Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

Three revolutions around the palace and the guns finally snapped off. There was really nothing left to fire at by then. The palace and every building within it had been leveled.

Nothing over twelve inches high remained standing.

Inside the C-130, Delaney crawled back up to the flight deck and settled into the copilot’s seat beside Norton.

The plane was handling like a breeze, so much so, Norton could hardly believe it had just cracked up a few hours before. But the C-130 was known for surviving rough landings and making scary takeoffs. As it turned out, the onion field had proved to be a reasonable runway.

“How’d we do?” Delaney asked Norton, whose eyes were still glued on the burning palace. “It’s hard to see from back there.”

“The weaponry performed as advertised,” was how Norton replied.

Deep down, though, even he was shocked at the destruction he and Delaney had managed to inflict. The palace looked like it had been carpet-bombed by a squadron of B-52’s. Yet they’d been over it for less than two minutes.

“This plane is too powerful,” Norton heard himself whisper. “Too dangerous…”

At last, Delaney got his first good view of the demolished palace.

“Muthafucker,” he whispered. “That’s a lot of hurt for just the two of us!”

“Well, whoever ran this bird before helped by rigging the software to fire on command,” Norton said. “That’s what made it so easy.”

“Yeah, lucky us,” Delaney mumbled.

Norton finally turned the big plane southwest and gunned its engines, anxious to leave the burning mountaintop behind. They would now meet the others back at the onion field, where they would abandon the helicopters and head for greener pastures. And not a moment too soon.

It was a weird place to end a story that had started just off the Florida coast so many twists and turns ago. Norton and Delaney weren’t even sure who owned the palace they’d just destroyed or what this person’s position on the planet was. All they knew was this: He was the man behind the gunship—and now he’d just tasted its wrath big-time.

“So, fuck you,” Delaney said, taking one long last look at the flames lighting up the horizon. “Whoever you were…”

Western Saudi Arabia

Colonel Larry S. Howard was the commanding officer of the secret American air base in the Saudi desert known as Al-Khalid.

It had been a long, busy day at the base. An unusual amount of military activity had been reported in the northeast regions of Iraq in the past forty-eight hours, and no less than fourteen U-2 spy planes had dropped in on Al-Khalid since the previous evening, needing gas-ups and fresh film for their cameras.

The last one had departed just thirty minutes ago. Once it had reported from its first radio checkpoint that all was OK, Howard dragged himself back to his quarters and collapsed on the bed. He hadn’t slept for more than ten minutes at a time in the past two days. Now he was hoping for at least six undisturbed hours of down time, maybe even more.

Yet no sooner had he drifted off when his phone rang.

It was the security officer for the base.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said. “But we have a Green-Zulu-Six situation….”

It took a moment for these code words to sink into Howard’s sleepy brain.

“Are you sure?” he asked the security officer. “Green-Zulu-Six?”

“That’s confirmed, sir,” was the reply. “We’re looking at something happening inside of fifteen minutes.”

Howard checked the time. It was 0130 hours—one- thirty in the morning. It was raining outside.

“OK,” Howard told the security officer wearily. “Call a Code Three alert. I’ll meet you on the flight line in five minutes.”

Four minutes and thirty seconds later, Howard was roaring along the base’s main runway. Up ahead he could see six vehicles gathered near the auxiliary taxiway. He tapped his HumVee driver on the shoulder, and the man brought them to a skidding stop right in front of the base security officer’s vehicle.

Howard got out and pulled his rain slicker up around his neck. It was a fallacy that it was always hot and dry in the desert. Many times it was cold, wet, and miserable. This was one of those times.

The security officer approached. Even through his slicker, Howard could see his face looked rather troubled.

“Green-Zulu-Six?” Howard asked him again. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir,” the security officer replied. “We got the message about oh-one-thirty hours. Confirmed it two minutes ago.”

Green-Zulu-Six was code for an unauthorized flight requesting permission to land at the secret base. Usually this meant some kind of defection was about to take place, usually Iraqi pilots bugging out and taking their fighter jets or helicopters with them. Of course, the U.S. military greeted such people with open arms, especially if they brought additional valuables like code books along with them.

“Is the translator at the ready?” Howard asked the security man.

But the man did not reply right away. Howard looked at him closely; he could tell the officer had something further to tell him.

“Well, spit it out,” Howard told him. “What is it?”

“This is not an Iraqi defection situation, sir,” the security man finally said.

“What do you mean? You said Green-Zulu-Six.”

“We do have an unauthorized flight coming in,” the security man replied. “But the call sign matches an aircraft that once flew from this very base. An American aircraft.”

Howard just stared at him. “What are you talking about? Why would an American airplane be requesting a Green-Zulu landing?”

The security officer had anticipated this question. He had with him a prime operations log. It was a record of all takeoffs and landings made at the base in any given year. This book was for 1991.

He opened the page to February 9. He pointed to an entry. It read: ArcLight 4.

Howard scanned the page and looked at the security man.

“Is this a joke?” he asked, not in the mood.

“I… don’t know, sir,” the security man replied.

He pointed to the page again.

“This aircraft, U.S. Air Force AC-130… code-named ArcLight 4… has asked for permission to land here, sir.”

Howard was suddenly trembling slightly, though he didn’t know why. He’d heard about ArcLight 4, of course. The special ops plane took off from Al-Khalid nearly ten years ago and simply disappeared.

Now it was coming back?

“That’s what it says,” the security man replied. “The person we talked to on the plane knows all the old security codes, as well as the current ones.”

Howard just shook his head. This didn’t make sense. He didn’t want it to make sense.

“OK, call command,” he told the man finally. “And get your security detail up here.”

The security officer pointed to the four troop trucks parked nearby.

“Already on hand, sir,” he said. “And no other flights are due in.”

“Damn,” Howard whispered to himself. “Am I still asleep?”

“I’m asking myself the same thing, sir,” the security man replied.

Fifteen minutes later, there were twenty-two heavily armed troops lining the end of the main runway at Al-Khalid.

It was still raining, but some fog had moved in and now visibility was down to almost zero.

Howard was there, leaning against his HumVee, with a video man as well as the base chaplain. Four emergency vehicles were parked nearby. The rest of Al-Khalid was on lockdown.

Howard had no idea what to expect. He was closely watching the time. The plane was supposed to have landed ten minutes ago. Yet absolutely nothing had happened.