In accordance with the Geneva Convention, Greer was wearing U.S. Navy camos and was armed with American weapons. Not that he would allow himself be captured. No fucking way.
The ferry was going full tilt as it hit the beach and ran up onto the sand. The boat came to an abrupt stop, hydraulics whirred as the bow ramp went down, and the first Simba roared away.
There was a short wait followed by a violent jerk as the driver of the second six-by-six let the clutch out too quickly and killed the engine. A torrent of friendly abuse was directed at the unfortunate driver: “Hey, Dickhead, learn to drive!” “What a fucking Drongo,” and “How am I supposed to sleep?”
Greer grinned as the driver produced an equally profane torrent of words, and a sergeant told the commandos to zip it. Silence reigned.
The back of the truck was covered which meant Greer couldn’t see out. But he could feel the truck bounce through potholes, slow for intersections, and make a sharp left-hand turn.
The ride began to smooth out as the vic left town and made its way onto a highway. That’s when the driver ran through the gears and put his boot down. The forty-five-minute wait began. People handled the situation in different ways.
Corporal Boyle went to sleep. A medic made changes to his kit. And a dull-eyed private sharpened his knife. It might have been Gallipoli in 1915, Korea in 1950, or Vietnam in 1965. Young men, their thoughts astray, waiting for the worst.
Greer’s thoughts turned to the men they were hoping to rescue, the pilots who’d been killed, and a burning need for revenge. I want a carrier, Greer thought. And a plane.
Greer closed his eyes but found he couldn’t sleep. Not behind enemy lines on a noisy truck. After forty minutes on the highway, Greer heard Captain Dancy’s voice via the plug in his ear. “All right men, we’re almost there. Check your weapons and remember your assignments. Oh, and don’t stop to pee. That means you Cooper.”
The comment produced gales of laughter just as it was supposed to. Greer hadn’t been briefed on the backstory, but grinned, and felt sorry for Cooper. No wonder they called him “the pisser.”
Greer’s job was to lock onto Corporal Boyle, follow the noncom, and defend himself if necessary. Other than that Greer’s mission was to be present when the prisoners were freed, so they’d have a familiar face to look at. At that point he was supposed to lead the POWs out of the building to a waiting truck.
Greer’s radio was tuned to the command frequency. So, he was a firsthand witness to what occurred next. “Cat-Four to Alpha-Six,” a female voice said. “It looks like a trap. Something like a hundred tangos are gathered around the main gate. Over.”
Greer knew that Cat-Four was a UAV pilot located back in the states. She was flying an MQ-9 Reaper drone which, due to its range, wasn’t likely to make the return trip to Indonesia. Other drones had more range but were unarmed.
There had been a leak somewhere. But from whom? Greer hoped to live long enough to find out. Even though the news came as a surprise, the possibility had been discussed, and Dancy had a plan. “Roger that, Cat-Four. Take them out. We’ll make our own gate. Over.”
Cat-Four’s voice was devoid of emotion. “A Hellfire and a couple of 500-pound bombs should do the trick Alpha-Six. Warn your people and plug your ears. Over.”
Dancy gave a warning as the truck veered to the left and bounced wildly. Then, just short of the razor wire topped fence, the driver braked. “Out! Out! Out!”
Boyle bawled. “Make a hole in that fence Cooper … And be smart about it.”
Greer heard a series of loud explosions as Cat-Four put some of her ordinance on the locals. Greer followed Boyle into the night. A search light snapped on and a shaft of light began to probe the prison grounds. That was accompanied by the rattle of gunfire as the remaining defenders fired in every direction.
It took Cooper three minutes to place the charges and detonate them. The result was a ragged hole through which the commandos could pass so long as they were careful. “High step and mind your balls,” Boyle advised, as he led the way.
Greer took the advice to heart, saw muzzle flashes off to the right, and realized that the surviving defenders were going to stay and fight. Prison guards were coming out to serve as reinforcements. Like generations of noncoms before him, Boyle shouted, “Follow me!” and ran straight at the enemy.
Greer was lumbering along behind the Aussie, his M4 carbine at the ready, as defenders fired from the prison’s roof. It was Greer’s first experience with ground combat and he didn’t like it. The search light found Boyle and pinned him in its glare. Bullets threw divots of dirt up all around the corporal and knocked him down.
Greer ran to help. The medic arrived seconds later, felt for a pulse, and shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Greer took a quick look around, realized that Boyle’s team had gone to ground, and waved them forward. “Follow me!” And with that the pilot began to zigzag forward. The Australians followed.
A second commando counter sniper team was at work by then, and the fire from the roof stopped, as the Aussie marksmen found their targets. Lieutenant Kapoor was shouting orders. “Bring the vehicles in! Establish a perimeter! Treat the wounded!”
Greer heard the words, but his mind was focused on reaching the door to the prison, and the sand-bagged machine gun position in front of it. Muzzle flashes lit the area around the belt-fed weapon as it began to swivel their way. “RPG!” Greer shouted. “On the machine gun!”
It was the correct order, but a projectile was already on the way by the time the pilot
