Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Kyle exchanged the neck dog tag with his own. “It’s this way, McDowell,” Swanson whispered while he untied the kid’s left boot, then his own, speaking to the pale face. “I need your help here. The bad guys are going to be looking for survivors. If they figure out some crazy sniper is missing, they’ll really start hunting. If a radioman is missing, no offense, they won’t give a rat’s ass and think you will holler for help and get picked up sooner or later. You would pose no threat to them.”

Kyle unbuckled the big radio from the dead man’s shoulders. He would dispose of it later, but he needed to take it along to complete the disguise and misdirection play. The pursuers would logically believe that a missing radioman would have kept his radio. “And for the good guys, well, Harold, some of them ain’t so good. For this plan to have any chance of working, we need those assholes to also think I’m dead. That’s where you come in, Harold. What did they call you: Hal? Mac? So convince them that you are me, okay, Lance Corporal McDowell?” Swanson stood and threw the youngster a quick salute. “Semper fi.”

He hustled over to the bike, hooked the radio pack over the handlebars, straddled the motorcycle, and, with a prayer, pushed the starter button. The little engine coughed once, then kicked to life, ready to run. His wristwatch showed that he had used up his time cushion, about six minutes since the helos went down.

He adjusted his night-vision goggles and drove away from the wreckage, the muffled exhaust helping avoid making any more noise than necessary. In the unlikely case that someone from the village figured out there was a survivor, Swanson steered the motorcycle to the east, leaving clear tracks that would indicate he was running to the Israeli border.

A minute later, he was on the paved road that ran through the village behind him, and far enough away from the wreckage to pile on a little more speed with the 1,200-cc engine. Dawn was coming, and he had to be invisible by then.

When radio contact was broken between the operations center aboard the USS Wasp and the TRAP team helos, several minutes elapsed while the sailors at the consoles tried to reestablish a voice link. A download from a stationary satellite watching the area showed a flash in the darkness and the lingering bloom of immense heat at the landing zone.

Colonel Ralph Sims, commander of the 33rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, chewed a fingernail. “Get the Harriers in there to take a look,” he ordered, and the pair of fighter jets broke out of their orbit over Israel, heeled over from 40,000 feet, dropped to the ground, and sped into Syrian airspace riding their afterburners. Nearing the scene, they saw the fire, cut their speed, coasted over the wreckage, banked into a sharp turn, and ran past it again.

Aboard the Wasp , the speakers crackled in the quiet commo room. “Henhouse, this is Rooster One. They’re down and burning,” a pilot reported.

“Survivors?” Sims asked. The radioman relayed the question.

“Negative. No sign of life or movement at the scene, but there are bad guys coming out from the target zone. Request permission to engage.”

Sims wanted to say, “Hell, yes,” but could not. An attack run by the Harriers would probably result in casualties among Syrian civilians, which would make a bad situation a lot worse. It was time to call it a day. “Negative,” he barked, and turned to the commander of the ship’s Marine Air Wing. “Get those planes back home.”

The Tactical Air Center sent the order. “Egress! Egress! Egress!”

The pilot hesitated. “Henhouse, Rooster One. What about a bombing run on the wreckage? I can torch the scene.”

“Negative,” came the immediate reply from Colonel Sims. He needed higher authority for that, and didn’t have time to get it. He would message Washington for permission to send in a Cruise missile for that demolition job. “Repeat. Negative. Return to base.”

“Rooster One. Roger that. I copy egress, return to base.” The Rooster Flight headed home.

He heard his wingman come on the air. “Rooster Two to Rooster One, push to Rooster freak.” Both pilots switched to another frequency so they could talk without being overheard.

“Go ahead, Two, this is Rooster One.”

“Boss, did I copy that last right? We really leaving these guys behind?”

“You heard the same thing I did.”

“I know, but what about ‘Marines don’t leave their own’?”

The flight leader’s temper was simmering. He felt the same way, but because he was in command, he could not agree with his friend over an open radio channel. “One to Two. You saw it as good as I did. They’re all dead!”

“Well, if they weren’t then, they are now. Or worse.”

“That’s enough, Rooster Two. Follow your orders. Rooster One out.”

The Harriers hugged the ground as they dashed back to Israeli airspace, where they would climb high for the rest of the return flight to the Wasp. The pilots remained silent, lost in thought about a rescue raid that had flipped into total disaster. Rooster One knew that by flying away, they were erasing any chance American survivors might escape captivity, torture, or death. “Please, God, don’t let me see one of those kids show up on Al Jazeera,” he said in a soft prayer, words that would never leave his cockpit.

Aboard the Wasp , Colonel Ralph Sims sent the message about the cruise missile to Washington, then walked rigidly out of the command center, seeking fresh air and a moment of privacy. He lit a cigarette and thought about his Marines lying entombed in the helicopters in Syria. There would be a lot of investigations, and people, including him, would probably lose their jobs. At the moment, he didn’t really care, for he had a bigger worry, one that was much more personal. What the hell am I supposed to tell their families?

The sky was losing its blackness, and the first rays of the new day crawled across the Middle East.

ROOSTER ONE. ROGER THAT. I copy egress, return to base.”

The Harrier flight leader sounded calm and professional as he was heard in real time over a satellite linkup straight into the Situation Room of the White House. Members of the National Security Council had been there for an hour, monitoring the Middleton rescue raid. Now they were immobilized in shock.

Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne brought both hands to her mouth, fighting not to cry out in anguish at what she heard. Both helicopters down. No signs of life. Unknown people moving in fast. KYLE! NO!

National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan was at the head of the long table in his big chair, tapping a yellow pencil against a legal pad as he listened to the disembodied voice. This was something he had not counted on, and he was busy weighing the up sides and the down sides. He looked around at the military people and detected an advantage. Make it their fault.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Turner, was chewing a knuckle, and lines of thought creased his forehead. He was, after all, a Marine, although he represented all of the military services. He had previously been the Marine Corps commandant, so those were his men who had lost their lives. He was emotionally involved.

A definite advantage! Grab it! Buchanan, however, spoke quietly. “Your Marines failed, General, so we now have a situation.”

Turner had to agree. He had watched the crash via the satellite feed and had heard what the pilots had to say. “Yes, sir. It does appear the mission was unsuccessful.”

Buchanan did not follow up his first jab. He stared at the satellite picture of a glowing hot spot in the Syrian desert. He could remain the consummate professional. “A tragedy, but we must move ahead. I need to hear options. Right now.”