Three more squads of SEALs, twenty-four men total, would then fast-rope in from above and both secure the hostages and sweep the camp. From there the door kickers would move the Andersons one click from the camp to a small clearing for a helicopter evacuation. The clearing would be secured by a platoon of Force Recon marines, and if things started to fall apart and they met more resistance than they'd planned, the Harrier attack jets and Super Cobra attack helicopters were on station for quick deployment.
The squad would remain until the rescue element was safely out, and then work their way back to the beach and ex-filtrate the same way they'd come in. A pretty straightforward plan, with one exception: they would be operating in the backyard of one of their allies and the Filipinos weren't going to be involved in the operation. Not only were they not going to be involved, they weren't even going to be told it was going on. No one had told the SEALs why, but they had their suspicions.
The Philippine army had been promising for months to rescue the Andersons and they hadn't done squat. There were rumors working their way around the teams that our old Pacific allies could no longer be trusted, so the United States was going to take care of things on its own.
Devolis had learned early on in his career to steer clear of diplomatic and political questions. They tended to cloud the mission, which for a SEAL was a very bad thing. Mission clarity was crucial for a Special Forces officer. Besides, all that stuff was way above his pay grade. It was for the hoity-toity crowd with all their fancy titles and degrees.
Despite knowing better, Devolis couldn't help but wonder how some of this might affect the mission. The scuttlebutt was that some pretty heated debates had taken place in Washington before they green-lighted the rescue operation. A rivulet of sweat dropped from his left eyebrow and landed on his cheek. He pressed the sleeve of his jungle BDU against his forehead and mopped his face. Silently, he cursed the heat, knowing that if it was warm out here on the water, it would be completely soupy in the jungle.
As they neared the beach, the boat slowed and settled in the calm water. There was only about fifty feet of sand between the waterline and the jungle. Every pair of eyes in the little rubber boat scanned the beach and the thick jungle in search of a sign that they weren't alone.
Even with their night vision goggles there was nothing much to glean beyond the empty beach. The jungle was too thick. Insertions were always a tense part of the op, but for tonight, at least, the intel guys had told him that it was highly doubtful they would meet any resistance upon landing.
A large, mangled piece of driftwood sat at the water's edge. On Devolis's order the boat headed in its direction. Unless it had moved since this morning's satellite photographs, that was their spot. Just to the right of it, and in from the beach approximately a hundred yards, was a shallow stream they would use to work their way inland to the camp.
The boat nudged onto the sand beach, just to the right of the driftwood.
The men moved with precision and speed. This was where they were most vulnerable, here on the beach out in the open. They spread out in a predetermined formation that they'd practiced with numbing repetition. The lead men in the front of the boat maintained firing positions while the others fanned out, creating a small secure beachhead that provided 180 degrees of fire.
Devolis lay in the prone position slightly ahead of the others, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at his sector of the jungle, his heart beating a bit faster but under control. The goggles turned the dark night into a glowing green, white and black landscape. Lying completely still, the lieutenant squinted his eyes in an attempt to pierce the wall of vegetation in front of him. After he'd given it a good look he took his right finger off the trigger and pointed toward the jungle twice. Ten feet to Devolis's right, Scooter Mason, his point man, popped up and scampered off toward the jungle in a low crouch, his weapon at his shoulder ready to fire. Devolis took a second to check their flanks and looked down the beach in both directions.
That was when it happened. A three-round burst that shattered the still night. Three loud distinctive cracks that Devolis instantly knew came from a weapon that didn't belong to any of his men. As Devolis swung his head around he saw Scooter falling to the ground and then the jungle in front of them erupted in a fusillade of gunfire. Bright muzzle flashes came from everywhere. A bullet whistled past the young lieutenant's head and the sand in front of him began to dance as rounds thudded into the beach. In return, the squad let loose with everything they had. Each man hosed down his sector, focusing on the bright muzzle flashes of the enemy.
Devolis unloaded his first thirty-round magazine and ejected it.
While fishing for a fresh magazine, he yelled into his lip mike, "Victor Five, this is Romeo! I need an immediate evac!" Devolis rammed home the fresh magazine and chambered a round. A muzzle flash erupted at one o'clock and he sent a three-round burst right back down its throat.
"Say again, Romeo" came the reply back over Devolis's earpiece.
Devolis continued to fire and shouted, "We are taking heavy fire!
We have at least one man down and we need an immediate evac! Bring it right in on the beach!"
An earnest voice crackled back over the radio, "We're on the way."
Devolis knew the rest of the team had heard his call for an evacuation over their headsets. They had covered it thoroughly in the pr emission briefing. The Mark V was to circle back after it dropped them off and take up station a mile and a half off the beach in case they were needed. It was a standard mission precaution, but one that no one thought they'd need tonight. As Devolis returned fire, he loudly cursed the people back in Washington. They'd walked right into an ambush and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how it had happened.
"Guys, give me a sit rep, by the numbers." Devolis continued to fire while his men sounded off one by one. Only five men checked in. Devolis knew Scooter was down and that left only one other.
"Irv, talk to me." Devolis repeated the request, then looked to his left. He could see Irv's prone figure, but there was no movement.
"Listen up!" His shout was interrupted by several loud explosions as one of his men fired his M203 40mm grenade launcher into the jungle.
"Gooch, put some smoke into their position. The boat will be here any second. When the big fifties start to rake the jungle we move. I'll grab Irv. Gooch, can you get to Scooter?"
"Affirmative."
Devolis tore off his night vision goggles, reached for an M-18 smoke grenade and pulled the pin. Rolling onto one side, he lobbed the can of soup upwind from their position. The grenade rolled across the sand and began to hiss its white cover. Slowly the fog worked its way back down the beach. Devolis knew the boat had to be near and started his crawl toward Irv. He had to get to him. No one could be left behind. When he was just a few feet away from his friend a bullet found him. It slammed into his right leg. Through gritted teeth Devolis let out a muffled scream and a slew of profanities. The pain had been so complete he wondered briefly if his leg had been blown off. He looked over his shoulder to reassure himself that it was still attached.
He reached Irv just as the battle reached a new crescendo. The big 50-caliber machine guns of the Mark-V tore into the jungle with vicious force. Shredded leaves rained down, branches snapped free, trunks absorbed the big rounds with cracking moans and thuds and then the 40mm grenade launcher let loose with a salvo of explosions.
The enemy's guns all but stopped as they dove for cover.