Necessary Retribution Read online

  Copyright 2013 Mike McNeff

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  Cover Design by Greg Simanson

  Edited by Hanna Barnes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-143-3

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-239-3

  For further information regarding permissions, please contact

  [email protected].

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013940459

  For Dad – Maj. Gen. Edward McNeff USAF (Ret.). Fighter pilot, father, grandfather and the man who helped me fight off the ravages of polio and kept me from being crippled.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is my second book and because I've learned much more about writing, it was harder to write than GOTU, my first book. Through Booktrope Editions, my publisher, I have a team to help me. My content editor, Hanna Barnes, challenges me, keeps the story in line and makes me write more clearly for the reader. Cathy Shaw, my copy editor, makes sure the grammar, punctation and work usage are correct and the story makes sense. Emily Duncan is my book manager and besides working on the marketing end of things, coordinates the team on the production of my books. Greg Simanson produced the cover. There are others from Booktrope working behind the scenes to get the book out. My fellow writers on Whidbey Island are always a source of encouragement and constructive criticism. And my wife Linda, who puts up with me spending long hours in my office and going to writers groups, I love you.

  PROLOGUE

  CHIU HUANG, a Chinese intelligence agent, watched as James Chapple beached his small fishing boat at the campground on the north end of Lake Eaton in the Adirondacks. The Special Assistant to the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency owned a vacation home on the south end of the lake. He climbed out of the boat and walked to the parking area of the campground, which was deserted on this late fall day.

  Chapple opened the passenger door to Huang's Jeep Cherokee and got in.

  “Good afternoon, Chiu.”

  “Good afternoon, James. I trust you are well.”

  “I am, thank you.” Chapple handed Huang an 8x10 manila envelope. “Here's the latest brief on the CIA's intelligence on your country. I think you'll find it particularly interesting that there is still a squadron of nuclear capable US Air Force F-16 jet fighters at Hualien in Taiwan.”

  A jolt went through Huang. “Excellent, we have suspected your military did not totally pull out of Taiwan. That is valuable information.” He handed Chapple an envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash.

  “Thank you. Are we making any headway on my appointment to Director of the CIA?”

  “We are applying pressure on certain members of congress and the administration. We have to proceed carefully, so it will take a little time, but we will be successful.”

  “I know, it's just that I will be more valuable when I get into that position. There are things that the Director of Operations is doing I'm not privy to.”

  Huang's face tightened. “Yes, Mr. Yates and his subordinate, Mr. Grassley are particularly dangerous. When you are Director, we expect your first act will be to dismiss those two.”

  “Don't worry. I can't stand them. They act like I'm not even there.”

  Huang looked away for a moment and then turned back to Chapple. “Our friends in Iraq want to know what the president might do if they decide to take military action in their region.”

  “I'm sure that would depend on what the action would be.”

  “Well, see if you can determine the response to different alternatives.”

  “I really don't think this president is as hawkish as his predecessor and probably won't do anything as long as we are not talking about Saudi Arabia, but I'll find out.”

  “Good. Well, until next time, James.”

  “Uh, well, yes. I'll see you later.”

  As Huang watched Chapple leave, he thought about Yates and Grassley. Those two are indeed dangerous. They are doing things we need to find out about and stop. Especially, if Hussein invades Kuwait. Such a move could cause problems…and opportunities. Now that we have confirmation the US military is still active in Hualien, we can start working toward creating an international incident that will allow us to attack Taiwan.

  Huang started his engine and drove out of the campground.

  ONE

  CAPTAIN JOHN SORELS SAT BACK in the shadows of a second story room, watching a house across the street. He never thought he would be tasked to evaluate another team on a real time mission, especially on the western outskirts of the Gaza Strip. A US Army psychiatrist from Fort Lewis, Washington, was a hostage in the house. She had come to Israel on her own time to treat Israeli and Palestinian citizens suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hamas rewarded her compassion with a kidnapping.

  The US insisted they would find and rescue her and Sorels’ Delta team was tasked with the mission…with a wrinkle. A new team, a supposed top secret direct action team, would do the mission. Sorels had been told the new team did well in training, but he was to determine if they were ready to be on their own in the real world. The brass chose him because he knew nothing about the new team. They wanted an impartial opinion.

  Sorels raised his binoculars. His jaws clenched. Final exam time, my friend. I hope it isn't final for you.

  In the glow cast from windows and a few door lights, the old man in the donkey cart moved slowly down the narrow, rock strewn, dirt street. The cart, full of old pots, pans and other odds and ends, banged and rattled the ancient song of the tinker. The old one's long beard, streaked with grey and stained from tobacco juice, swayed back and forth as th
e stiff wooden wheels rolled over stone and rut. A turban covering his long grey hair, sat askew on his head.

  Three young men standing in the doorway of the third house from the corner looked at the old man with narrowing eyes and sneers on their faces. Their heads were wrapped in checkered wool scarves and they wore military style pants and boots like most men from Hamas. Each loosely held an AK-47 automatic rifle in his hands. The few people on the street walked on the other side from the where the three men stood…out of both respect and fear.

  As the old one came abreast of the three men, one of them spat an insult towards him. The old man replied with the flash of two rounds from the muzzle of a silenced HK MP5 submachine gun into the chest of the surprised terrorist. The muzzle swung left and sent two rounds into the next fighter. The third man brought his rifle up to shoot the old one, but a large black man appeared from the alley between the mud brick houses and terminated the threat with a quick burst from his silenced submachine gun and the Hamas terrorist plowed head first into the graveled dirt. Two other figures ghosted in behind the black man.

  The old one sprang from the cart and threw off his robe, beard and turban and they stacked up at the door with the old one at the rear, fourth in line. Number one in the stack, the black man, tried the door handle. It moved. He signaled by raising his thumb in the air and number four tapped the shoulder of number three, who tapped the shoulder of number two, who tapped the shoulder of number one and he flung the door open. The stack moved into the building… swift, silent and ruthless.

  In the first room, two men rose from wooden chairs only to be cut down mid-stride by bursts to the head from the submachine guns of numbers one and two. Blood and skull fragments splattered on the far wall. Numbers three and four moved past them and turned right down a narrow hallway. Numbers one and two followed. Number three tossed a grenade through a door to the left. It exploded with a brilliant flash and loud report as the team entered the room. An armed fighter, stunned by the flash/bang grenade, staggered towards them through the thick swirling smoke until number three put two rounds in the junction of the man's nose and eyebrows. Another terrorist struggled to his feet and pointed a pistol at the head of a blindfolded woman tied to a chair, but the two rounds fired by number four mottled the hostage's blindfold with blood and grey matter before the gunman's finger could curl around the trigger. Number four posted at the room's door while numbers one and two freed the woman.

  “What's your name?” Number two asked the hostage.

  “Captain Kathleen O'Connor, United States Army,” came the trembling reply.

  “We're getting you outta here, Captain.”

  “Extract, Extract, Extract!” Number four spoke into a hand held radio.

  “Inbound,” a voice replied.

  The team hustled to the front door, two of them carrying the woman between them by lifting her under each arm. Two armed Hamas men ran towards the house, but were cut down by unseen snipers. Other Hamas fighters faded back into doorways.

  A black van skidded up to the rescue team. One and two got into the back seat and pushed the woman to the floor telling her everything would be all right. Number three climbed into the back of the van and opened a back door. Number four jumped into the front passenger seat and the driver handed him a remote detonator. Twenty-one seconds had elapsed.

  The driver stomped on the gas pedal and careened down the street, engine roaring and tires kicking up clouds of dust. Three cars skidded around the corner carrying gunmen firing automatic weapons at the fleeing van. Suddenly, a bullet hole appeared in the driver's windshield of the first car and it veered sharply to the left and slammed into a concrete wall sending jagged chunks flying in all directions. Number three fired at the remaining pursuers to keep them at a distance. Number four watched the cars in his large side view mirror. As the pursuers approached a hay cart, he pushed the button on the detonator. A bank of claymore mines hidden in the cart exploded into hundreds of steel balls ripping through the cars’ metal side panels and occupants’ bodies. The first car spun broadside and the second car smashed into its left side, both exploding in an orange flash before disappearing in a thick, roiling, cloud of black smoke.

  A Range Rover pulled onto the road in front of the van and two others fell in behind. The caravan sped west for ten miles. Number two comforted the still trembling hostage. Strong arms held her as he wiped the remains of the man who tried to kill her off her face. Captain O'Connor clung to the man, sobbing. Number one, a trained combat medic, began treating her injuries. The radio crackled.

  “SpearTip, this is Condor Four-Seven,” the extraction aircraft called

  “SpearTip control, Go Four-Seven,” the team's tactical air controller replied.

  “We have two wagons two miles out from LZ One.”

  “Roger, Four-Seven, we're there. Winds are from the north, light and variable, temperature eighty-two degrees, barometer three zero eight six.”

  “Roger, SpearTip.”

  The van and the Range Rovers pulled off the road. Infrared goggles made Firefly Flashers visible down the middle of road. Shadows of armed men appeared out of the darkness.

  One of the men reported to number four, Colonel Robin Marlette, at the car window. “360° security set and area clear.”

  “SpearTip control, we have Fireflies in sight. Starting final approach.”

  “Roger, Four-Seven, LZ is clear.”

  Robin watched an infrared vision of the first US Air Force C-130 setting down on the road. It roared by the vehicles and slowed to a stop a half-mile away. Two of the Range Rovers sped after it and drove onto the lowered loading ramp. The LZ security team at that end of the area scrambled on board and the loading ramp lifted.

  The turbo prop engines ran up again and the plane started its take-off run.

  “SpearTip control, Condor Four-Eight on final.”

  Robin spotted the second C-130 making its approach.

  “Roger, Four-Eight. LZ clear,” the controller advised.

  It touched down and rolled to a stop. The security team jumped on the running boards of the passing vehicles headed for the loading ramp. Once in the plane everyone stayed in place as the loadmaster and his crew secured the load. Robin saw the loadmaster speaking into his headset and felt the airplane shudder as the engines roared and the plane raced down the road until it lifted off into the air.

  Robin leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath.

  “Man, am I glad to get out of there!” The driver, Gary Perkins, said brightly.

  Robin looked at Captain Sorels, who got out of the Rover in front of the van. The Captain simply nodded.

  A humvee was waiting when the planes landed at the Israeli Hatzerim Airbase.

  “How did it go?” Bill Grassley, CIA Deputy Director of Operations, fell in beside Robin as they walked to the hanger serving as the mission command center. “Delta Command has been bugging the hell out of me about the rescue of the hostage.”

  Robin didn't break his stride and Bill had to hurry to keep up. “We got her, Bill. She's shook up and has minor injuries, but otherwise appears okay.”

  “What did Captain Sorels say?”

  “Not much.”

  “I don't know if I like that.”

  “There's only one way to find out.”

  They walked over to where the rest of the team were gathered. Robin saw number two, Burke Jameson, get out of an ambulance and watch as it left the tarmac.

  “The hostage?” Robin asked number one, Emmett Franks.

  “Yeah, she'll be all right. What's the score, Rob?”

  “Don't know yet. We're on our way to find out.”

  “Do you think we're going to make it?”

  “We'll make it.” Number three, Rocky Barnett, added. “We did a damn good hit!”

  “There's a reason I picked the four men who did the assault phase of this mission. Just follow my lead.” Robin cautioned.

  Robin and Bill led the team to Captain Sorels who was confer
ring with some of his men.

  “Captain, we're anxious to know what you think about our operation.”

  The captain looked at Robin with steady, concerned eyes. “Colonel, I have some questions, if you don't mind.”

  “I'll answer what I can.”

  Sorels scanned the faces of the team. “How much combat experience do you guys have?”

  “Well, these men are Vietnam vets. Emmett, my gentle giant, served two tours as a LLRP, earning the Distinguished Service Cross, the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Burke here served three tours in Special Forces, earning the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star.” Robin put his hand on Rocky's shoulder. “Rocky was a Recon Marine for two tours and earned the Silver Star, the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.” Robin pointed to Gary. “My friend, Gary, is a highly trained and experienced pursuit driver.”

  “What about you?”

  “I've been in combat, just can't say where. All of us have many years’ experience in tactical operations and training. I can't really tell you anymore about us.”

  “How long did you work on this op?”

  “I'm sure we got the original intel when you did.”

  “I gotta say, you guys put it together in damn quick fashion.”

  “Well, Captain, we have a lot of experience doing investigations. We know how to get the right info quickly.”

  “I believe it. You certainly did on this mission.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sorels took a deep breath. “You guys did this by the numbers. Your planning and briefing were thorough. Your infiltration with disguises was well done. Your execution was low drag and high-speed complete with effective high ground sniper cover.” The Captain looked around at the men. “I'm going to wholeheartedly recommend your team go active. You're definitely ready.”

  A murmur of approval went through the team.

  Robin shook Sorel's hand. “Thank you, Captain. We worked hard to get here.”

  Bill Grassley shook the captain's hand. “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your assessment.”