A bright sodium light illuminated the area outside the briefing center, and the figure standing next to the door. He was there as he always was when the unit was called out, his face as black as the darkness farther away. Major McAffee stood solidly as the men approached. He made ‘at ease’ look overpostured.
Captain Sean Graber hit the door first. Inside he dropped his bag at the back and took his seat. Colonel Cadler was already at the room’s lectern. Lieutenants Buxton and Antonelli followed their squad leader in and were in turn followed by the rest of the team, all sergeants of various grades. Quimpo, the Filipino weapons specialist and senior NCO leadoff, with Jones, Makowski, Lewis, and the unit’s chief medic, Goldfarb, following. McAffee followed the last trooper in. Behind, in the distance, one of the two helicopter’s engines started. The closed door failed to muffle the sound completely.
Colonel Cadler waited for the major to join him at the front before beginning.
“Morning, boys,” he said, his thick Texan accent dripping from each word. They all looked eager, as they did each time they entered this room. Cadler noted that it was Graber’s squad. They had the highest number of call-outs per rotation. Just lucky, he guessed. “Major McAffee, would you read the orders, please.”
The colonel handed the red-striped envelope to his XO, who had already read the orders. McAffee stood next to Cadler, who leaned on the podium.
“ ‘From: Chairman, Joint Special Operations Command. To: Special Operations Detachment, Delta. At oh-seven-forty Zulu, an American passenger aircraft was hijacked by an unknown person or persons. You are to immediately begin preparations for extraction of the hostages. More to follow. General Burkhardt sends thumbs-up and fingers crossed.’ ” The major looked up and handed the orders back to the colonel. The troops had received the same type of order before — many times. General Burkhardt knew this when issuing the warning order. ‘Fingers crossed’ was not a wish for luck; it was a hope that the mission would get a go.
Cadler stepped to the side of the podium. “I want you on the helos in two minutes. We’ve got a hangar reserved for us at Pope. Major McAffee will lead the planning. Major, make the slack squad hot, and get a senior NCO in on the liaison group just in case we need to sweeten our force.” McAffee nodded acknowledgment. “Any questions? Good. The birds are turning, so don’t keep them waiting. Major McAffee and I will follow in the second bird. Fingers crossed. Dismiss the squad, Major.”
The eight troopers stood automatically. “Dismissed.”
They were gone from the room in seconds. Cadler and McAffee walked out behind them into the chilly early- morning air. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, evidenced by the countless specks of light visible in the area of the base with its lack of civilian lighting. The colonel looked up. “Mike, someone up there knows if this is the one.”
“When it’s right, sir,” McAffee said, exposing his non-fatalistic streak.
“Right my ass! These boys are as ready as they’ll ever be. They’ve got combat experience, they’re pumped. Hell, we’ve trained and trained and trained, Mike. You know that as well as I do. These boys need some honest-to-God experience taking down some bad guys. Hell, only you and the captain have any actual trigger time.”
“You, too, Colonel.”
“My sorry old ass? That was a ground action, and it was a cluster fuck,” Cadler answered, referring to his part as the unit XO in the failed Iranian rescue mission. Blackjack had also been there.
“I hear you. It’s not our worry, though.”
“Oh hell, Mike. There you go again with that crap. Washington and the briefcase brigades make the decisions, but do you have to accept it so easily?” Cadler smiled, putting his arm on the taller man’s shoulder. “Jesus. Someone might think you graduated from Harvard instead of our beloved West Point.”
McAffee feigned surprise. “Go Army!”
“Spirit, man!” Cadler let out a deep chuckle, a true belly laugh. The Blackhawk was directly ahead.
“What’s our status, Colonel?”
Cadler didn’t look hopeful. “Our end of it’s up and running. The liaison group is set up; they’ll plug in with the intel services and pass it along to planning. You have the force. The planning is yours. If we get a go, you lead. I’m gonna try and get something hard on whatever’s going on.”
“What’s the best we have?” McAffee asked. He would need something in order to start the wheels of a plan in motion.
“Diddily. It’s a 747, that’s it. The pilot squawked the hijack code and dove for the deck. I’d assume we’ll have somebody keeping an eye on that bird pretty soon.”
“Okay,” the major responded with some exasperation. “It looks like nothing ever changes. Minimum intelligence at best.” He was silent for a few steps. “What about something similar to rehearse on?”
Cadler punched the major in the arm, then pointed a strong finger at his nose. “You’ve got it.”
The two officers walked slowly toward the sound of the turning rotors. Lights were coming on in the distance, illuminating the side-by-side dark green helicopters. They sat long and squat under their idling rotors. The eight men of the hot squad trotted, heads ducked, to the side door of the near Blackhawk and jumped in without breaking stride.
“Colonel, I want a go as much as you…as much as they do.” McAffee motioned to the helicopter. It was a hundred yards away as the engines revved and lifted it skyward, its nose slightly down, and moved forward away from the lights. Its own anti-collision lights colored the underside a pulsing red. The noise was oppressive, and it passed almost directly above Cadler and McAffee on its six-minute flight to Pope. A group of soldiers ran up to the second Blackhawk and loaded several boxes and duffels under the direction of the dark-helmeted crew chief.
“It ain’t any different,” Cadler said, his head shaking and eyes downcast before coming up. The noise of the departing helo waned as it moved off into the night. “We train and drill. Every time we think it’s this time, it’s not. So, Mike, we do it all over. You know why? ‘Cause we’ve got some demons to exorcise.”
Demons, indeed, McAffee thought. Delta was still associated with the fiery debacle in the Iranian desert back in 1980, something that they had no culpability for as a unit. Again it was ‘brass fever’ that had fucked things up. It was a reputation, though undeserved, that they had to overcome.
Both officers stepped into the dark cabin of the Black- hawk, returning the salutes of the crew chief and ground crew as they did. Colonel Cadler put on his headset and immediately got to work contacting the mobile headquarters now operating out of hangar 9 at Pope. Blackjack closed his eyes and crossed his fingers, hoping for a go, but wondering if anyone really knew what a green light would mean.
Four miles ahead, Captain Sean Graber was entertaining much the same thought.
Captain Muhadesh Algar was cold. He regretted having brought the topless jeep, wishing he had driven his Range Rover instead. His one small bag was on the seat beside him.
What? Benina Airport, eighteen miles from the center of Benghazi, was a civil and military airfield familiar to Muhadesh. He had often met his students there as they arrived from the many countries of their origin. But never had he seen this.
He slowed the jeep. A soldier of the regular army stood mid-road with a hand held out to his front. On both sides of the two-lane road were T-80 tanks, their 125mm cannons pointing down the length of the road. A group of twenty or so soldiers became very serious, taking their AK-74s in both hands as the jeep came to a stop. One of the crewmen protruding from a tank swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun right at the small brown vehicle. The soldier blocking its path did not move as an officer walked hurriedly past to the driver side of the jeep.