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38
Rapp was relieved to see Coleman. He wasn’t crazy about jungles. They were great for concealment, but that went both ways. Behind every tree and bush loomed the threat of death. Moving through a jungle, even in the best of conditions, was physically draining. The humidity, the bugs and the heat all took their toll, but that wasn’t the nastiest part. It was the manifestation of paranoia that really wore you down. The psychological toll it took on your nerves was far greater than the way the heat and humidity sapped your strength. The constant threat of ambush or booby trap meant that every single footfall on the path was taken with trepidation. Every bush and tree potentially concealed an enemy waiting to cut you down.
Throughout the two-hour march from the beach Rapp took comfort in the fact that Coleman kept reporting that the enemy appeared to be sitting the storm out. Hopefully, any of the MILF guerrillas on the island were doing the same. An ambush was unlikely, but a booby trap was still a real possibility.
They’d stopped twice for brief breaks so Jackson could get a head count and check in with Coleman. The storm seemed to gain strength as they made their way inland. Both Rapp and Jackson understood what this could mean, and they’d already discussed it with Captain Forester. Back on the bridge of the Belleau Wood Forester had a much better handle on the big picture.
Gale-force winds were now buffeting the flattop with speeds hitting forty miles per hour. And that wasn’t the end of it. The ship’s meteorologist was giving even odds that the front might turn into a full-blown tropical storm with winds hitting seventy-plus miles per hour. With the increased threat the amphibious group was now steaming toward Surigao Strait and the relative protection of the leeward side of the island. The weather had been an asset until now, but it could quickly become a hindrance to a very important part of the operation.
Jackson’s men were spread out in a defensive perimeter around Coleman’s position. Radio silence was to be strictly obeyed unless there was something important to report. This had nothing to do with a fear of their conversations being intercepted. Neither Abu Sayyaf, MILF or the Philippine army had the technology to decipher their transmissions. Radio silence was simply standard operational procedure so the commanders could concentrate on the task at hand and keep the airwaves open.
Brief introductions were made. Rapp had already brought Jackson up to speed on Coleman’s distinguished Special Forces career, and Coleman was still connected enough to the teams that he personally knew all of Jackson’s commanders.
“To start things off,” said Rapp, looking mostly at Jackson, “I want to establish the chain of command.” Glancing at Coleman, he continued, “Scott, you’re running the show. No offense, Lieutenant, but he has more experience with this type of stuff than you.”
“No offense taken,” Jackson replied with sincerity. He was not so dumb as to think he was going to give orders to the former CO of SEAL Team 6, retired or not.
Wicker was brought in on the discussion to try to give them the best picture of what they were up against, and then the four men headed off through the soaked jungle to get a firsthand look at the enemy encampment. Coleman alerted Hackett and Stroble to expect visitors. A short while later four rain-soaked figures slithered on their bellies into a position just abreast of the other two men. It was now so dark that the recesses of the camp could only be seen with the aid of night vision devices.
Rapp placed a wet eyebrow up against the rubber cup of his gun scope. He was treated with a picture of the camp illuminated in shades of green, gray and black. It was pretty much what he’d expected from listening to Coleman’s reports: four ramshackle lean-tos and two large tents. Faint light shone from under the bottom of both tents and the lean-tos were lit with lanterns. From their position Rapp could see directly into two of the lean-tos. He counted eight terrorists in one structure and nine in the other.
Taking his eye off the scope, Rapp asked, “Which hut has the hostages in it?”
Coleman was wearing a pair of night vision goggles with a single protruding lens, the type that made the wearer look like an insect. “The one on the right.”
“Anyone in there with them?”
“There was.” Without looking away from the village, Coleman asked Hackett, who was lying next to him, “Kevin, how many tangos are in the tent with the family?”
Whispering, he replied, “Eight at last count.”
Coleman relayed the number to Rapp, who estimated the size of the hut and then tried to imagine how the people would be laid out inside. “Is the total enemy count still at sixty?”
“Give or take a couple,” replied Coleman.
Rapp looked at the two tents and four huts. If the numbers were right, he’d accounted for twenty-five of the sixty terrorists. That left roughly thirty-five others divvied up between the other tent and two lean-tos. Fortunately, it appeared those three structures could be assaulted without the hostages being caught in a cross fire.
“What are you thinking, Scott?”
Coleman took a while to answer. He’d been thinking about his strategy all day. “We send two four-man teams around each side of the camp. They take out the lean-tos while a four-man team takes out the one tent and a five-man team handles the rescue.”
Rapp ran the numbers. “That leaves a cover force of only five.”
“We could increase the cover force if you want to just lob grenades into the other structures, but my guess is you won’t like that.”
Rapp frowned. He instinctively disliked anything that made too much noise. “It might attract some unwanted attention.”
“Shit,” answered the young lieutenant on Rapp’s other side. “Who’s going to hear it on a night like this? Besides, we’re going to have to blow some trees to clear a landing area for the choppers.”
This was a part of the plan that Rapp had never much liked. There was a small clearing about a quarter mile from where they were that was to be used as their extraction point. In order to make it big enough for a CH-53 Sea Stallion to land they would have to enlarge the landing area by attaching explosives to at least a half-dozen trees and shearing them off. It was sure to attract some attention, storm or no storm.
“I’d prefer to avoid the grenades if possible.”
Coleman flipped his goggles into the up position and looked at Rapp. “Then we stick with a five-man cover force.” Rapp still seemed not entirely enamored with the plan. “Trust me on this. We’ll use one of the SAWs to hit the big tent and take the other two and set them up for cover. In addition to that I’ll be up here with Kevin and Slick Wicker. They’ve already got their line of fire figured and the camp divided into three sectors. If anything pops up they’ll take care of it before you even know it’s a problem.”
The SAW Coleman was referring to was the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. A light machine gun, the SAW was capable of firing up to 700 rounds per minute and in the hands of a trained operator the weapon could lay down a withering amount of suppressive fire.
Rapp nodded. “You know more about this stuff than I do.”
