Red Sea, twelve miles off the coast of Sudan
Lieutenant Colonel Bill West stormed out of the back of the MV-22B Osprey and paced the deserted flight deck of the USS Makin Island. He held a satellite phone tightly, as if the strength of his grip would force the phone to ring.
Two hours ago, when he had been given the order to load his raid force onto the ten Ospreys and four CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters, the flight deck had been alive with feverish activity.
The Ospreys, their spinning tilt rotors in the vertical position, had been ready to rise into the humid night sky over the Red Sea. The F-35 fighter escort was already airborne, circling the massive Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, accompanied by a pair of KC-130J refueling tankers launched out of Lemonnier to support the raid.
The moonless night was perfect for an assault. It was all going so well.
But that was two hours ago, before word came down from Colonel O’Malley of the hold.
Now, all around him was silent.
West dialed the phone and pressed it against his ear. It was answered on the second ring.
“Colonel, what’s the holdup, sir?” West said. “I’ve got a hundred fifty Marines sitting on their thumbs. If we delay much longer, we might as well start serving breakfast.”
“Keep your pants on, Bill,” O’Malley’s measured voice boomed in West’s ear. “The whole damn Egyptian army is crossing the border into Sudan. As you might imagine, that complicates the picture. If we launch a raid force, someone’s liable to get the wrong idea and start shooting at you. The State Department is on it, they just need a few more minutes.”
West tried to picture in his mind exactly how a diplomat explained to a foreign government that the United States had determined that a site manufacturing weapons of mass destruction existed on their sovereign soil and the US military was about to launch a full-scale assault on the facility to address that deficiency. Stay clear or suffer the consequences.
“I understand, sir,” West said. “But the longer we delay, the harder it will be to contain the site.”
West had been briefed on the HUMINT source, a Mossad agent, who had managed to send the site location through undisclosed means. But the agent had gone silent, a possible sign the raid had been compromised.
Their intel on the site was skimpy as well. A warehouse in the middle of the desert east of Khartoum, Sudan, heavily defended by up to three dozen armed soldiers guarding an underground research lab, possibly manufacturing biological weapons.
Bioweapons. The thought made his stomach queasy. Of all the possible scenarios, that was the one that worried him the most. With nukes, if shit went sideways, it would be over so fast you’d never even know it happened. Chemical weapons were bad, but his men carried chem suits to deal with that threat.
But bio, that was something else entirely. If just one man got infected …
Thankfully, someone in his chain of command had the good sense to split the mission: His Marines would secure the topside area. There was a team of specially trained spec ops SEALs to penetrate the research lab.
“I hear you, Bill,” O’Malley was saying. “AFRICOM is on the phone with Washington right now. As soon as I know, you’ll know.”
“Aye, sir.” West hung up and stalked back to the open ramp of the idle Osprey. The gentle hum of conversation among the Marines facing each other in jump seats ceased.
“As you were,” West said, as he passed down the aisle between twenty-four combat-loaded men.
The waiting was not good for morale. Marines were a kinetic weapon—aim and fire. Whether it was one Marine or a whole battalion, they were not trained to reflect on their lot in life.
These were men trained to take action. Patience was not a virtue in their line of work.
Second Battalion, Fourth Marines—better known as the Magnificent Bastards—had a proud lineage that dated back to World War I. Tonight, Bill West planned to add another chapter to their storied history—and history was not written by sitting on your ass in an idle aircraft floating in the middle of the goddamn ocean on the deck of a navy amphibious assault ship.
“Sir,” said his enlisted man handling comms for the command element. “It’s Colonel O’Malley.”
West took the handset. “Yes, sir?”
“Bill, the operation is a go. Release the Bastards.”
It took just under half an hour to get their entire assault team airborne. Ten Ospreys and four Super Stallions loaded with twenty-four Marines each, six F-35s as fighter escort and ground assault, and two KC-130J tankers for in-flight refueling. There was also a squadron of Marine Corps F/A-18s out of Djibouti that would arrive as the raid force entered Sudanese airspace to fly high cover just in case Sudan or Egypt decided they wanted to intervene.
“Feet dry,” the pilot reported as they entered Eritrean airspace.
West acknowledged the pilot and used the ruggedized tablet to call up the drone feed from the overwatch Reaper.
“Plane landed at sunset, sir.” His S-2, a very young-looking captain in charge of his intel team, pointed at the airstrip on the tablet image. “Two pilots, still on board. Two people disembarked and drove to the warehouse. About an hour later, a single SUV with one occupant left the warehouse and drove south to the main highway. Vehicle is in Khartoum traffic now.”
West cursed under his breath. They’d let one get away already. “Everyone else is still inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
West settled back in his seat, glad for the dimness of the cargo hold for time to think. He was bringing a hundred fifty Marines to assault a terrorist base with a security force of three dozen, according to their best intel. Not a fair fight, and never intended to be one, but right now his biggest issue was time.
The Ospreys had twice the cruising speed and range of the Super Stallions. If he took eight Ospreys and went balls-out to the fight, he could get there twice as fast. The Stallions and remaining Ospreys would serve as reinforcements.
He signaled to his comms man. “Get me Homebase,” he said into the mic.
A few seconds later, O’Malley’s voice filled the headset. “This is Homebase actual.”
“Sir, I recommend we go to plan Bravo. We’ve seen one vehicle depart the scene and I’d hate to lose any more fish out of the net.”
Fifteen minutes later, the decision was made and the vanguard assault force was roaring over the deserts of Sudan. An all-hands call with his assault-team leaders passed on the new orders, which had been part of the initial briefing. Three Ospreys would land to the east and three to the south, forming an L-shaped envelope on the warehouse. The remaining two Ospreys would secure the landing strip. The F-35s would remain overhead for close air support as needed.
He could hear the disappointment in the voices of the team leaders aboard the Super Stallions who were assigned as reinforcements.
Just before 4:00 A.M. local, eight Ospreys flared to a stop in the sand three hundred meters from the warehouse. Marines poured down the back ramps, with four-man fire teams taking up preassigned locations along the front. Less than a minute later, the now-empty Ospreys took off again. Aircraft on the ground were targets. The MV-22Bs would stay on station, breaking off in pairs to refuel.
West hit the sand along with the rest of his men. His pulse hammered in his ears, the smell of disturbed dust heavy in the air. In the green of his night-vision goggles, the warehouse stood dark and silent.
West touched his throat mic. “All units, this is raid leader, advance.”
All around him, men got to their feet and started a slow jog toward the building. He stole a glance at the overwatch display, seeing his men advancing along two fronts. Textbook perfect.
They covered a hundred meters, then two hundred, with no reaction from their target.
“Sir,” his S-2 said over his headset, “overwatch shows movement on the southeast corner of the building.”
As if on cue, a blaze of heavy-machine-gun tracer fire shot out of the second-story windows of the southeast corner of the warehouse. Seconds later, the northeast corner joined in.
The advance stopped as his men took cover and released a deafening volley of M27 IAR return fire. The tracer fire screamed over their heads, and the Marines’ return fire sparked like a million fireflies in the night.
From his right, West heard one of the fire-team leaders calling for grenades. Seconds later, he heard the rapid punk-punk of an M32 launching grenades in quick succession. Explosions erupted on both corners of the building, and both machine-gun nests went silent.
“Sir, we have two vehicles exiting the garage on the opposite side of the building!” West snatched the tablet from the S-2’s hands as he touched his throat mic. “Fighter escort, this is raid leader. We have two runners. You are weapons free to engage.”
“Acknowledge weapons free on fleeing ground targets,” said the voice of the lead F-35 pilot.
West heard the roar of the jet engines overhead and saw their fiery exhausts disappear over the top of the warehouse.
The first fire teams had reached the warehouse now and were breaching points of entry, streaming into the building. West stayed outside. His presence was no good in close quarters. Two explosions in quick succession told him the F-35s had made short work of their targets. He listened as the platoon leaders reported progress. In the background, he could hear doors being broken down and the occasional pop of small arms fire.
His intel officer provided a running progress report of the assault team inside the warehouse. “First floor is cleared … second floor is cleared … six hostiles down in the machine-gun nests. They found a berthing area … six hostiles dead, ten surrenders. Looks like there were four hostiles in each vehicle, sir. All KIA.” He paused. “Building is secure, sir. Captain Rodgers is in what looks like an underground garage area. He requests permission to breach the elevator.”
“Tell him permission denied,” West said. “Set up a command post in the garage and collect the dead hostiles in one location for biometrics.”
“Aye, sir,” the S-2 replied.
West checked his watch. It had been eleven minutes since the Ospreys touched down. He touched his throat mic. “Homebase, this is raid commander, target topside is secure.”