We were roused out of bed in the middle of the night and were driven out into the desert again. Instead of the stealth helicopter they’d flown us around in before, I was surprised to be picked up by the awkward-looking tiltrotor aircraft.
We’d been in the air for over an hour. No one talked; it was too loud in the back of the aircraft. We were all wearing earplugs, and most of my teammates had fallen asleep. The tiltrotor’s cramped cabin was illuminated by red overhead lights. Anders sat toward the rear, away from the rest of us, and was carefully studying something on a PDA.
We were all fully kitted up in battle rattle, too. My Mk 17 rifle was slung across my chest, with the muzzle hanging between my knees. My vest was covered with magazines, grenades, and other ridiculously heavy crap. We’d even been given fancy new A-TACS camouflage fatigues to wear.
Pulling my hat down over my eyes, I tilted my head back and tried to fall asleep. I figured the Osprey would either have to land or refuel sooner or later, and maybe then Anders would tell us what was going on. Until then, I was going to rack out for a while.
I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when Anders kicked me, but it couldn’t have been very long. Startled, I sat up, pulling my hat off my head. Anders had strolled, hunched over, down the cabin and roused all of us. He turned around at the front of the cabin, sat in one of the chairs, and addressed us as a group.
“Listen up!” he said, raising his voice over the dull roar of the engines. “This mission is the highest priority operation we’ve received. You men make up the best teams Dead Six has, and that’s why you were selected for this operation. You need to understand that everything you’re about to hear is need-to-know only. Do not discuss this operation with anyone. Not your friends, not the other chalks, not the admin pogues, no one! Am I making myself clear enough? If there’s an OPSEC breach on this, I’m going to fuck your world up. Understood?”
We all nodded haltingly. None of us liked being threatened by this douche bag.
Anders continued unfazed, holding up the PDA so we could see the screen. We leaned in to try to make out the small picture he was showing us. “Your objective is this. This is the warhead to a Russian RT-2PM Topol ICBM. It has a yield of five-hundred and fifty kilotons.”
Anders pushed a button on his PDA, then held it up again, showing us a new picture. “This is what the physics package of the warhead looks like if it is removed from the reentry vehicle. This part is where the nuclear reaction takes place and is all that is required to produce a yield. As you can see, this part is small enough to fit in the trunk of a small car.” The eight of us looked at each other. “I think you can see where this is going,” Anders said dispassionately. “This particular warhead, so far as we know, was removed from its missile and was to be destroyed in accordance with the START treaty. It disappeared years ago and has never been accounted for. At this moment, the warhead is on a truck, headed for a remote airfield in Yemen. From there, we expect it to be flown covertly to Zubara and delivered to General Al Sabah. For obvious reasons, we’re not going to allow this to happen. We’re flying nap-of-the-Earth right now. We’ll arrive at the target site just before dawn and intercept the warhead before that plane takes off. Our mission is to secure the warhead and eliminate anyone involved in the delivery. We will take no prisoners. Any questions?”
We had none. “Good,” Anders said. “Each chalk will operate as a fire-team. The plane will be waiting on the ground when we get there. Tailor, take your chalk and secure the aircraft. Singer, take your chalk and secure the truck. It’s probably escorted, and there could be heavy resistance. Be aware that the situation can change at any time. If we get there and it’s obvious the plane hasn’t been loaded yet, I want both teams to hit the truck. No matter what, we have to secure that warhead.”
“What will you be doing during all this?” Singer asked.
“Whatever I feel like. I have the RADIAC equipment,” Anders said curtly. “I’m also a trained medic. I’ll be on the ground with you and will direct you over the radio as the situation develops. Do your job.”
I sat back against my seat and looked at the floor. The tension in the air was making me uncomfortable. Nobody liked being around Anders. Why would they only send eight guys, plus Anders, for such an important mission? You’d think they could at least spare a third chalk to stop General Al Sabah from obtaining a nuclear weapon! What the hell is going on?
VALENTINE
Somewhere in Yemen
Tailor had his arm over my shoulder as I helped him along. Blood trickled from a wound on his right calf, and he was limping pretty badly. The wound didn’t look that bad, but even “minor” gunshot wounds hurt.
We hobbled down the ramp of a damaged An-74 transport plane, back out into the early morning sun. The notional airstrip we were at didn’t look like it had been used in decades. There was nothing left but a short, cracked runway, a ramp half covered in desert sand, and one road leading off into the hills. The terrain around us was rugged and mountainous. A cold wind blew steadily across the flat spot the airfield had been built on.
We’d arrived right in the middle of the transfer of the nuclear warhead. It had already been loaded on the plane, but the convoy that transported it hadn’t yet left when we came upon the airfield. We took them by surprise, landing right in the middle of their deal.
It was a bloodbath. More than twenty-five bodies littered the area around the transport plane. A convoy of trucks sat shot-up and burning behind the damaged aircraft. Once we had confirmed that the weapon was on the plane and not in the trucks, the modified Osprey had done a strafing run with a chin-mounted gun turret. Both chalks had struck with the element of surprise and liberal use of 40mm grenades. The Yemenis had been quickly overwhelmed.
Which isn’t to say that things went well for us. Singer was on the ground in front of us, gurgling and gasping for air. Blood poured from a sucking chest wound near his armpit. The bullet that hit him had missed his ceramic plate and plunged deep into his chest, probably tearing through his lungs.
Cromwell had ripped off Singer’s vest and was hastily applying a pressure dressing. It just wasn’t enough. “Christ, I can’t stop the bleeding!” he cried. “Hang in there, boss! Where’s Anders? Anders! I need a medic!”
Anders strode up from behind the wreckage of a 6x6 truck, satellite phone in hand. “What’s the matter?” he asked casually, stuffing the phone into a pouch on his vest.
“I can’t stop the bleeding!” Cromwell repeated. “I need your help!”
Anders, not moving with any particular urgency while Singer suffered, squatted down, smacked Cromwell’s hand aside, and began to inspect the wound. He stuck his face in close.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Anders said emotionlessly. “Tension pneumothorax. He sucked in too much air from the entrance wound. His lungs have collapsed.” He stood up and wiped the blood off on his pant legs. Singer had stopped moving. “He’s dead.” The tall operative then turned on his heel and headed for the ramp of the An-74.
“Hey!” I said, unable to hide the anger in my voice. “Tailor’s hurt, too!” Tailor winced as he put weight on his hurt leg and babbled a short stream of obscenities.
“He’ll be fine. You’ve got combat lifesaver training, right?” Anders said, not looking at me as he walked up the ramp into the aircraft.
“Fuck you, Anders!” Tailor said. Anders ignored him and disappeared into the plane. “Shit . . . Val, I gotta sit down. Help me out here.” I supported Tailor’s weight as he lowered himself onto the edge of the plane’s cargo ramp. He extended his wounded leg. “Take a look at that, will you?”