Chapter 7
Chapter 7: Kashmir
“All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land
Trying to find, trying to find where I've been.”
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Moments Later:
Richard Marcinko entered the Ayatollah’s office, already being secured by a number of Gold Team operators. Khomeini’s corpse was slumped over his desk, a pen still clutched in his hand. Marcinko took out his radio.
“Bluebeard Command, this is Operation Command. We have EKIA. Geronimo is complete, requesting immediate extraction, over.”
No response came over the radio.
“Repeat, this is Operation Command. Geronimo complete. Requesting extraction, over.”
Again, there was no response. Marcinko looked at the Ayatollah’s desk, seeing the official stationery scattered across it. Most of it was spattered with blood. He also noticed a small briefcase sitting on the floor next to the desk.
“Voodoo, I want you to gather up all the paper on that desk, all the writing instruments in the drawers, everything the Ayatollah would use to write official documents.” Marcinko said. He picked up his radio.
“Orange Leader, this is Operation Command, do you copy, over.”
The radio crackled to life. “This is Orange Leader, I copy, over.”
“Orange Leader, radio for extraction. We’re done in here, get your team out.”
“Uh, sir, there appear to be hostiles moving to your location. They don’t seem to be aware of us. Are you sure you want us to pull out, over”
“Affirmative, Orange Leader. Pull back to a safe distance and radio for extraction. We can handle ourselves until the helos arrive. Operation Command out.”
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“How does the situation look, Colonel?” asked General James B. Vaught over the radio.
Colonel Chuck Beckwith ran his fingers through his hair, looking down at the map of Tehran on the table in his makeshift office at Desert One.
“We lost contact with Bluebeard 1 about five minutes ago. They reported a major firefight at the target site, but other than that info is sketchy. Only Bluebeard 1 was equipped with a long range radio, for security reasons."
“You lost contact with it? How?”
“We don’t know, sir. It was sudden, without warning, so we cannot rule out the possibility of simple technical failure with the radio. It would not be unprecedented for tonight, sir.”
“But you also can’t rule out loss of the aircraft.”
“No sir, we cannot.”
“So, provided limited information, would it not make sense to assume the worst case scenario?”
“Yes sir. It’s just that we can’t do anything about a worst-case scenario. We can’t do anything but wait. Our boys are on their own out there.”
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Blue Team annihilated, the mob advanced up the street to the Ayatollah’s residence. Above the action, Lieutenant Montel Williams waited in cover behind the helipad of the Baqiyat-ol-Lah hospital. Atop the helipad were the burning wreckage of Bluebeard 1, and a squad of Tehran police. In the distance, he could see what he assumed to be Bluebeard 7 picking up Orange Team. With his helo destroyed, Williams had no way to radio for help.
He quickly looked around the corner. He could make out 5 figures by the light of the burning helicopter. He couldn’t decide whether to open fire on them while he had the element of surprise, or wait. But wait for what? Rescue? Deciding he had only one option, Williams turned around the corner, took aim, and fired a round at the policeman holding the RPG launcher.
A lucky shot; the bullet hit him in the side of his head, killing him instantly. The other men turned in the direction of the shot and began firing their Kalashnikovs on full auto. Williams ducked back behind the helipad. He could hear from their fire that the men were shooting in small bursts, indicating experience.
Williams ducked out again and took a shot, hitting one in the torso. It seemed to have little effect. Perhaps the man was wearing armour; perhaps his pistol lacked enough stopping power to be effective without a killshot. Five bullets remained in his magazine, a margin of error of only one. Every one would need to be a headshot. In the dark. Williams prayed to God, knowing that the only thing that could save him was divine intervention.
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Marcinko and Red Leader spoke in the Ayatollah’s office, while Red Team and what remained of Gold Team prepared the Hosseinieh for an assault.
“Blue Team’s probably all dead, aren’t they?” Red Leader asked.
“They haven’t checked in since before the attack, and if what Orange is saying is true, then yeah. Blue’s been seriously compromised, and we need to leave quickly. No word from Bluebeard 7 either, Orange Team’s got number 4 picking them up. Do you think Bluebeard 3 will be able to carry everyone?” Marcinko asked.
“I don’t know, but if we can’t contact Bluebeard 1, we won’t have a choice.”
“How much longer till it gets here?”
“The engine took a little prodding to warm up, so they’ll be ten minutes.” Red Leader replied. “Any word from Black Team?”
“They were supposed to stand by in the event that we need backup, I haven’t heard from them since lights out.”
“God, I hope we didn’t lose them too.”
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The wash from the helicopter’s rotor blades was enough to keep the fire suppressed, but the thermite simply kept reigniting everything around it. The nigh-hurricane force winds send embers flying high into the night sky, as if a volcano had erupted in northern Tehran.
“We need to give up now,” the pilot said over the radio, “or we won’t have enough fuel to make it back to base, over.”
“Roger that,” Black Leader replied, “Set down and we’ll get out of here.”
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On the ground floor of the Hosseinieh, Red Team readied itself for battle. Doors were hastily barricaded, windows shuttered, cover taken. In the distance was the roar of the crowd and the sirens of police cars. Briefcase full of the Ayatollah’s stationery in tow, Marcinko and the rest of the Gold Team survivors made their way to the grand balcony.
“Bluebeard 3, this is Operations Command, what is your ETA, over” Marcinko said over the radio.
“Command, this is Bluebeard 3. We are en route; ETA is 5 minutes, over."
Marcinko set down the radio.
“5 minutes sounds good.” Kool-Aid said.
“Yeah,” replied Batman, “but it also means we’re gonna be extracting directly out of a firefight.
Below them, Red Team watched through their night vision goggles as the crowd came around the trees onto the property. They immediately opened fire on the crowd, scattering them. Suddenly, a police car pulled up on the street in front of the Hosseinieh and shone a bright spotlight at the building. The night vision equipped soldiers were blinded. The soldiers removed their goggles, but found it did little good, as the brightness of the light made seeing anything else outside the building impossible.
The front door began to shake. Windows began to shatter. With a sickening thud, the crowd forced its way through the front door, knocking over the barricade. Red Team began firing at the door, trying to use it as a chokepoint, but the crowd was already inside.
Trading fire through the darkness, Red Team began to fall back to the staircase. Another door opened, allowing the crowd to enter from the east. Pushed back to the stairs, Red Team could finally hear a helicopter.
Bluebeard 3 hovered over the grand balcony and deployed its ropes. The Red Team soldiers on the top floor began moving to the balcony, as Marcinko and Gold Team provided covering fire. Finally, the last Red Team operators reached the top floor, bringing the crowd with them. Gold Team fired into the crowd, holding them at bay while Bluebeard 3 took off into the night with Red Team on board.
“To any helos remaining in Tehran, this is Operations Command,” Marcinko said desperately into his radio, “requesting immediate extraction. Does anybody copy?"
Marcinko pulled the trigger on his M16, and it did nothing but click. He reached for a new magazine, only to find that he had none left.
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Williams could hear the bullets flying past him, or ricocheting off the metal helipad with a loud ping. He could hear the police yelling, presumably telling him to surrender, or maybe just yelling threats. He could hear the gunfire below on the Hosseinieh’s balcony begin to diminish. And then he heard a helicopter.
Black 7 opened fire with Bluebeard 8’s minigun on the police. The bright tracer rounds lit up the helipad as they smacked into the roof, shredding the policemen. A spotlight shone on Williams, and he began waving frantically for help. The helicopter moved close to the building and lowered a rope. Williams thought he could see the gunner yelling something to him, but over the roar of the rotors, he couldn’t hear it. He grabbed onto the rope, and clung tightly to it as Black Team reeled him in like a fish. Having difficulty standing up on his twisted ankle, two operators helped him to his feet.
“Lieutenant,” Black Leader said, “We got concerned when you stopped responding on the radio, and we figured you might appreciate a little deus ex machina. Now let’s go pick up Gold’s boys and go home.”
Bluebeard 8 arrived over the balcony as Gold Team exhausted the last of its ammunition. Only six men were left; if any of the Gold operators who scattered at the first attack were still alive, they’d have to find their own way out of the city. Marcinko was last to grab a rope, and the helicopter took off with him still dangling from the rope. He could hear the bullets fly past as Bluebeard 8 took off from the mission site to return to Desert One.
“Williams, is that you?” Marcinko asked as he was reeled in, “What the hell happened to your helo?”
“A rocket propelled grenade, sir.”
Bluebeard 8 was flying over the southeastern corner of the city when the engine began to sputter. Williams made his way to the cockpit.
“What is going on?”
“We’re out of fuel!” the pilot replied, turning around to face Black Leader, “I told you this would happen, you stupid [expletive redacted]!”
The engine coughed as it gave out, dropping the helicopter out of the sky. The rotor’s design slowed its descent, but could not stop the helicopter plunging into the middle of a busy intersection.
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The radio at Desert One crackled to life.
“Base, this is Bluebeard 3, I say again, do you copy, over.”
Colonel Beckwith, shocked back to attention, grabbed the radio.
“Bluebeard 3, this is Desert One. I copy. Give me a sitrep, over.”
“It’s just us and Bluebeard 3. Number 7 went missing after the drop-off, Number 1 was destroyed by the enemy, and 8 just went down over the south end of the city. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but I think they ran out of fuel, over.”
Stunned, Beckwith slumped in his chair.
“What about the men?”
“Orange Team is unharmed, Red Team has several wounded but none killed, over.”
“And the others?”
There was a long silence.
“Bluebeard 3, what about the other squads?”
“Blue Team was lost completely. We don’t know if they were all killed, but we didn’t get any out. Gold Team was decimated in the initial ambush, but a number of them made it out on Bluebeard 8 with Black Team. Black was unharmed before we lost contact, but now we obviously don’t know, over.”
“I copy that, Bluebeard 3. Desert One out.”
Beckwith held his head in his hand. Three fifths. 60%. Dead. In exchange for the life of an elderly cleric. Then he looked out of his tent. He saw Yellow, Green and Purple teams. The details of the operation would be highly classified, and it might be decades before anybody knew exactly what happened. 37% casualties. Much better.
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Richard Marcinko came to, for the second time that night, in the twisted wreckage of Bluebeard 8. He was surrounded by the bodies of Black Team operators. He looked around, trying to get a sense of his situation. The helicopter was smashed in half by a transport truck, now lying burning on its side. Lieutenant Williams stood over him, firing on a squad of Revolutionary Guards. About 10 other men were up amongst the wreckage, all taking cover from enemy fire. Williams looked down, and saw Marcinko had woken.
“You’re up! Good, let’s get going!” he said, helping Marcinko to his feet.
“Why didn’t you leave me?” Marcinko asked.
“We’ve lost enough men here today. Now let’s go!” Williams replied. “Thumper, pop the smoke now!”
One of Black Team’s operators threw a smoke grenade into the crowd of guards, blanketing the intersection in a think cover of grey smoke. Williams grabbed Marcinko by the arm and began leading him through the smoke.
“Wait, wait one second!” Marcinko yelled, then turned back and ran to the wreckage.
“We can’t wait!” Williams yelled at him.
“We can’t leave without the briefcase!”
Marcinko began furiously combing the debris, searching for any sign of the briefcase. He could hear bullets hitting the debris as the guards fired blindly into the smoke.
“Come on! We don’t have any more time!”
Marcinko ran to the other side of the crashed truck. Underneath a wrecked helicopter door, he saw it; scorched by fire but still intact: the briefcase. He ran frantically to the door and tried to heave it up. The door, heated by the fire of the crash, burnt his hands. Marcinko winced in agony as he finally lifted the door off of the briefcase.
He grabbed it, and broke into a sprint. He returned to Williams, who led him to a city bus that had stopped nearby. All of the operators boarded the bus.
The operator in the driver’s seat picked up the bus microphone. “Attention everyone, this is your driver. Our next stop is Desert One, located on Highway 68 near the city of Yazd. There will be no stops until-“
“JUST [expletive redacted] DRIVE!” Williams said.
The bus pulled away, the operators dropping a few more smoke grenades out the windows. Merging into the city’s traffic, they drove off into the night.
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“Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream
My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon, I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high in June, when movin' through Kashmir.”
-Led Zepplin
