Susan scanned the wall of images, looking for hope but shaking her head. She leant forward again. ‘Any of them still alive?’ she asked, pressing the button on a microphone as she spoke.
It took a few seconds for an electronic voice to come through — military but subordinate. ‘Yes ma’am, screen five. Er, it’s Captain Morton.’
Myles and Susan zoomed in on screen five. At first the pictures seemed as still as the others. Then they noticed the images were gradually moving — rising and falling with Morton’s breathing. Clearly the man was trying to hide amid the bodies of his men. Then, slowly, he managed to slip into a shallow ditch.
Susan pressed the microphone again. ‘We’ve got to help this guy,’ she demanded. ‘What have we got?’
There was another pause before the disembodied answer came back through the speakers. ‘We’ve got the Predator, ma’am, or we can send in the helicopters again.’
‘OK, give me the images from the Predator.’
One of the dead camera-feeds was replaced with an infrared image. The high-altitude Predator unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV, was clearly circling the scene. The gangmen wouldn’t have known it was there — it was circling with a six mile radius, and flying at 14,000 feet.
‘OK, I’ve got the pictures from the Predator,’ reported Susan. ‘It’s got Hellfires, right?
Myles suddenly became animated. ‘Hellfire missiles?’ He tried to get Susan’s attention. ‘You’re going to use Hellfires?’
Susan nodded. Clearly she didn’t share Myles’ concern. Ignoring the Englishman, she turned back to the microphone. ‘OK, let’s give Captain Morton some cover. Send Hellfires into the concrete huts.’
Myles grabbed the microphone from her. ‘Cancel that. No Hellfires.’
Susan locked eyes with Myles. She was trying to gauge the strange misfit who seemed to be causing ever increasing amounts of trouble. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to help the surviving member of our mission.’
Myles was breathless as he answered. ‘Then send in the Chinooks. Or an A130 gunship, or anything,’ he pleaded. ‘But not a Hellfire. If Juma’s men were ready for the Seals, they’ll be ready for a drone missile.’
Susan accepted Myles was sincere, but didn’t share his doubts about the technology. ‘I don’t want a debate about this. The Chinooks would take ten or fifteen minutes to get there. The Hellfire just needs seconds.’ She moved back to the microphone. She was about to give the order again when Myles touched her shoulder, more calmly this time. ‘There’s a US Senator out there,’ he reminded her. ‘And he could be being held in one of those huts. If you send in a missile…’
Myles could tell he had made Susan think. She was scratching her head, looking desperately at the screens for several seconds.
The subordinate military voice came back over the system, sounding confused. ‘Ma’am, do we have a decision on the Hellfire?’
Uncertain and now quivering slightly, Susan pressed the microphone button again. ‘OK, we’ve got to make a call on this,’ she conceded. ‘Is Richard Roosevelt listening in to this?’
There was another pause. Then Dick Roosevelt’s unmistakeable accent came through the speaker. ‘Roosevelt Junior here.’
‘Mr Roosevelt, sir, we’re ready to send a Hellfire missile into the area. It could enable our last surviving Navy Seal to escape. But, if they’re holding your father there, it could also lead to his death. Are you happy for us to go ahead, sir?’
Silence as everybody waited on Richard Roosevelt’s thinking time. Then his answer came back. ‘What are the other options?’
Unsure she was doing the right thing, Susan graciously handed the microphone to Myles.
Myles thanked her with a look, and then tried to make his case. ‘Dick, it’s Myles,’ he began. ‘The Somali gang were ready for the Navy Seals, so they’ll probably be ready for a Hellfire missile. The only way we can help this Morton guy is by sending in Chinooks. They can fire on the area and pick up any survivors, including any wounded.’
‘Good to hear your voice, Myles. How long would a Chinook take?’
Myles shook his head as he tried to answer. Susan took the microphone back. ‘Up to ten minutes for a Chinook,’ she said. ‘Less than a minute for a Hellfire, Mr Roosevelt.’
This time the pause was short. Richard Roosevelt’s voice didn’t seem troubled by the decision: he was confident in his choice. ‘Then it’s the Hellfire. We don’t have ten minutes.’
‘OK, then launch the Hellfire,’ commanded Susan. ‘Lock onto the huts.’
Susan’s instruction was relayed through the system to the Predator’s flight controller, who sat by a computer screen in Louisiana. Moments later the image from the drone’s cameras juddered upwards slightly, twice, indicating it had released two of its Hellfire missiles.
Myles and Susan stood transfixed. Even though they both had reservations, they knew this had to work.
On the screen, infrared images were slowly beginning to emerge from the concrete huts. The firefight was over. Juma’s guys were about to inspect the bodies.
‘Twenty seconds to impact…’
Once the target of a Hellfire has been chosen and the missile fired, the missile was designed to drop from aircraft and glide in mid-air for several seconds — enough time for the helicopter or jet which dropped it to move away. Only then did the main rocket ignite with a powerful flash, and the weapon accelerate towards its target.
Out in the cloud-free desert of rural Libya, Juma was ready. He had sentries watching out for anything else the Americans might send, knowing whatever they tried would probably be airborne. The bright flash of a Hellfire missile igniting was unmissable in the desert sky, and several of his men raised the alarm at the same time.
The warning went out, and Juma’s gang immediately started fleeing in all directions.
‘Ten seconds to impact…’
Susan couldn’t believe what she was seeing. ‘They’re scattering,’ she whispered. ‘Why are they scattering? What the hell…’
‘Five seconds…’
Susan grabbed the microphone again. ‘Disable the missiles,’ she called. ‘Disable them. Call them off.’
There was silence on the net. Everybody knew it was far too late to deactivate the Hellfires. All they could do was watch as the rockets drove into their targets, sending up a bright plume which blinded the infrared feed from the Predator.
Susan couldn’t wait for the image to clear. She had to know what had happened.
There was another pause — almost a minute — while technicians checked the images from Captain Morton’s helmet cam.
Then the subordinate military voice relayed the conclusion over the net. ‘Er, looks like we’ve lost Captain Morton, Ma’am.’
Susan lifted her palm to her forehead, then slammed the microphone down. The base shattered with the force. She leant forward again, ‘And all Juma’s men escaped?’
Images still coming from the Predator showed Juma’s men starting to return to the destroyed huts, and regrouping.
‘Yes, that’s right, Ma’am… And still no sign of the Senator.’
Twenty-Five
Myles could tell Susan was very shaken. She scratched her head again. ‘Was there anything I could have done? Could Morton have been saved?’
‘You did your best.’
Susan was grateful for Myles’ support. ‘OK, so what do we do now? The CIA assessment said you were exceptionally bright: do you have any ideas?’