Mack Maloney: Chopper Ops

Two pairs of boots stopped right next to where he lay dying. One boot was so close to him, he could actually read the serial numbers on its heel: 97846304991. Beneath these numbers it read: MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Americans? Slakker thought in his last instant of life.

How did the Americans ever find us here?

Unlike the four color-coordinated squads of mercenaries protecting the outer and inner walls of the palace, a hodgepodge of paid soldiers guarded the Hotel, many from black African nations, wearing nothing more elaborate than plain green camo battle fatigues and bush hats.

What these men lacked in aplomb and style, they made up for with numbers. Indeed, there were a hundred of them watching over the Hotel alone. They all carried AK-47 assault rifles and prided themselves in seeing who could carry the most ammunition on his person. It was not unusual to see men in this so-called Z-Squad walking about with five or six ammo bandoliers hanging around their necks.

A dozen men were on duty in the lobby of the Hotel this night. Six were actually standing guard duty next to the Hotel’s expansive sliding door. Six more were playing cards on a long table inside what doubled as the Hotel’s lounge area.

The men near the doors saw the two helicopters fly over the main wall, and at first thought nothing of it. Helicopters were constantly going in and out of the palace area—it was the easiest means to access the place. They watched the two choppers split up. One flew over the inner walls, heading toward Zim’s main chamber. The other landed in the courtyard right in front of the Hotel itself.

Before the guards could react, the doors of the huge chopper burst open and men began pouring out. They were wearing what appeared to be Iraqi uniforms, but these men were not Iraqi. These were white soldiers, tall, powerful-looking, clean-shaven.

Terrifying…

They started shooting the moment they left the helicopter. The Hotel guards hardly had time to raise their weapons before being cut down in the brutal fusillade.

While the helicopter’s landing barely upset the card game going on inside the hotel lobby, the sound of gunfire did. But before these interior men could even reach for their weapons, the Marines had broken through the plate-glass windows and were spraying the lobby with high-powered tracer fire. The cardplayers were dropped where they sat, their blood mixing in with the cards and piles of crumpled-up money.

The Marines quickly spread out. Twelve men took the lobby, then three dozen more began flooding up the stairs. Smitz was at the head of this contingent.

It would have been easier by far to simply call in the Hinds and have them decimate the Hotel—but that would not have allowed Smitz to get another peaceful night’s sleep ever again.

There was a question burning in his brain; it was a fire so hot, it would not be soothed until he confirmed what Angel claimed was true. The man who had set them up, who had a hand in pulling the strings of this whole bizarre affair, that man was in this building, Angel said.

In Room 6…

But Smitz had to see it for himself. So now he was running full tilt down the Hotel’s long first-floor corridor, firing his M-16 at anything that moved in front of him, usually a fleeing member of the Z-Squad.

At the same time, he could hear the gunfire intensifying outside. A quick peek out a window revealed a huge battle erupting between the troops left on the parapets and Marines firing from the second Halo, which was moving very slowly back and forth over the palace compound.

Time was now becoming a factor. The first group of Marines had infiltrated the palace thirty minutes ago. They had come in through the back door—literally. Over the jagged mountain peak, over the only unguarded wall in the palace, and through the rear door of the Black Squad’s barracks, quickly eliminating the most dangerous threat within the compound with their silencer- equipped rifles—all on the advice and directions of the guy named Angel.

But there was still danger about, as the growing gun- fight outside the walls revealed.

This brought one thought to Smitz’s mind. “We can’t stay very long,” he whispered. This made him run even faster.

He and the Marines finally reached the far side of the Hotel’s expansive first floor. Leaving some men behind to watch critical passageways, Smitz and six Team 66 members moved swiftly down the last corridor.

Finally Smitz found what he was looking for: the door to Room 6.

The Marines automatically lined up three on each side and got ready to do a standard kick-in-and-start-firing entry. But at the last moment, Smitz held up his hand.

“No,” he said “This one is just me….”

The Marine squad leader began to protest, but after a month of being around Smitz, he knew better.

“Put three men at that end,” Smitz told him, indicating the far end of the hallway. “You and the other two watch the near staircase. If I’m not out in five minutes, then you can kick the door in….”

The Marines grudgingly acknowledged his orders and made their way to their positions. Once Smitz got the OK sign from both ends of the hallway, he took a deep breath, raised his rifle, opened the unlocked door, and stepped inside.

It looked like a Presidential suite within. It was enormous, with a big window looking out on the starkly beautiful scenery beyond. Smitz took a deep sniff—he smelled cigar smoke and alcohol.

He reached over and clicked on the light. A dim bulb popped on in the corner of the huge room; another flickered to life inside a hallway that Smitz assumed led to the bedroom. He walked slowly into the main living area, heel to toe, his gun up and ready for anything.

The room was empty, though. It was covered with newspapers, empty scotch bottles, and hundreds of pieces of scrap paper, scattered everywhere, with endless writing and doodling on them. The neatest part of the room was the kitchen area, where he found no less than a hundred bottles of nonalcoholic champagne stacked neatly into one otherwise dusty corner.

Smitz stepped into the hallway, which led to the bedroom, all the while realizing the gunfire outside was getting even more intense.

He didn’t have much more time for this.

He raise the gun a bit more, walked into the bedroom, and flicked on the light. And there in front of him, he saw huddled beneath the bedclothes the man who had been living here in Room 6.

“Well, this is certainly ironic,” Smitz said, stepping one foot closer to the huge bed. “Hiding under the covers, just like the last time I saw you.”

With that he reached over with his snout of his rifle and snagged the bedspread. He gave it a yank and uncovered the partially clad man beneath.

Smitz just looked down at him and spat in his face.

“What kind of man are you?” he asked, his voice filled with rage.

George Jacobs looked up at him and said: “What kind of man are you , spitting at an old man?”

The question gave Smitz no pause. His anger only intensified.

“I respected you,” Smitz said, standing over his very healthy-looking former boss. “I thought you were the only guy with a head on his shoulders and some ethics in his pocket in the whole fucking Agency. But you turned out to be just like everyone else at that place.”

Smitz just shook his head. Jacobs was looking up at him the way a man looks at his executioner.

“And not even a classy way to go out either,” Smitz went on. “I mean, faking your death? Running into the arms of the puke that owns this place—and actually helping him pick targets for the gunship?”

Smitz was nearly in tears. “What kind of an American does that? I came all the way up here just to get an answer to that question.”