Recall to Arms

Recall to Arms

By

Frank Perry, author

Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

Books.by.frank@gmail.com

Synopsis

A young Army officer becomes severely depressed and quits the military after experiencing a horrible event as a counter terrorist operator and can’t rationalize ever leading soldiers in action again. He seeks obscurity as a civilian, taking menial jobs with no plans for his future. Then, a nuclear terror threat in the United States forces him back into service, supporting law enforcement as an advisor about an old adversary. He meets an attractive young intelligence analyst assisting the FBI. The emergency that brings them together also creates a barrier to any personal relationship. When the danger escalates further, they may never have any chance to be together.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: books.by.frank@gmail.com.

___________________________________________

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, talked things over, read, critiqued, offered comments, and assisted in the editing, proofreading and design. I would like to thank Beverly Heinle for patiently proofing, editing and suggesting improvements that have been invaluable. Above all I want to thank my wife, Janet, who supported me throughout this and edited the first drafts.

I also would like to thank Rick Cesario for laboring through the earliest draft, and making invaluable suggestions. Special thanks to my son, Brendan Perry who developed the cover art.

___________________________________________

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

___________________________________________

Other books by Frank:

The Cobra Identity

Reign of Terror

Letters From the Grave

Kingfish

Sibley’s Secret

The Dolos Conspiracy

.

Prologue

Things never go as planned in the chaos of combat. In fact, about the only certainties are mass confusion, pain, noise, odors, filth, and the gamut of human emotions. Every entry-level military leadership course makes the point. Most soldiers never actually have the experience or fully comprehend its meaning, but the soldiers on this mission were living it.

The mission was risky even by spec ops standards. Their orders were to capture or kill a terrorist, Hasan Abdul-Razzaq, at a training camp in southern Syria. The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) said Razzaq would be there. Other missions to capture him had been cancelled or aborted. He was always on the move and it was never possible to isolate him long enough to get him. Tonight had been their best chance yet, but there had only been a week to prepare. Not enough time. Razzaq had been near the top of the enemy list for years, having destroyed thousands of lives around the world. This time was different from other attempts to get him. There was good information and time to get the equipment and personnel to his location...very little time.

The Mission

Splintered safety glass had stopped dozens of the bullets, but shards had peppered his face and arms. The mission was a disaster and the only objective now was to escape. He and his team were fleeing for their lives under torrential gunfire, trying to reach the Israeli border. The Russian-made Syrian 6x6 Army truck slammed over rough terrain in blackness, without headlights, at dangerous speeds. Choking iron-rich dust filled their lungs and obscured the enemy close behind. The Captain used all his strength steering over crevices and rocks, praying that the suspension would hold together. Blood-soaked mud streaked his face and hands as the steering wheel jerked violently. He swore with each jolt to help relieve the terror he felt. His pulse raced and every sense was piqued by the smells of diesel, sweat and gun smoke. His ears hammered but no sound registered as survival instincts took over. His fear wasn’t personal; he needed to save his men, his kin.

Rangers trained for the risks of special operations. The Captain was the oldest member of his team at thirty, except for the Master Sergeant who was four or five years older. He felt a paternal sense of devotion and responsibility to his men. Most of those in the twelve-man squad were younger than twenty-three, boys by some standards, and warriors by another.

Their night drop into the territory had been unconventional using composite Wing-Pack gliders. Wing-pack gliders are rigid wing structures made of lightweight composite materials specifically destined for secret incursions by military Special Forces.

The camp was outside normal commercial flight zones and all air traffic was monitored by Syrian radar. The distance from the jump point inside the commercial route to the landing zone in Southern Syria was about eighty miles, so they used small delta wing structures to cross the distance to their objective. The team had done three practice jumps with the wings, two in daylight and one at night. More practice had been needed, but there was no time.

Hours before, they began forming in a darkened hanger at Prince Sultan Air Force Base, Saudi Arabia. The team had been assembling for hours, arriving separately as transit personnel on different flights. Military units came and went daily, and they had to be cautious about attracting attention of Saudi spies. When they had all arrived, the Captain assembled them together while an Air Force C17 Globemaster cargo plane taxied to the partially open hanger door. The men had known each other most of their brief military lives. The Captain was idolized by some, and all respected his lead-by-example style. They trained together, lived together, ate together and fought together. Almost all of them had been on at least one prior mission with Six (Army slang for commanding officer) before. Several had been in firefights with him.

Military protocol mellowed a bit in the special operations teams where mutual dependency meant that everyone played an equal role in keeping the others alive. The chain of command would stiffen when the airplane left the ground, but for now it remained informal. The Captain called the team together, Wow! I thought Benning was hot! All right men, we got our taxi, so load up quick and quiet.

Precautions had to be taken at the airbase, because the Saudis were, at their roots Middle-Eastern Muslims, and some were spies for Al Qaeda and other radical Islamic groups. The airbase was used by US and Arab military personnel, which complicated security to the point of ridiculousness. No US personnel trusted the Saudis, who provided endless private donations to Islamic terror organizations. Part of the team’s preparation was aimed at deceiving the Arabs. Everyone moved in slow unison up the cargo ramp, when someone asked in a low voice, We really goin’ this time, Six?

The Captain answered in a low voice barely audible above the aircraft generator noise, Yeah, unless someone waives it off in the air, we’re doing it. He understood the emotions each man was feeling. He’d felt them many times himself and shared them now. There was a feeling of dread mixed with exhilaration. Every man partially wished that it would be aborted, but also reveled with excitement. A somber reality settled over them as they lugged their gear aboard the plane.

The mood was quiet yet energized. One man said in a low voice, Yeah, maybe we lose the radio this time.

Engine noise drowned out any more discussion as gear was carried up the cargo ramp. They pushed and shoved each other to release tension, but maintained a routine appearance. Most of the gear taken aboard was personal baggage indicating a routine unit transport to anyone observing from the countless shadowy coveys in the buildings nearby.

Before departing MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, special operations personnel had loaded the gigantic plane with a large wooden structure containing the glide wings in the center of the unlit cargo bay covered from view along with the weapons rack, but the rest of their gear stayed with the men near their seats. For anyone watching, it was just another movement of troops and equipment.

As they settled onto the canvas benches along the sidewalls of the fuselage, someone yelled, Hey scooter, don’t forget your NVGs...oh yeah, we didn’t get to bring ‘em.

Someone else yelled above the noise, It’s okay Tug, Rangers can see in the dark!

Outward bravado relaxed tension as the monstrous plane began to roll. From landing to takeoff, the time on the ground had been under twenty minutes, just enough to refuel and load everyone aboard. In less than a minute after starting to roll, the Globemaster III took the active runway 21L and throttles pushed to full military power. Four huge F117-PW-100 turbofans roared to life, each producing forty thousand pounds of thrust. Even with thick insulation, the noise in the belly of the plane was deafening. After accelerating for a mile and a half, the 280,000 pound beast pitched upward suddenly compressing everyone into their seats while climbing at an enormous rate. It was an awesome transition to flight for something so lumbering on the ground. Shortly into the climb out, the plane banked into a right turn, heading north. The flight path would take them over Amman Jordan en route to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, on a standard flight plan, but these passengers would not be landing with the plane.

Once airborne, each man sat quietly meditating in an effort to control his nerves. In flight, they began changing into jump suits and assembling equipment. Men fiddled with every Velcro strap, over and over, in tension-releasing rituals. Once changed, most of them just sat back with their eyes closed. It was dark inside the plane with dim red lights providing almost no light. The uncomfortable flight took three hours to cross the Saudi desert before reaching the drop zone near midnight. Maintaining darkness was crucial. They would need their night vision to survive once they jumped.

One big difference between the actual mission and training was the hours of flight time and fatigue they needed to overcome this night. The plane was large enough for them to stretch and exercise, but it was emotionally difficult. The mental fatigue was more important than the physical, since they were all in top shape. For some, this was their last mission before returning to civilian life. Most of them dreamed about lives back home; about wives or girlfriends, school or jobs. No one would admit to being scared. The Captain slumped reflectively, going through a checklist in his mind. He closed his eyes and leaned against the sidewall insulation, trying to control his nerves. He concentrated on keeping his feet from tapping on the non-skid deck and pressed his hands under his armpits, breathing through his nose to avoid hyperventilating.

He’d done special missions many times, but this was the first time as the solo team leader, and they were going to be isolated without any air or ground support. he’d worked through the ranks to senior NCO before Officer Candidate School. On other secret missions he only had to follow orders. The burden of leadership was his alone this time. Once out of the plane, anything could happen and there was no reserve force or other support to help. He could feel migraine pressure behind his eyes. He concentrated on the mission plan, people skills, weapons and navigation. Things always went wrong in the chaos of war...and this was war at its most basic level.

They had done equipment checks, but things could still be overlooked. High altitude jumps were especially dangerous. Compounding it this time were the unconventional Wing-packs, and lack of practice.

The hull of the aircraft vibrated, massaging his back through hard insulation. The jumpmaster was in charge inside the plane, so he tried to relax. With eyes closed, his mind wandered from the mission to his boyhood home in Pennsylvania. It seemed so far away and long ago that he actually had been there--almost half a lifetime. He’d had a girlfriend one summer and he tried to revive the memory of her. After twelve years, he wasn’t sure if his memories were more fantasy than fact, but it didn’t matter. Fantasies were just as valid tonight.

The senior air crewmember was the jumpmaster. Her task was to keep them healthy until they jumped. Engine noise drowned out normal communications so most of it would be through hand signals. After talking on her headset to the flight deck, she shouted, All right men, it’s time for ‘O2’; but her gestures communicated more information than her voice. Every man on the team knew through experience what was being communicated. Small face cups with elastic straps and air tubes along the hull were required to be worn until they switched to individual canisters.

As the plane was climbing through 10,000 feet they would breathe oxygen-enriched air for three hours, then as the jump light turned amber, they would switch to portable mixed-air cylinders carried on their legs for the high-altitude-low-opening (HALO) jump.

It was uncomfortable on the stiff benches, and time went by slowly in the cold belly of the plane. A surreal calmness overtook everyone waiting for the adrenalin rush once the drop zone was reached. The flight seemed endlessly tedious waiting to jump.

Hours later, everyone reacted when the amber light illuminated on the forward bulkhead and a horn blared. It was time to strap on their gear and organize for the jump.

The Captain felt his stomach tighten while yelling in the calmest voice he could muster, Take your time men, it’s crowded in here. Don’t get tangled up. The plane buffeted as rising hot air columns played havoc with stability, making it awkward to put on their wings and backup chutes. Maintaining balance on the deck was nearly impossible. Six had coordinated with the pilot before departing to give them twenty minutes assembly time before reaching the drop point. It should have been more time than needed, but he was having his doubts watching the team rattle around like penguins in a hurricane.

They had their weapons and ammunition stowed inside the glide wings and men helped each other harness them to their backs. They formed a line facing rearward, waiting to go while gripping overhead cables as the plane jumped around in the turbulence. From the front of the line someone yelled, Ladies and gentlemen please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts firmly around your bellies while the captain has the seatbelt sign illuminated. No one responded but all appreciated the levity.

Moments later, the intercom from the flight deck squealed and the jumpmaster grabbed the handset. With hand signals, she instructed the loadmaster to lower the ramp at the tail. All crew members on the cargo deck were tethered with safety harnesses, but not the jump team. The outside temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The inrush of freezing air shocked their nerves, causing some knees to buckle temporarily. All boyish nonchalance was gone. The plane had been cold, but everyone had been sweating nonetheless, and moisture began freezing instantly. The heart-seizing torrent signaled time to depart the safe innards of the plane, for unknown danger ahead.

Six looked down the line of men behind him waiting for sequential thumbs-up signals that everyone was ready to go. Right hands clasp the shoulder of the man ahead. When the jump light turned green, he clenched his teeth and walked cautiously toward the end of the ramp holding the safety cable above with his left hand. Without slowing, he stepped near the end of the ramp before being sucked into the vortex. Men followed at one-second intervals, with the grace of newborn ducklings first learning to fly, each carrying eight-foot composite wings strapped to their backs. Part way down the ramp, an invisible hand seemed to grab each one, thrusting them into a black torrent 31,000 feet above the earth. The C17 airplane is the worst aerodynamic designs ever used for parachute drops. The combination of wind shift and cold was like being kicked in the gut then thrown over an icy waterfall. They tumbled like fall leaves in a gale. At this temperature, there was risk of frostbite in minutes, yet no one felt it. Tumbling into the blackness with no visible references, it took several seconds to get oriented, as each man struggled to gain control. The jump itself was expected to be one of the most dangerous phases of the mission. They could lose consciousness and spiral to their deaths, or they could be alone in the dark abyss, lost over hostile territory. Each soldier gripped tightly to himself, trying to establish equilibrium. They had no way to communicate in the blackness.

Controlling the wing required enormous arm strength and stamina to shift weight, trying to balance and steer. They only had seconds to start maneuvering for rendezvous. The plan allowed only thirty seconds to rally. They could not communicate while breathing oxygen, and anyone unable to find the others in the dark would be alone. It was terrifying over unfriendly territory, not like jumping in training. Endorphins flowed freely as their mental exertion accelerated to new levels of awareness and concentration. Their bodies were rigidly straight to improve aerodynamics. It was almost impossible to point their toes in desert boots, but they all did it.

Six maneuvered in a slow left turn as practiced for a few seconds longer than planned, praying that everyone was with him. In the dark, there wasn’t any way to know for sure. He tried looking over his shoulder, but the wing blocked any rear view. After one final rotation, he looked at his wrist GPS display and banked to zero three zero degrees. The camp was located nine kilometers south of the village of Salkhaid inside Syria and village lights could be seen from this altitude.

As they descended below thirteen thousand feet, they would drop oxygen bottles. Wing performance depended on weight and aerodynamics, so every aspect of their dress and equipment was minimized. In the thin arctic air above the desert, they were soaring at over 100MPH covering about four feet forward for each foot of decent. As the air density increased in warmer air at lower altitude, wing lift and forward progress improved. Without the oxygen tanks, they traveled at six feet forward for every foot down. Their only radio was assigned to the smallest man, but was unusable inside a compartment in his wing.

The Captain used the village lights for navigation. The night sky was nearly moonless with crystal clear air, so even the scarce early morning lights could be seen from almost a hundred miles at high altitude. After a few minutes of straight flight, he saw fire light near where the camp should have been, and adjusted their flight path. Foreboding passed through him--it looked bigger than it should.

Six was in the lead as they stayed in a tight V formation, using luminescent tape on the trailing edge of the wings ahead for reference. South of the camp, they circled, losing altitude, until reaching five hundred feet AGL then popped backup parachutes. The small chutes were designed for rapid descent and they landed hard in rocks, brush and uneven ground, each man thankful to be alive and with the team. It took several minutes to regroup and hide their jump gear. Two men were limping, but everyone made it to the landing zone.

The Ayn Tzahab camp trained fanatics in sabotage, kidnapping, intelligence gathering, bomb making, and guerilla warfare for the Islamic Jihad Organization headquartered in Lebanon and Syria. The IJO promoted terrorism around the world. Syria allowed the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Hamas and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine complete freedom in its camps to train and plan attacks. Funding and supplies came from private charities and Government funding throughout the Middle East.

Two kilometers south of the camp, they stopped and huddled close together. Six said, Okay men, you all saw what I did...let’s start moving but keep it quiet.

One of the sergeants whispered, Sir, I saw a lot of fires.

Yeah, I know.

In the still desert air, camp smells and sounds were clues to the size of the force ahead. The camp was essentially asleep, but sentries would be moving around and campfires were still smoldering. Diesel fuel and sanitary smells commingled in the air clearly identifying the camp ahead as military.

They had minimal weapons and no support, attacking alone without artillery, grenades, armor or air power. Each man had an M4A1 assault rifle with seven 30-round magazines. They had one HF radio, no night vision, and no machine guns or mortars. The Op plan did not expect much resistance. The camp was one of dozens under constant surveillance using the Defense Support Program (DSP) satellites controlled at a classified facility in Northern Virginia. It usually held only 50-100 trainees, plus about a dozen instructors. Weapons were locked in the armory at night, except when training. Two of the rangers were assigned to secure the armory. With Razzaq at the camp, his security guards would be armed, but the Rangers had planned for less than a dozen armed enemies.

Four Rangers were assigned to contain the students in their sleeping bunkers with two others assigned to the communications tent. The others would enter the headquarters trailer where Razzaq was expected to sleep. Every member of the team had Razzaq’s picture emblazoned in his mind, and wanted to take him alive; but, they could also kill him if capture was too difficult. Since the mission was inside Syria, they were to avoid collateral damage in the process, recognizing that diplomatic repercussions would follow. There would be no military support until they reached the Israeli border. No other Americans would enter Syria.

The team spread out, ten feet apart and began moving slowly, without noise. Every strap or article on their bodies was secured; they crouched with arms away from their bodies and widely spaced legs. Their steps were heal-leads with a rolling foot motion. Without a word, everyone