Read Online The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel by Joel C. Rosenberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Joel C. Rosenberg
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compound, but now we banked sharply to our right and began a circling pattern around the target. The Black Hawks didn’t follow. Nor had they climbed as high as we had. They were still racing for the compound at an altitude I figured to be no more than a hundred feet.
Just then our helicopter was rocked by a massive explosion. One of the warehouses, in the far left corner of the compound, erupted in an enormous ball of fire. But how? Had someone inside detonated a bomb? Or had someone just fired a missile? I looked to my left and saw nothing. But when I turned and looked out the window to my right, I saw an Apache attack helicopter —and it was firing again.
Two more Hellfire missiles streaked across the afternoon sky. I followed the contrails and watched spellbound as one destroyed the main office building. An instant later, the second missile took out the 18-wheeler that had been blocking the entrance. Then a Cobra gunship swooped in below us and to our left. Its pilot opened fire on the armed rebels patrolling the grounds, then trained his fire on the rebels stationed in the doorways of the remaining five warehouses. One by one I watched men in black hoods shredded into oblivion.
The Apache opened fire again. More Hellfire missiles rocketed down into the compound. They weren’t targeted at the buildings, however. Rather, they exploded in the open spaces, vaporizing the remaining visible terrorists but more importantly creating deafening booms and raging fires I had to assume were intended to stun and disorient the enemy combatants inside the main building.
Now the Black Hawks moved into position. Two hovered over the warehouse where the president’s Suburban was located. A moment later I could see the king’s most elite forces fast-roping to the warehouse roof. Two other Black Hawks broke left. The remaining two broke right. The commandos in all four choppers were soon fast-roping to the ground, then scrambling to secure the perimeter. And that’s when the shooting started.
The initial explosions had done their job. They had caught the terrorists completely unaware. They had temporarily thrown the enemy into confusion. But some of the ISIS soldiers were firing back. Within seconds, the fighting had reached a fever pitch. From our vantage point, watching the drone and satellite feeds and looking outthe window to our left, we could see the Jordanian commandos in the heart of the compound. They were using Semtex to blow the doors off the warehouse on the north and east sides. Then we watched mesmerized as they tossed flash grenades into the main warehouse.
The thermal images on the second monitor revealed the chaos inside the facility. The king’s commandos were now storming in from all directions. They were firing at anything that moved. I could see bodies dropping, including some of the king’s men. But they didn’t stop. They kept firing, kept pushing forward, kept advancing toward the back office, though they were encountering fierce resistance.
I was feverishly snapping photos through the windows of the Little Bird as well as at the images from the two video monitors. I was also trying to keep track of the radio chatter. But it was in Arabic and it was coming fast and furious. My Arabic wasn’t horrible, but I certainly wasn’t getting it all. Too much was happening to take it all in. And then, without warning, the Little Bird plummeted. I realized too late it was a planned descent as we hit the ground hard in the driveway just yards from the remains of the tractor-trailer out front, now engulfed in flames.
The moment we slammed to the deck, Colonel Sharif threw open the side door and jumped out. When he shouted at me to follow, for a moment I didn’t move. Was he crazy? The situation was hardly secure. There was an intense gun battle under way. In the chopper, we’d had the perfect vantage point. Why in the world would we get out now?
I’m not saying I was scared. Okay, I was scared. He had an
Just then our helicopter was rocked by a massive explosion. One of the warehouses, in the far left corner of the compound, erupted in an enormous ball of fire. But how? Had someone inside detonated a bomb? Or had someone just fired a missile? I looked to my left and saw nothing. But when I turned and looked out the window to my right, I saw an Apache attack helicopter —and it was firing again.
Two more Hellfire missiles streaked across the afternoon sky. I followed the contrails and watched spellbound as one destroyed the main office building. An instant later, the second missile took out the 18-wheeler that had been blocking the entrance. Then a Cobra gunship swooped in below us and to our left. Its pilot opened fire on the armed rebels patrolling the grounds, then trained his fire on the rebels stationed in the doorways of the remaining five warehouses. One by one I watched men in black hoods shredded into oblivion.
The Apache opened fire again. More Hellfire missiles rocketed down into the compound. They weren’t targeted at the buildings, however. Rather, they exploded in the open spaces, vaporizing the remaining visible terrorists but more importantly creating deafening booms and raging fires I had to assume were intended to stun and disorient the enemy combatants inside the main building.
Now the Black Hawks moved into position. Two hovered over the warehouse where the president’s Suburban was located. A moment later I could see the king’s most elite forces fast-roping to the warehouse roof. Two other Black Hawks broke left. The remaining two broke right. The commandos in all four choppers were soon fast-roping to the ground, then scrambling to secure the perimeter. And that’s when the shooting started.
The initial explosions had done their job. They had caught the terrorists completely unaware. They had temporarily thrown the enemy into confusion. But some of the ISIS soldiers were firing back. Within seconds, the fighting had reached a fever pitch. From our vantage point, watching the drone and satellite feeds and looking outthe window to our left, we could see the Jordanian commandos in the heart of the compound. They were using Semtex to blow the doors off the warehouse on the north and east sides. Then we watched mesmerized as they tossed flash grenades into the main warehouse.
The thermal images on the second monitor revealed the chaos inside the facility. The king’s commandos were now storming in from all directions. They were firing at anything that moved. I could see bodies dropping, including some of the king’s men. But they didn’t stop. They kept firing, kept pushing forward, kept advancing toward the back office, though they were encountering fierce resistance.
I was feverishly snapping photos through the windows of the Little Bird as well as at the images from the two video monitors. I was also trying to keep track of the radio chatter. But it was in Arabic and it was coming fast and furious. My Arabic wasn’t horrible, but I certainly wasn’t getting it all. Too much was happening to take it all in. And then, without warning, the Little Bird plummeted. I realized too late it was a planned descent as we hit the ground hard in the driveway just yards from the remains of the tractor-trailer out front, now engulfed in flames.
The moment we slammed to the deck, Colonel Sharif threw open the side door and jumped out. When he shouted at me to follow, for a moment I didn’t move. Was he crazy? The situation was hardly secure. There was an intense gun battle under way. In the chopper, we’d had the perfect vantage point. Why in the world would we get out now?
I’m not saying I was scared. Okay, I was scared. He had an