“So which chopper has the range and capacity to go in and back three hundred and forty miles and carry up to thirty passengers?” Murdock asked.
“Old reliable, the Sea Knight, the CH-46E,” Lam said. “We’ve used them before.”
They looked at Jaybird, the statistics man.
“Sea Knight, okay. Most of them are out of service now, but some are left in the fleet. They can do a hundred and fifty-four miles an hour cruising and get up to fourteen thousand feet ceiling. Range is four hundred twenty miles loaded with up to twenty-five fully equipped Marines.”
Murdock stood and walked two bunks down and came back. “So the Sea Knight would do it, if this task force has one. What about protection? They have two .50-caliber chatter guns on them, but that’s not much against a few fighter jets.”
“Bring along some air cover, like a pair of F-18s,” Lam said.
“Overflight of a sovereign country,” DeWitt said. “Will the Navy and the U.S. State Department let us do it?”
“Hell, Colombia violated international law by capturing our embassy,” Murdock said. “A little technical matter like an overflight to rescue the Americans isn’t going to raise any eyebrows. Colombia probably expects it.”
“So they’ll be waiting,” Jaybird said. “Maybe it’s a trap to send all of their aircraft after the rescue chopper and escorts.”
“That we can let the brass figure out,” Murdock said.
A short time later, the SATCOM came to life, and Holt handed Murdock the mike.
“Yes, Home Base, this is Rover. You have some suggestions on the embassy situation?”
“Yes, Rover. This is Captain Ingman. We have the CAG here with us. It obviously has to be a chopper rescue. Does that work with you?”
“Yes, Captain. We are talking about the Sea Knight. Do you have any in your task force?”
“Sea Knight,” a new voice said. “This is the CAG. We have two that had been working PAV Low Three. We can pull out some gear and get it to you. Be best to go from Camp Bravo to the embassy?”
“That’s our thinking, Captain. We figure a hundred and twenty miles over hostile territory to get to Bogotá. What about some fighter cover?”
“Getting touchy there,” the CAG said. “State and Stroh tell me to do it with just a chopper. I don’t like that.”
“Won’t work, CAG. No way. They can find the chopper with one fighter and knock us down going in or coming out. I’d guess at least six Eighteens or Fourteens would be needed. No sense getting the ambassador and his staff off the ground just to KIA them in the jungle somewhere.”
“Agreed, Commander. We can request the overflight fighter protection, but State and the President will have to decide that one.”
“What’s our timetable?”
“Soonest.”
“What we want, then, Captain, is one hot Sea Knight with six F-14s for cover in and out. Suggest you fly the Knight in here as of now and if you get a go on the Fourteens, they can catch up in a rush. Our troops are ready with sixteen for combat. We’ll be at the Camp Bravo airstrip in two hours.”
“We’ve sent a request through to the White House and to State and the CNO. We should have a reply in the requested half hour. This is number one on their list, so they’ll decide in a rush. Flight time from Bravo to the embassy should be about an hour. You want a day mission or night?”
“Night would be better for us. Let’s hope the Colombians keep the Americans at the embassy.”
“We’ve launched a Sea Knight. They may remove some equipment and leave it there at Bravo. Flight time to you is less than an hour. Keep your set on receive and we’ll call as soon as we get a decision one way or the other.”
“That’s a roger. Bogotá is a big place. Hope your pilots will know how to find the embassy.”
“We have that pinpointed, SEALs. Good luck.”
Murdock stood and bellowed at his men. “We have thirty minutes to pack up, get ready for a mission. Clean your weapons and resupply regular loads of ammo. We’re going to fly into Bogotá for a quick little vacation. This is a room-to-room clearing operation, so we’ll take the MP-5s instead of the Bull Pups. Move it.”
“What about that chow and hot showers?” somebody called.
“Hell, you fight better when you’re dirty and hungry,” Senior Chief Dobler called. “We’ll try for some box lunches for the one-hour flight to the target. Let’s get humping.”
Dobler ran to the jeep out front and drove to the mess hall. They told him they could have box lunches ready in twenty minutes.
A half hour later, word came through from Lieutenant Commander Emerling on the carrier that approval had just come in from the chief of Naval Operations that the President had approved the flyover of Columbia by the chopper and six fighters to rescue the captured embassy personnel. By then it was almost 1700. It would be dark by the time they flew into Bogotá.
Twenty-eight minutes later, the sixteen SEALs were in the air heading for Bogotá. Canzoneri had been released from the hospital and was more than anxious to get in on the next mission.
“This time I get to be in on some of the fun, too,” Canzoneri said.
Once in the air, Murdock went up front to listen to the radio chatter. It was in the clear, no encrypting, and he wondered what Colombian operators who understood English would make of it.
“Slow Moe, this is Fast Duck. We have you on our magic box. We’ll circle you for a while, then will be replaced by Fast Duck Two.”
“Fast Duck, glad you’re on board. Always use a little help from our friends.”
The chopper pilot, Lieutenant (j.g.) Anderson, waved at Murdock. “Glad to have you with us, Commander. We’re forty minutes out from target. Bogotá is a big gunner, almost seven million people. We have a pinpoint on the embassy and good sight lines to it.”
“Hate to drop in at the wrong embassy,” Murdock said.
“No sweat. You want us to stay on the ground or drop you off and cut out?”
“We don’t know what kind of forces they have at the embassy, so it’ll be best if you cut and run. We’ll call you back in on the SATCOM or if it goes out, we’ll give you a red flare for when and where.”
“Sounds good to me,” Anderson said. “If we don’t get company, we’ll be spooling around at about ten thousand so our radar can get a good sweep.”
Before Murdock could reply, a silver streak flashed in front of the low-flying chopper. The pilot had kept it to less than two hundred feet above the series of mountain ranges they flew over. The jet raced away, and they saw it make a slow turn.
“I have the local fly boy on my scope,” the U.S. fighter pilot said. “That was evidently an ID run. He won’t have time to make a second. I’m locked on and firing. One AIM Sidewinder away.”
Murdock looked at the pilot, who shook his head. “We just have to wait and see. Those Sidewinders choggie along at Mach 2.”
“Oh yeah, splash one bogie,” the F-14 pilot said. “That one slipped in under our radar. We’re moving our whole system down a few thousand to get better concentration. I’m rotating out. Number two coming in. He knows what went down. Good hunting, you Slow Moe guys.”
“Thanks, Fast Duck, and take care,” the chopper pilot said on the radio.
“Time left?” Murdock asked.
The pilot looked at his instruments and then his watch. “About twenty. Time to get your men ready. I know you’ll get your troops out of there quickly. I don’t want to be grounded more than twenty seconds at the most.”
“Easy,” Murdock said. “Thanks for the ride.”
In the cabin with the men, Murdock told them about the Colombian fighter that had been shot down. “At least they’ll know we’re here.”
“If they admit it,” DeWitt said. “They might pass the crashed jet off as an accident.”