“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 doorand 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.
61
Situation Room
The White House
Washington, D.C.
