Chapter One 16 December 1989
Outside Paitilla Airfield
Panama City, Republic of Panama
1415 hours
"They're crazy," Master Chief Halstead said, scanning the airfield slowly with his binoculars. "They are absolutely, guaranteed nucking futs."
Boatswain Chief Fred Jaco grunted assent. "I hear you, brother. But the Powers That Be have declared it to be so. Blessed be the Powers That Be, now and forever, amen."
"Fuck that. And the horse they rode in on. SEALs have no business assaulting an objective like this. This is an Army Ranger job."
"You know it, I know it. But someone farther up the chain of command doesn't want the Teams left out of the medal competitions."
An American helicopter, a UH-1, clattered overhead. The two SEALs were crouched behind a low, stone wall atop a seven-story Panama City apartment building perhaps a kilometer from Paitilla, a vantage point that gave them an excellent view of the entire airstrip. The Huey angled in toward the American section for a gentle touchdown; it was odd, given the extreme tension between the American military and the local Panamanian Defense Force, to see both sides using the same air facilities.
Both SEALs were wearing civilian clothing, Jaco a yellow sports shirt, Greg a gray T-shirt, the idea being to keep a low profile with the locals. Their heavy binoculars, however, weren't exactly tourist-issue. A stiff breeze from the sea whispered across the roof of the apartment, ruffling their short hair. Despite the breeze, though, the mid-December air was hot and oppressively humid. Greg's shirt was already drenched with sweat.
"Who drew this plum little assignment?" he asked.
"We did, Team Four. LieutenantCommander Tuohy." Jaco grinned. "An up-from-the-ranks mustang."
"Tuohy? Yeah, I know him. I thought he was Six."
"He was, actually. Now he's with Four. We're glad to have him. His tour with Six gave him experience in commanding units of forty men or more."
Greg continued to study the airfield, an airstrip with the main runway terminating at the edge of a cliff above the roiling surf of the Pacific. Though this was a civilian facility, a lot of military was in evidence, both U.S. and Panamanian. American Air Force transports were using the field to bring in supplies and troops -- supposedly for maneuvers -- and the local Panamanian Defense Force had boosted its presence as well. Through the binoculars, Greg watched a band of tough-looking PDF troops marching in formation past the control tower, brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. To the right, on the far side of the runway, were several large, open hangars, and he could see PDF troops lounging inside in the shade or standing guard outside.
"Is that Pineapple's getaway plane?"
"With the guards? Yeah. That's the objective. A Learjet kept fueled and ready for "el presidente's personal use."
Greg lowered the binoculars and gave an exasperated sigh. "Shit. I could pop that plane's tire from here with a Barrett fifty-cal. Or a rufus round in one of the engines, for chrissake. Why call for a large-scale assault?"
Jaco made a face. "ROEs," he said. "The goddamn Rules of fucking Engagement. The brass is afraid of missed rounds causing unacceptable collateral damage, ' as they put it. Especially rufus rounds."
A rufus round was a .50-caliber rifle bullet hollowed out and filled with explosives, the perfect weapon fordisabling a light aircraft's engine at long range. A Barrett M-8 .50 could reach out and touch someone with deadly accuracy at a range of over a mile.
"Bullshit," Greg said. "SEAL snipers don't miss."
"Maybe not. But the brass is damned worried about this one. When Blue Spoon goes down, a lot of innocent civilians could get hurt. Washington is already having a damned tough time selling this op to the rest of the world and to the American people. A high number of civilian casualties could turn this thing into a disaster, even if we win."
"Gee, a whole new approach to modern warfare," Greg said, his voice sarcastic. "Zero casualties and everybody feels good about it afterward."
"So what's USSOCOM going to do about it?" Jaco asked.
"Damfino. I'm down here as Team Three's intelligence liaison with USSOCOM. I'll report to Fort Bragg on my way back, of course, but I doubt that anything I say will have much of an impact. They have their own ideas about warfighting right now."
"Yeah, but are things any better now than they were at Grenada? That was a class-A cluster fuck."
"A cluster fuck and a half," Greg agreed. "I suppose we won't know the answer to that one until we see how things go down here."
USSOCOM -- the U.S. Special Operations Command -- had been created in the aftermath of the invasion of Grenada, in October of 1983. Grenada had been a victory, officially. The communist coup that had toppled the government of Prime Minister Paul Scoon had been on the point of falling into anarchy, American medical students on the tiny, tropical island were at risk, and President Reagan had ordered the invasion, ostensibly to avoid another hostage situation like the one thathad paralyzed America for 444 days in Iran.
In fact, Operation Urgent Fury had been launched to stop further communist expansion in the Caribbean. Cuban advisors were working with the Grenadan revolutionaries, and Cuban engineers were lengthening an airstrip to accommodate Soviet cargo planes. The invasion had restored Scoon to power and sent a clear message to the world that the United States was drawing a line against further communist expansion in the Western Hemisphere.
But if the invasion of Grenada had been a political success, it had been an operational nightmare. Army, Navy, Marine, and Air Force elements had worked poorly together ...
H. Jay Riker has written five books in his submarine warfare series, The Silent Service, and ten books in his bestselling military fiction series, SEALs, The Warrior Breed. Retired from the U.S. Navy, he has been writing fiction for more than a decade, and his novels have been highly praised for both their nail-biting action and remarkable authenticity.