed back to Jackson that he was going feet dry. Holding
the MP-5 in the ready position he came out of the water and darted
across the fifty-odd feet of white sand and through the first line
of palm trees. Standing next to one of the long bent trees he
paused and listened. After ten seconds of silence he moved a little
farther inland and worked his way up the beach and back. Satisfied
that the landing area was clear he radioed for the others to come
ashore.
A few minutes later,
Rapp watched as four heads appeared out of the mist. The four SEALs
stayed partially in the surf and trained their weapons on the
jungle while behind them other black-clad men began rising out of
the water two at a time. Each pair of swim buddies ran up the
beach, some faster than others, depending on their loads. In less
than a minute the entire element was off the beach and
concealed.
As per plan, a
defensive perimeter was set up and the men began donning jungle
fatigues and boots while dive fins were collected and buried. The
wet suits were kept on under the camouflage BDUs to help preserve
body heat. It would be a long night in the rain, and even though
the temperature was in the eighties, being soaked for so long would
slowly sap the men of their valuable energy.
After donning his
fatigues, Rapp pulled a floppy camouflage hat down over his head.
Drops of water poured from the brim. Suddenly, the wind picked up.
With it came a roar through the trees and the rain intensified. The
drops falling from his hat turned into streams and Rapp's thoughts
turned to Coleman. He and his men would be soaked to the bone by
the time they hooked up with them.
Adjusting the lip
mike on his headset, Rapp toggled the transmit button on his
digitally encrypted Motorola radio and spoke.
"Strider, this is
Iron Man. Do you copy, over?" Rapp waited for a reply, cupping a
hand over his free ear.
"Iron Man, this is
Strider. What's your situation?"
"We're on the beach
and about to move out."
"ETA?"
Rapp looked down at
the rain-soaked ground and then up at the rising terrain. What
would normally be a forty-minute hike on dry ground might easily
now turn into a three-hour jaunt. Rapp tried to remain
optimistic.
"If we don't run into
anybody, I'm guessing two hours, maybe a little less."
"We'll be
here."
"What's your sit
rep?"
"Same as last time.
No one's moving."
Rapp was tempted to
ask him how he and his men were doing, but decided not to waste
their time. Coleman would say they were fine regardless of how
miserable they were.
Jackson appeared at
Rapp's side.
"My point man has
already found a path and everyone else is ready to
go."
Rapp nodded and
covered his lip mike.
"Let's move out."
Taking his hand off the mike he said, "Strider, we're on our way.
I'll give you an update in thirty minutes."
The first squad of
eight SEALs started up the narrow footpath into the thickening
jungle with the men spaced a little closer than security would
normally dictate. Jackson and the second squad, along with Rapp,
came next and then the third squad brought up the rear. All
twenty-five heavily armed men quietly disappeared into the jungle
and the pouring rain.