The warrior code, p.17
The Warrior Code, page 17
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
Matt feared the day when he would have to tell operating SEALs what to do while not sharing the risks they were taking. Maybe that was the time to depart the life; he wouldn’t be the first officer who got out of the teams for that same reason.
Matt stepped back and took a last look. He was mission ready. He needed to clear his mind of all this bullshit and switch to operator mode. He’d never promised Tina anything as far as the future was concerned.
It was an unspoken understanding between the two of them. But Matt was aware that she was ready to make the next step. He might have been sucked down that rabbit hole but for the oddly-timed call to arms.
The last thing Matt expected was to be assigned to a SPECAT combat mission while on shore duty. It was crazy, but he was glad it happened. It’d stirred up his sense of purpose again.
As he stood there, being honest with himself, he knew he wasn’t ready to settle down, and he also knew he needed to tell Tina about this decision when he returned to Coronado. It was time for her to move on with her life.
His mind was clear. His job was to take Boone and Oby into Colombia and save Senior Chief Auger. Boone and Oby had the same determined look etched on their faces and felt the same desire to pull their friend out of the mess he was in.
The intelligence types had continued to express their pessimism, telling Matt there was a little chance the two American hostages would survive their ordeal. At a minimum, they believed the enlisted hostage was already dead, since he wasn’t valuable enough to ransom.
Matt didn’t buy into that bullshit. Auger was alive, and they were going to find his ass, rescue him, and give him shit about getting caught over beers back in Coronado. He suddenly felt really hungry. Matt walked over to the table covered with food. He pushed all thoughts of the future and Tina aside; it was time to lock it down.
The sound of an approaching helicopter grew steadily until the hangar doors rattled. Their ride to Colombia had arrived. As Matt joined his teammates for their last hot meal for the next few days, he pondered the object of their reconnaissance, Senior Chief Auger.
His intuition told him that his friend and mentor was still alive. He was a tough son of a bitch, that was for sure; so if anyone could survive this ordeal, he would.
Matt took another bite of his sandwich and looked back over his shoulder, peering through the open hangar doors. He watched as the MH-53 helicopter crew loaded the versatile aircraft. The dugout canoe was sitting nearby, mounted on a standard boat trailer. Would that thing fit?
Matt observed the army aircrew take the commercial boat trailer and roll it straight up into the cargo bay. The canoe was too long to fit and allow the rear cargo doors to close, so the tail ramp would have to stay down for the flight. The ass end of the dugout poked out of the helicopter a good three feet or so. It looked goofy, but he was sure the air force boys knew what they were doing.
Chapter Thirty-One
The overall load of boat, trailer, and SEALs was no problem for the heavy lift MH-53. Once the boat and trailer were cinched down, one of the crewmen walked toward the mouth of the hangar and caught Boone watching him.
The two professionals gave each other a thumbs-up. Both had a job to make this all come together and a shared desire to see this particular mission go well. America didn’t leave her fighting men behind.
Boone looked at Matt. “All right boss, the crew chief signaled they are ready; it’s time to saddle up!”
“Okay, Boone.” Matt saw that Oby was grinning at him. The waiting was finally over.
The three SEALs gulped down the rest of their meal, jogged back to the equipment staging tables to gather up their gear, and then walked together toward the helicopter. The engines were beginning to crank up, whining loudly as if in protest.
The reconnaissance team climbed up the tail ramp, tossing their backpacks and weapons into the boat. The re-breathers and dive bags had been secured in the canoe earlier. All the mission equipment needed to be secured in a way that prevented loss if the boat capsized during insertion.
There were no connections inside the dugout to attach equipment, so Oby had drilled holes along the top edge of the canoe and placed small eye bolts in each. This created a system of anchoring points to snap or bungee in their backpacks.
Oby finished the job by running a piece of parachute cord through each eye bolt, around the entire circumference of the canoe. This gave the three SEALs even more flexibility to stow things where they made the most sense once they were in the river.
Oby checked the outboard motor lying in the bottom of the boat. It was secured to several of his attachment hooks, but he double-checked to make sure it wasn’t going to shift around during the flight. Meanwhile, Boone checked the rest of the mission loadout, making sure their packs and weapons were tied into the canoe.
The rotors were up to full speed now, making it impossible to be heard. Matt stood at the tail ramp reading over the flight path to the DEA refueling spot located in the northern region of Colombia.
The DEA controlled access to their forward base for a distance of ten miles. As a result, Matt and the senior planners believed the short refueling stop would not compromise the reconnaissance mission by giving the FARC advance warning of their operation.
The crew chief grabbed Matt by the arm and directed him to join Oby and Boone on the passenger seats, made of interwoven red nylon webbing. He looked at his teammates and gave a questioning thumbs-up.
They both responded with a solid thumbs-up, indicating they were satisfied with the mission loadout and personally ready to go. Matt nodded, then sat down and snapped his seat belt in place.
The helicopter crew chief gave them all an okay sign to check that the SEALs were ready for takeoff. The team responded in kind and the crew chief dropped his hand. Thirty seconds later the big MH-53 rose into the hot Panamanian air, spun right on its axis, dipped its nose, and accelerated as it gained height. They were on their way. Operation Green Dagger was underway.
Once at cruising altitude, the crew chief handed Matt an aircraft headset, allowing him to check in with the pilots. From this point forward and until landing in Colombia, the pilot in command was leading the mission.
He would keep Matt updated on their progress and on any changes passed to him regarding the operation, such as weather or intelligence updates. He also would pass the word if the mission was scrubbed before they landed at the refueling site.
DEA Camp Twenty-Six - Colombia
After more than two hours of flight time, the MH-53 began reducing power, easing down incrementally in the thick jungle air. The DEA forward operating base or FOB was constructed of earth and light materials. The mix of simple buildings and tents gave the impression that the site was a mining operation instead of a secret counter-narcotics base.
The United States had a vested interest in interdicting the flow of coca leaves or coca paste from Colombia to processing centers in Mexico. This was accomplished, in partnership with the Colombian Army, by using American surveillance technology to detect coca fields and their associated harvest camps.
Once the coca leaves were mashed, they were transported along thousands of tiny jungle trails, traffic nearly impossible to distinguish from the normal movement of legitimate farmers.
Once the coca-growing areas were discovered, the Colombian Army took over. They used a wide range of methods to totally destroy the crops and timed it so there was little to no time left in the growing season to reconstitute the lost crop. Ground forces descended into the camps and continued the process of destroying the product that had been harvested but not transported.
Matt and his team were landing at camp twenty-six for only a few minutes. As much as he would love to get out of the helicopter and explore the FOB, talk to the DEA agents, and learn about their operations, the crew chief had told the three SEALs in mid-flight that they would not be exiting the aircraft during the ten-minute refueling event.
The MH-53 stopped its forward twenty feet above the metal plates marking the landing pad. The pilots descended slowly, losing altitude a few feet at a time until it finally settled on the metal landing pad and stopped moving.
The rotors continued to spin at a low rate of rotation as Matt watched a four-man team pull a long black fuel hose from the large flexible fuel storage container nearby.
The field storage devices being used to refuel the aircraft were called fuel blivets. The flexible storage containers could be delivered by boat, truck, or were transportable by air, sling-loaded under a helicopter. Their thick rubber walls were strong enough to hold the liquid and not leak or burst when handled roughly or dropped from less than forty feet in the air.
Matt checked the digital map on his tablet. They were close, only a short flight away from their primary river insertion point, designated by the code word SPLASH. He estimated that adding together the time left in the refueling exercise and the transit time to SPLASH, he and his team had thirty minutes left until feet wet.
As always, Matt ran through the mission from front to back, checking off each critical element to ensure for the last time that nothing was overlooked. Once finished, he relaxed. Maybe he could catch a cat nap before SPLASH.
He saw that his two partners were having no problem relaxing. Boone and Oby were passed out; enlisted SEALs could fall asleep anywhere, another skill learned at BUD/S. Get some shut eye whenever and wherever you can.
The helicopter finished fueling. The crew and pilots went through their pre-flight checks and, when satisfied, confirmed again that their cargo and passengers were secure before lifting gently into the air. The MH-53 hovered for a moment, slowly twisting to the right.
Once aligned with their navigation heading, the helicopter tilted forward, accelerating rapidly as it climbed. Matt felt the sensation in the pit of his stomach. Now he could finally enjoy a little naptime. The crew chief would wake the team with plenty of time to prepare before insertion.
The area on either side of the river was mountainous. The helicopter pilots believed it should be possible to slide in under the Colombian civil and military RADAR by following the river basin and staying below the ridgelines on either side of their course. The Americans needed to conduct the insertion without tipping off the highly unreliable Colombian military.
The MH-53 was equipped with technology that muffled and muted the sound of its engines. The pilots also were flying with night-vision goggles. There were no safety lights or navigation lights of any kind operating on the aircraft during this mission flight.
Intelligence experts supporting the mission planning had determined that if the helicopter dropped down low enough in the river valley, the terrain would provide additional dampening of the noise made by the big titanium blades.
The MH-53 dropped down every ten minutes in increments of five hundred to a thousand feet. Once they were ten miles upriver of the drop point, they descended one last time to settle into a low, terrain-contouring flight path only fifty feet above the dark jungle below. The pilot pushed the throttle forward and followed the dark green ribbon of water visible through his night-vision goggles.
Matt felt the jump in speed and woke up. Oby also was awake. At this speed, they should be at the drop point in less than ten minutes. He trusted the crew to keep him in the loop, but he was wide awake now and planned to monitor their flight progress actively from here on out, even as he suited up and prepared to leave the helicopter.
Matt woke Boone by jabbing an elbow into the point man’s ribs. Boone had fallen into a deep sleep, so he woke up disoriented and groggy. Oby, Boone, and Matt checked the critical equipment connections one more time to ensure that everything was in its proper place. The crew chief stood by his station near the nose of the canoe, ready to pull the quick release on the green light.
Boone stood up and went back to the canoe to retrieve his vest and weapon. Oby and Matt waited in the cramped environment, then took turns accessing the mission gear in the boat. It only required five minutes before all three SEALs were dressed and ready. The crew chief walked over to the recon team and flashed four fingers, four minutes until arrival at the drop point.
The SEALs took turns going to the tail ramp and charging their M-4 rifles by placing a live round in the chamber. Next they made comms checks with each other on the tactical network. The waterproof, VHF radios were encrypted and connected to a light headset. The headset had an earpiece for one ear and a waterproof, adjustable boom microphone.
Matt checked the UHF radio, his link to tactical air support, and received a solid copy from the pilot up front. The SATCOM radios were checked before takeoff back in Panama. Matt would use them to pass the execution checklist code words, so the operations folks could track their status against the mission timeline and key milestones. The SPLASH call would be passed by the helicopter pilot as soon as the SEALs inserted.
The time remaining burned off quickly, and before Matt knew it, the crew chief was giving him the one-minute warning. Boone and Oby removed the extra cargo straps holding down the canoe and stashed them to the side. Each man inspected the sides of the boat to ensure nothing would block or inhibit its movement off the trailer when the time came.
Matt positioned himself at the tongue of the trailer and placed his hand on the release mechanism. Once at the drop point, the helicopter would hover four feet over the river and allow itself to move forward slowly, while at the same time lifting the nose up at an thirty degree angle. This would allow the canoe to slide off the trailer’s roller system using gravity, that is once Matt pulled the release mechanism.
The big bird stopped in mid-air and pivoted around until it was facing back the way they’d flown in. The pilot eased the speed up a few knots to assume the drop parameters for the boat launch. He smoothly brought the helicopter down to ten feet above the river.
The crew chief signaled to the SEALs that they had thirty seconds to go. Matt took off his headset and gave the crew chief a thumbs-up. He gestured for Boone and Oby to get behind him. Once the boat began to roll out of the helicopter the three SEALs would follow in single file down the right side of the boat trailer.
A few seconds later, the crew chief moved back out of the way, and Matt turned his attention to the red and green stoplight positioned near the ramp entrance. He took a deep breath and let it out. The green light flashed on and Matt pulled the release mechanism. They were committed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bogota, Colombia
Chavez arrived in Bogota, traveling by armed motorcade from a small military airfield outside the city to his personal residence downtown. The final phase of his plan was about to unfold. Now the stage was set for the final moment of vengeance. This last act had to be completed face-to-face, his family honor demanded no less.
Chavez made arrangements to be escorted on foot through the jungle to the base camp on the Ariari River where General Alexander was being held. Flying by helicopter was far too dangerous.
The Americans or Colombian Special Forces would track the flight and pounce. The jungle patrol would take longer, but it was a safe way to get to the camp undetected. Once in the camp, he’d have the pleasure of executing the man who’d ordered the death of his only son.
Chavez had many informants within the US intelligence agencies. They were telling him the Americans were convinced the general was being held somewhere inside the city of Bogotá. That was a good thing. Their technology and rescue forces would be focused on the wrong place.
They also passed on that the Americans believed the soldier taken hostage with the general after the ambush was dead. Chavez didn’t care about the soldier, but his men had made it clear to the uneducated morons living in the jungle that General Alexander was not to be harmed.
Nobody in the Colombian military was trying too hard to find the Americans. A little money in the right places, a few threats here and there, and the Colombian military was firmly in Chavez’s back pocket. Most of the military leaders who would have opposed him hesitated to do so when they remembered how swiftly he’d dealt with the Colombian pilots who participated in killing his son.
The Colombian military wanted to end the violence in their country, but they were afraid to face the terror of Chavez’s organization. So, they played their part well, showing the Americans a feigned interest in searching for the hostages while at the same time improving their personal wealth, capitalism at its best. Chavez was told the bogus government search effort was reported daily to the US ambassador in Bogotá. He was sure the Americans found comfort in this level of local commitment.
The hotel phone rang. Chavez picked it up and listened for a moment before slowly placing the receiver back on its cradle. His escort was in position and everything was in order. He went to his luggage and pulled a set of well-worn camouflage fatigues that he knew would help him blend in with his escort.
It’d been many years since he’d patrolled through the jungles of his homeland. It might be tough on him, the jungle was an unforgiving place; but he was determined to show the men of his escort that once a warrior, always a warrior.
Tocumen Airport – Republic of Panama
The C-141 transporting FOXTROT Platoon to Central America touched down and taxied for ten minutes toward the commercial side of the airport facility. Cargo trucks waited near a cluster of large hangars, apparently waiting for the air force cargo plane to stop moving in front of them.
An air force sergeant in civilian clothes waved the aircraft into its final position, giving the pilot arm gestures that signaled him to stop and shut down once they’d arrived on the mark. Jared looked out through the small window trying to ascertain their location related to the tower and the main terminal.
As briefed, the commercial hangars were well away from the tourists and business flyers. A twenty-foot concrete barrier stood between the three hangars in front of the C-141 and the rest of the airport. Once on the ground, his platoon would be difficult, if not impossible, to observe.
