The SUV pulled around a series of byzantine turns and then through a small gate, which opened onto the runway, finally stopping at the open ramp of a C-17 aircraft. Matt thanked the driver, walked up the ramp with a slight limp and was greeted by the Air Force loadmaster.
“Sir, A-Rod.”
Matt stopped and looked at him, shaking his head. Apparently he was legendary for his toss. After all of the baseballs he had thrown in his career, perhaps he would be best known for tossing a four second grenade on its third second into an adjacent room, saving the database and his team.
“It’s just A-Rod to you, Sergeant. Drop the ‘sir,’” Matt said, smiling, which hurt.
Walking into the cavity of the C-17 he saw the command and control pod in the center and three sets of jump equipment. Hobart and Van Dreeves were sitting at the terminals looking at Global Hawk photographs and Predator feed.
“The Yemeni government wants to know what we’re doing,” Hobart said.
“We’re not telling them jack,” Matt said.
Hobart and Van Dreeves turned their heads, both saying, “A-Rod.”
To which Matt said, “Bite me.”
“Welcome back,” Hobart laughed.
“Let’s get this pig rolling,” Matt said over his shoulder to the loadmaster.
Slipping on a headset he began to stare at the screen. On it were two pictures. One was a close up of a house in the middle of a residential neighborhood. It appeared to be Spanish architecture, complete with tiled roof. There was an empty driveway that led to what appeared to be an asphalt road. High shrubs of some type hugged the walls of the house and lined either side of the driveway as well as the entire yard. The yard was walled and gated, with swinging wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway.
“This is Yemen?” Matt asked.
“Roger. We think this house is connected by underground tunnels to the houses on either side of it. When we do a thermal look, we get some shaded areas underneath that lead us to believe there are multiple escape routes through at least these two houses.”
“The medics always come to the middle house though, right?” Matt asked.
“Right. But we can’t follow them too well once inside.”
“How did Dubai go?” Matt asked.
“About as expected. The pilot dropped a bomb from 40,000 feet. It hit the target, drilled about fifty feet into the substructure, and exploded. Multiple secondary explosions and many dead. Team jumped in and verified the identity of number five on the list, the chief financier. And the pilot gets a medal.”
“This is starting to sound like the deck of cards from Iraq,” Matt said.
“It’s better though. The bad guys supplied the deck. We know it’s right.”
The aircraft buttoned up and began to roll, lifting into the sky and circling higher and higher until it had the altitude to soar above the Hindu Kush Mountains. The three men studied the target and wondered how they might neutralize the objective while capturing the individual.
“No sign of armed guards?” Matt asked.
“None. This is a small neighborhood in Little Aden, west of the port city of Aden,” Hobart said.
“Kids, women?”
“Nothing.”
“When do the medics arrive?”
“Usually at nightfall. They are there about an hour and then leave.”
“Looks like a decent landing zone right there,” Matt said pointing at the flat roof. “Or there.” The second area was simply the backyard. They would have to land, forcibly breach their way in, and then fight whatever was on the inside. Not a good option, Matt thought.
“This is a tough nut. VD just wants to drop bombs on all three houses and call it a day,” Hobart said.
Matt looked at Van Dreeves who had removed his headset and was eating a power bar. Van Dreeves just shrugged.
“Hey, a bad plan beats no plan,” Van Dreeves said.
Matt, though, had an idea.
“Why don’t we time this so that we’re there when the medics go in? Kill/capture them before they get in, keep one alive, and then let him take us in?”
“We’ll be over the target in three hours, which is about thirty minutes before the medics would arrive. You’re suggesting landing off the objective and then moving toward the house,” Hobart said as he played with the screen, rotating the view to wide. There was an empty lot, which gave way to miles of desert about a quarter mile away.
“There,” Matt said. “Let’s land there and move into position along the back,” Matt said.
“As good an idea as any.”
The three men spent the next two hours mapping out their plan of action, rehearsing, and checking their equipment. At the thirty-minute mark, they rigged their parachutes, pulled on their oxygen masks, secured their weapons and ordnance, and moved toward the aft of the C-17.
The ramp lowered, and Matt could see the Sea of Aden mixing with the setting sun. He imagined that it was a beautiful sight from the ground, but from 20,000 feet above sea level with fully loaded combat gear, he had other things on his mind.
The green light flashed and the three men were tumbling through the sky. The air was warm even at these altitudes in this part of the world. Van Dreeves was first to deploy at about 800 feet, then Hobart, and finally Matt. They were quickly on the ground and the darkness had settled over them during their descent. The landing zone had proven sandy and forgiving, which for Matt was a blessing. His injuries still smarted a bit and he would take all the freebies he could get.
They stowed their gear in kit bags, hid it beneath some palm fronds, and then Matt led them to a wall guarding the compound four houses from the target. They had exactly one hour on the ground before an MH-47 from the base in Djibouti would come screaming across the 150 miles of water where the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden met. They would be picked up and raced back across the Gulf of Aden to a secure U.S. base.
They moved quickly along the shadows cast by the walls of the compounds until they reached their target. By Matt’s calculations they had four minutes before the medics arrived. They had thus far been like clockwork, always showing up within a few minutes of darkness every night, indicative of a routine medical schedule where they were trying to mask their identity.
Van Dreeves moved across the driveway, hiding behind the high shrubs. Within seconds the sound of the gate opening was rattling through their ears. Matt watched as the ambulance dimmed its lights and turned into the driveway. The three men were immediately padding behind it as the gate screeched to a close.
The driver exited the vehicle and walked to the rear to be greeted by a stun gun from Hobart. He wrestled and writhed but there was nothing he could do against the high voltage being applied to his system. He would be lucky to live. Hobart flex cuffed the man. Matt watched and at first blush the man did not impress him as a medic. Matt moved up to the passenger door at about the time the passenger was exiting and used his Glock to knock him unconscious. The man fell into his arms, and again his instinct was that these men were not medics.
Van Dreeves opened the back door of the ambulance and he and Hobart dragged the flex-cuffed driver into the back. The ambulance contained a variety of gear, mostly toolboxes.
Matt gave the passenger a smelling salt, which woke him and the three men quickly went to work on him. Hobart flex-cuffed him. Van Dreeves held a pistol to his head, and Matt asked him questions in Arabic.
“Do you have the key?”
The man’s frightened face gave away the fact that he did. Matt pulled a series of swipe cards and keys from the passenger’s pocket.
“Who is inside?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“No one is inside,” the man said, visibly shaken. Matt smelled urine and saw the stain in the crotch of the man’s white uniform.