The helicopter carrying Abdulhasan Askari apparently held extra fuel tanks and didn’t stop until it was in the jungles of Guatemala, some 800 air miles from Panama. The two Blackhawks followed them as far as their fuel would take them, but turned back after a few hundred miles. Under normal circumstances, the Blackhawk would have a range of well over 1000 miles and the Huey about 300 to 400 miles. The Blackhawks had flown in from Columbia using some of their fuel and needed fuel for any action at the canal. So, they abandoned the chase and let Askari be tracked by satellites and a drone.
The drones had just arrived about noon aboard one of the Apaches. They were unarmed, small surveillance aircraft with a long range and held the ability to upload information to satellites. The singular drone launched on this mission from the Blackhawk reported back information containing the location of the landing site and a quick view of the jungle compound where Askari was headed. The drone retreated when it came under fire from the security detail at the compound. It compiled a great deal of information given the short time it hovered above the structures. The NSA had the information in seconds.
*****
Jordan and Maria kissed briefly as they sat next to each other at the food patio on the top floor of the visitors center. Both had minor cuts from pieces of wood and concrete blown into their flesh from bullets striking objects around them. They treated each other’s wounds with bandages and antibiotics. From a distance, they looked like two well-dressed chimpanzees preening each other. They had been given some sandwiches and soft drinks by the staff, who had filtered back in after all the shooting was over. Occasionally, they would look out over the grassy area and watch the Super Cobras and Apache helicopters land. Sitting on the field were a total of twelve attack helicopters, and more were expected.
“Maria, I want to say you were incredibly brave today. You handled yourself like a veteran Special Forces soldier,” Jordan said. “I’d like to think we both made a difference in the fight.”
“You know we did. I hate it people died, and I hate I made it happen to some of them—it was them or us—because they were damn sure out to kill us,” Maria said.
Deep inside, she was trying to reconcile killing the Muslims in the firefight. Those people would never see their wives and children again, and their loved ones would never welcome them home. It was a profound sadness few people experience. She tried to ignore it, but the pictures of flesh flying away from the ones she shot flashed again and again in her mind. She watched the movie in her head that showed them fall to the ground in agony, or even worse—the ones who fell lifeless with their eyes still staring ahead looking at nothing. She wanted it to stop but knew it would affect her for the rest of her life—no matter how many times she tried to block it out. She started to cry and felt Jordan’s arm around her. He knew the same feeling but masked it much better. Her sobs, he felt, would be therapeutic, so he let her cry and gently rubbed her back.
Monte and Simone sat and drank beers on the bottom floor of the visitors center. They both had some issues with the combat but hadn’t internalized the carnage as did Maria and Jordan. They were recovering little by little—beer after beer. As they enjoyed the respite from the fight, Lester and Debi dropped by.
“Buy me a beer, Monte?” Lester asked.
“Of course. I’ll buy both of you one, since they are free today,” Monte said, and got up to pull out a chair for Debi as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. Lester kissed Simone but always aimed for the lips on pretty girls, and usually wasn’t rejected. He wasn’t this time either.
“I understand Maria and Jordan had it pretty bad,” Lester said. “Rick told me they killed about twenty of the bad guys—almost got overrun. Maria isn’t handling it well. We’ll give them some space, but the action might be over for them.”
“Shit, I hope it’s over for all of us,” Debi said.
Out of nowhere, an old Huey rose from the tree line in front of the visitors center and opened up with M-60 machine guns on each side of the aircraft. The two shooters were clearly strapped into monkey harnesses and had their weapons on a bungee cord, so they could move the guns around to rain bullets down on their prey Vietnam style. The four friends dove behind the concrete patio wall and tried to get off some shots before they were out of sight. They could hear returning fire from the upper observation area.
Jordan had seen the gunship turn behind the visitors center, bank at eye level, and open up on the personnel on the upper level. He quickly pulled Maria on the other side of the concrete flower planter and both opened up on the Huey. Some of the personnel on the roof took hits.
“Eat these bullets, you assholes!” Maria said. She saw that several of her rounds from a full magazine found their way around the right-side gunner. He dropped the M60, and it hung by the bungee cord as the shooter looked after his wounds which were numerous.
Jordan had concentrated on the pilot, but wondered if any of his rounds had penetrated the Huey’s protected armor. The glass was bullet resistant but could be penetrated. He saw the pilot shield his eyes from the full magazine Jordan sent his way. The helicopter turned and sent 7.62mm machine gun rounds into two of the Super Cobras on the ground, then banked and headed out the way it came in. An Apache attack helicopter had been approaching for a landing and immediately pursued the Huey. After a short distance, it overtook the old helicopter and blew it to pieces with its Gatling gun. Upon close inspection, there was minimal damage to the gunships on the ground. A repair crew got on them instantly and medics were working on the casualties on the roof.
“Maria, you okay?” Jordan asked as he put his arm around her again.
“I’m fine … damn fine. I’m over that little spell I had. All it takes is to have one of those motherfuckers try to kill you, and you come back to the job at hand. I can do it as well as anyone here, but I’m down to one magazine. How about you?”
“Same here. I’ll call Rick,” Jordan said, and dialed his cell.
“Rick, you guys have any MAC-10 45 APC ammo on hand?”
“Go inside to the theater and look in the duffel bags we left there. Might be a few mags left. You guys are doing great. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I would like to sign up for post-traumatic syndrome counseling,” Jordan joked.
“I’ll put you guys on the list, but you’re far-fucking away from ‘post’ anything, and you may have to teach the course. Got to go. Stay frosty, my man. Ha!” Rick laughed.
“He loves this shit, doesn’t he?” Jordan said, more or less to himself.
“Babe, it’s the highest-high and the lowest-low,” Maria said, taking Jordan’s hand to go inside and down the stairs to the theater. On the way, Jordan called Lester to tell him about the ammo and to let him know they were headed there.
“Lester—meet us in the theater—we’re headed that way,” Jordan said.
“Thanks, Jordan, we’ll meet you there,” Lester said, and directed his group inside from the lower patio. They all met and exchanged war stories as they looked into the duffel bags strewn around the aisles of the theater. Only one duffel bag contained the correct ammo and magazines, yet it was packed. It contained a few clips with ammunition loaded in them, but mostly it was boxes of .45 rounds. Most everyone had saved their empty magazines, so it was just the matter of putting in the rounds one by one. Debi and Simone gave Maria a hug and asked her if she was all right.
“I’m fine. The last magazine I emptied felt much better. I was more mad than scared. Debi, I’m getting like you, girl,” Maria said.
“Hey, I get plenty scared, but for some reason, I convert it to anger. But none of us had the amount of combat you and Jordan had—don’t want anything that intense either,” said Debi.
The men were more interested in what came next.
“So, we have five choppers left to come in—is that right?” asked Monte.
“Yeah, that’s what I understand,” said Lester. “We can guess they’ll look like the one that buzzed through. Seems like a suicide mission, and they have to know that.”
“They must have them for a purpose other than to sacrifice a few Muslims. It must be the ships loaded in the canal gates they’re after,” Jordan said.
“Rick said that prime time is around 5:15, so we’re about an hour away from a full-scale attack, if the ships are their targets,” Lester said. “I don’t see how they can do much damage with a couple of machine guns on each chopper. We’re missing something.”
*****
The five Huey helicopters couldn’t be seen from above. They were beautifully draped with realistic jungle camouflage; the men were underground, hiding their heat signatures, and God knows where all the drones had landed. It was certain the NSA had several sites picked out where something might happen, but they probably couldn’t differentiate the landing site for the Hueys. Romuald Farouk had faked out the satellite surveillance by flying several large drones of his own in many directions, while he dropped these five Hueys down and covered them immediately.
Farouk received a call from his boss, Abdulhasan Askari, shortly after the helicopters were secured.
“Farouk, listen to me carefully. We lost the chopper we sent in today—shot down by a Super Cobra. It sent back video of all the aircraft on the ground. We have a tough task ahead. Here’s what I want you to tell your pilots. Two are to come in from the east and two from the west, one minute apart, and one from the north—all at 5:30 pm. The locks will be full. Every one of the detonators are set on the same frequency, so if any of your people get within a hundred yards of the ships, they should be able to trigger them. Remember, they don’t explode immediately. They will float up from the floor of the locks once the signal releases them, then the magnets will attach themselves to the hull of the ships. Once attached, they will explode in five minutes. You got that, Farouk? You should—we’ve been over this a thousand times,” Askari said, reminding his helicopter commander to follow orders just this one last time. He still wasn’t confident that Farouk wouldn’t screw up the mission.
“Roger that, boss. Crystal clear. Ready to rock and roll,” Farouk said, and prepared to instruct his men on what would most likely be their final flight on planet Earth. In the process, there was a good chance he would bludgeon the English language and completely baffle the troops under his leadership.
“My invaluable and intrepid troops, may Allah bless you forever. Praise the name of Allah. We are about to embark on a Herculean adventure where we will rain down a vociferous and catastrophic hellstorm on infidels who hate us and our way of life. To our great alacrity, the Americans will feel our rancor and taste our venom. They will witness our truculent warriors and will fall in droves. Be jubilant in your coming victory. Each helicopter has a set of instructions. So, saddle up and let’s get this show on the road.”
The camouflage was ripped off the five Hueys, and they began to warm up the engines. One pilot leaned over to his copilot as they lifted off.
“Do you know what that fuck he just said?” he asked.
“No one does. ‘Vociferous’—my ass!”