Chapter 60
The Maghreb
“The storm front is twenty miles away and moving fast,” Hooper said. “We’ll get a good look at the airfield, but sometime in the next hour this weather is going to hit.”
From the observer’s seat, Clark saw a wall of red on the radar display. He looked out the side window and said, “I don’t see any lightning.”
“Not that kind of storm, but trust me, we don’t want to get caught in it.”
Clark didn’t argue.
“There,” Hooper said, pointing in front.
Clark leaned forward and saw it dead ahead—against the black void of the desert, a scattered arrangement of a dozen big floodlights. There was little else, no runway lights or rotating beacon as would be found on most airfields.
“You guys switch out,” said Hooper.
Minutes earlier, Clark had made a request and Hooper acquiesced.
Sesniak climbed out of the copilot’s seat, and Clark took his place and donned a set of night vision goggles.
Hooper would do the flying using his own NVGs while Clark, who had the best tactical eye on board, would concentrate on reconnaissance.
“I’ll take her down to a thousand feet,” Hooper announced. They were nearly there already, having performed a fuel-efficient idle descent to arrive at this point.
“Ten miles to go,” Hooper said. “Where exactly do you want me to fly?”
“Left of the runway. I need to get a good look at that hangar.”
Hooper banked the jet accordingly.
Clark saw the runway easily using the optics, and the hangar gained clarity.
The NVGs were good, and from a mile away he could tell the hangar’s twin doors were closed.
He saw one aircraft parked next to it—the unmistakable silhouette of an Il-76 transport.
The perimeter fence was also clear, and Clark saw a half dozen vehicles parked haphazardly around the hangar.
As they reached the approach end of the runway, he began to discern people—at least a dozen on the perimeter and a few milling around the hangar.
“How does the runway look?” Clark asked.
“Clear as far as I can tell,” Hooper replied.
“Usable?”
A pause. “Unfortunately, yes. But like I said, this storm is about to hit. If we land, we might not be able to take off for hours.”
“What about a Shahed drone? Could one of those take off in a storm like this?”
“Not a chance. It’d be tossed into the dirt like a kite by the kind of winds that are coming.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking, boss?” Ding’s voice from behind.
Clark turned and saw him standing in the doorway behind the observer’s seat.
“This was one of the contingencies we discussed,” Clark said. “With the drones trapped in the hangar, we can stop this attack dead in its tracks by securing the airfield.”
Hooper said, “Mr. Clark—”
“My decision is made, captain. Turn her around and land, the quicker the better. Ding, give a three-minute warning—everything as briefed for an immediate assault on the hangar.”
“Will do.”
As Ding turned to address the team, a loud crack on the starboard side got everyone’s attention.
Clark looked to his right and saw a small hole in the aft side window, a spiderweb crack around it.
A bullet hole. Since they were low, there was no issue with pressurization. But the greater problem was obvious.
Ding said, “I think we just lost the element of surprise.”
“Honestly,” Clark said, “I never figured we were going to have it.”
Hooper lined the Gulfstream up with the runway after a tight reversing turn. Sesniak returned to the right seat, but Clark retained his NVGs.
He didn’t like what he saw in the low-light panorama.
Flickers of semiautomatic fire were coming from both sides of the runway.
They would have to stop quickly to access the exterior cargo door, which was aft and on the port side, and retrieve their heavier weapons.
Stopping on the runway, however, would expose them to a fierce cross fire.
The jet touched down firmly and Hooper stood on the brakes.
As they slowed, Clark heard the muted pings of bullets striking the fuselage. The more they slowed, the easier a target they became. The wide-open runway seemed like a death trap.
Passing through one hundred knots, Clark shouted, “There! That berm, steer toward it!”
On the right side of the runway was a pile of sand the length of a semitruck and half as high. It had probably been created when they’d swept the runway clear.
“There’s no taxiway!” Hooper argued. “That puts us in the dirt.”
“It’s that or we end up dead! Do it!”
The nose of the jet slewed right.
“Eighty knots,” Sesniak called out.
The hill of sand loomed large—it was even bigger than Clark had first estimated, and for a moment he thought they would crash into it catastrophically.
The Gulfstream departed the runway and its nosewheel collapsed. There was a great jolt and Clark’s head hit the ceiling. Everything outside disappeared as the windscreen was inundated with flying clots of dirt.
Finally, the whole world spun to a stop and the jet fell eerily still. The deluge of dirt was replaced by swirls of smoke and dust.
“Hit it!” Clark shouted. “Everybody out!”
The pilots’ hands began flying, throwing switches to ensure the engines were shut down. Bullets clattered into the fuselage. Clark tried to orient himself on where they’d come to rest, but visibility through the front windscreen was nonexistent.
He ripped off the NVGs—the tactical optics in the cargo hold would be far superior for a gunfight. “You guys been to the firing range lately?” he asked the pilots.
“Both did our requals last month,” Sesniak replied.
“Let’s see how good your instructors were. Watch us—do as we do. And keep your heads down!”
Clark turned and found the side entry door open and the cabin empty.
His team was already outside. He flew through the door and landed on what felt like a beach.
He ran around the wing to reach the cargo hold, sand flying.
His eyes took in everything. They were taking heavy fire from the right, the area around the hangar.
The V-shaped berm was on the opposite side of the jet.
If they could unload their gear and get to the far side, they’d have reasonable cover from most angles.
The Gulfstream was a wreck. Not only had the nose gear collapsed, but the right wing was in the dirt. The engines were smoking and the acrid scent of jet fuel was strong.
“Here you go,” Ding shouted over the din. He handed Clark an assault rifle and plate carrier.
“Rally on the starboard side!” Clark shouted as he shrugged on his plate carrier.
“Copy that.”
Most of the team had already moved to the far side of the fuselage. Clark was reaching into the cargo bay for a set of optics when he heard a grunt behind him.
He looked back and saw Hooper crash to the ground. He rushed to his side. Hooper’s eyes were open wide and there was a wound beneath his right clavicle.
Clark handed his weapon to Sesniak, hauled the captain up in a fireman’s carry, and shouted, “Follow me!”
Bullets pinged in from behind, snapping into the jet’s tail and wing.
They reached the far side, and Clark set Hooper down behind the starboard engine—the densest cover available.
He spotted a pile of gear on the ground nearby.
Clark rummaged through and found what he needed—a combat medic kit. He crawled back to Hooper.
Sesniak was kneeling by his skipper.
“You have any training in combat medicine?” Clark asked.
“I know the basics,” the copilot said.
“High chest wound. You’ve got gauze and clotting agent. Do what you can to stop the bleeding.”
“Will do.”
While Sesniak went to work, Clark surveyed the tactical situation.
His team was in the fight. They’d taken up shooting positions behind solid cover, from a variety of angles, and were now giving as good as they were getting.
Clark moved to various positions to get a feel for the situation.
It wasn’t good. They were pinned down in the middle of the airfield.
There were no buildings, no vehicles, no tree lines closer than a quarter of a mile in any direction.
Fire and maneuver against a larger force was wholly impractical.
The good news was that the enemy had the same problem: too much open ground to permit an assault.
For the near term, it was a stalemate. The long term was more ominous, and he now had one critically injured man.
Clark decided to fall back on his biggest advantage.
He pulled out his encrypted phone and tapped out a message to Mary Pat Foley.