THIRTY EIGHT.
Rapp was relieved to
see Coleman. He wasn't crazy about jungles.
They were great for
concealment, but that went both ways. Behind every tree and bush
loomed the threat of death. Moving through a jungle, even in the
best of conditions, was physically draining. The humidity, the bugs
and the heat all took their toll, but that wasn't the nastiest
part. It was the manifestation of paranoia that really wore you
down. The psychological toll it took on your nerves was far greater
than the way the heat and humidity sapped your strength. The
constant threat of ambush or booby trap meant that every single
footfall on the path was taken with trepidation. Every bush and
tree potentially concealed an enemy waiting to cut you down.
Throughout the
two-hour march from the beach Rapp took comfort in the fact that
Coleman kept reporting that the enemy appeared to be sitting the
storm out. Hopefully, any of the MILF guerrillas on the island were
doing the same. An ambush was unlikely, but a booby trap was still
a real possibility.
They'd stopped twice
for brief breaks so Jackson could get a head count and check in
with Coleman. The storm seemed to gain strength as they made their
way inland. Both Rapp and Jackson understood what this could mean,
and they'd already discussed it with Captain Forester. Back on the
bridge of the Belleau Wood Forester had a much better handle on the
big picture.
Gale-force winds were
now buffeting the flattop with speeds hitting forty miles per hour.
And that wasn't the end of it. The ship's meteorologist was giving
even odds that the front might turn into a full-blown tropical
storm with winds hitting seventy-plus miles per hour. With the
increased threat the amphibious group was now steaming toward
Surigao Strait and the relative protection of the leeward side of
the island. The weather had been an asset until now, but it could
quickly become a hindrance to a very important part of the
operation.
Jackson's men were
spread out in a defensive perimeter around Coleman's position.
Radio silence was to be strictly obeyed unless there was something
important to report. This had nothing to do with a fear of their
conversations being intercepted. Neither Abu Sayyaf, MILF or the
Philippine army had the technology to decipher their transmissions.
Radio silence was simply standard operational procedure so the
commanders could concentrate on the task at hand and keep the
airwaves open.
Brief introductions
were made. Rapp had already brought Jackson up to speed on
Coleman's distinguished Special Forces career, and Coleman was
still connected enough to the teams that he personally knew all of
Jackson's commanders.
"To start things
off," said Rapp, looking mostly at Jackson, "I want to establish
the chain of command." Glancing at Coleman, he continued, "Scott,
you're running the show. No offense, Lieutenant, but he has more
experience with this type of stuff than you."
"No offense taken,"
Jackson replied with sincerity. He was not so dumb as to think he
was going to give orders to the former CO of SEAL Team 6, retired
or not.
Wicker was brought in
on the discussion to try to give them the best picture of what they
were up against, and then the four men headed off through the
soaked jungle to get a firsthand look at the enemy encampment.
Coleman alerted Hackett and Stroble to expect visitors. A short
while later four rain-soaked figures slithered on their bellies
into a position just abreast of the other two men. It was now so
dark that the recesses of the camp could only be seen with the aid
of night vision devices.
Rapp placed a wet
eyebrow up against the rubber cup of his gun scope. He was treated
with a picture of the camp illuminated in shades of green, gray and
black. It was pretty much what he'd expected from listening to
Coleman's reports: four ramshackle lean-tos and two large tents.
Faint light shone from under the bottom of both tents and the
lean-tos were lit with lanterns. From their position Rapp could see
directly into two of the lean-tos. He counted eight terrorists in
one structure and nine in the other.
Taking his eye off
the scope, Rapp asked, "Which hut has the hostages in it?"
Coleman was wearing a
pair of night vision goggles with a single protruding lens, the
type that made the wearer look like an insect.
"The one on the
right."
"Anyone in there with
them?"
"There was." Without
looking away from the village, Coleman asked Hackett, who was lying
next to him, "Kevin, how many tangos are in the tent with the
family?"
Whispering, he
replied, "Eight at last count."
Coleman relayed the
number to Rapp, who estimated the size of the hut and then tried to
imagine how the people would be laid out inside.
"Is the total enemy
count still at sixty?"
"Give or take a
couple," replied Coleman.
Rapp looked at the
two tents and four huts. If the numbers were right, he'd accounted
for twenty-five of the sixty terrorists. That left roughly
thirty-five others divvied up between the other tent and two
lean-tos. Fortunately, it appeared those three structures could be
assaulted without the hostages being caught in a cross fire.
"What are you
thinking, Scott?"
Coleman took a while
to answer. He'd been thinking about his strategy all day.
"We send two four-man
teams around each side of the camp. They take out the lean-tos
while a four-man team takes out the one tent and a five-man team
handles the rescue."
Rapp ran the
numbers.
"That leaves a cover
force of only five."
"We could increase
the cover force if you want to just lob grenades into the other
structures, but my guess is you won't like that."
Rapp frowned. He
instinctively disliked anything that made too much noise.
"It might attract
some unwanted attention."
"Shit," answered the
young lieutenant on Rapp's other side.
"Who's going to hear
it on a night like this? Besides, we're going to have to blow some
trees to clear a landing area for the choppers."
This was a part of
the plan that Rapp had never much liked. There was a small clearing
about a quarter mile from where they were that was to be used as
their extraction point. In order to make it big enough for a CH-53
Sea Stallion to land they would have to enlarge the landing area by
attaching explosives to at least a half-dozen trees and shearing
them off. It was sure to attract some attention, storm or no
storm.
"I'd prefer to avoid
the grenades if possible."
Coleman flipped his
goggles into the up position and looked at Rapp.
"Then we stick with a
five-man cover force." Rapp still seemed not entirely enamored with
the plan.
"Trust me on this.
We'll use one of the SAWs to hit the big tent and take the other
two and set them up for cover. In addition to that I'll be up here
with Kevin and Slick Wicker. They've already got their line of fire
figured and the camp divided into three sectors. If anything pops
up they'll take care of it before you even know it's a
problem."
The SAW Coleman was
referring to was the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. A light machine
gun, the SAW was capable of firing up to 700 rounds per minute and
in the hands of a trained operator the weapon could lay down a
withering amount of suppressive fire.
Rapp nodded.
"You know more about
this stuff than I do."
Flashing his teeth
behind his painted face, Coleman smiled and said, "Yeah, you're a
real Girl Scout. Let me take one guess where you're going to be
during all this."
Rapp allowed himself
a small smile. Coleman knew him well.
"Let's get back to
picking your plan apart for a minute."
"Nope. Not until you
tell me what you've got planned for yourself."
"You know where I'm
gonna be. Someone has to go in there and check things out before we
hit the tent."
"Aren't you married
now?" asked Coleman in a smart-ass tone.
Rapp ignored him.
Coleman knew the answer.
"Let's get back to
the CP and put the finishing touches on this thing before this
storm gets any worse."