Raid on Afghanistan, page 2
“You’re American?” she said, her face filled with hope and wonder.
Murray nodded. “As apple pie, Ma’am. Would you identify yourself?”
“Laura Cunningham, I’m...”
“I know who you are, Ma’am. And these other three, you know them?”
“We’re together. They were with me when those people stopped our SUV.”
“Okay, that’s fine. We’re taking you out of here.”
“I’m not sure we can walk far. We’re all pretty far-gone. They...”
“Not a problem, we’ve got transport to take you out of here. Can you stand up and walk out? The truck’s outside."
The four filthy, ragged, and emaciated young people stood up. When the door of freedom beckoned, it was a powerful incentive to haul ass. Lieutenant Talley poked his head inside to look, then walked in.
“Is everything okay in here?”
“All good, Boss. The kids’ identities are confirmed. They’re coming out now.”
“Roger that. We’re running low on time, so get them loaded. We’ll make a final sweep of the compound and move out.”
Talley went back out into the compound and found his men.
“I want everyone loaded in that truck and moving out inside of three minutes.” He keyed his mic. “Chief, did you get that?”
Nolan, waiting out in the jungle with Merano, acknowledged. He was about to stand when he saw a movement. It was just a shadow in the corner of the compound, inside the window of one of the larger huts. But it was enough.
“Lt, target inside the compound, on your ten, hiding inside a hut. He’s thirty yards behind you. I’ll take him.”
“Roger that.”
Talley slipped behind the cover of a stack of logs. The shooter ducked down, using the wooden wall as cover. It looked like some kind of a dormitory, but the building was old, with gaps between the wooden planks of which it was constructed. Through his Leupold Vari-X, Nolan watched the movement of shadows in the tiny gaps in the boards. He murmured to his partner.
“You see him, Vince?”
“Yeah, I’m on him.”
“Okay. He’s carrying an M-16, so I don’t want to take any chances. Three rounds each, on my count. One, two, three.”
There was no emotion, no drama. Just the gentle squeeze of the trigger, almost a reflex as muscle memory took over. Guided by the unconscious brain, the precision weapons spat out their almost silent message of death. The wooden side of the hut was splintered into a gaping hole by the heavy 7.62mm rounds, and in the gap created by their bullets, they saw their target pitch over and fall to the ground. Neither man felt any emotion. These men had declared war on Americans. America had decided to defend itself, at last.
“Target is down, Lt. We’re coming in.”
“Roger that.”
They stood up, and around them the jungle seemed to panic as the wildlife became aware there were two interlopers in their midst. Nolan looked at Vince Merano, walking just ahead of him. The PO2 had been his shooting partner on more missions than he could count. Of Italian-American descent, Vince was almost a caricature of a Southern Italian immigrant. He was short and built like a wrestler, which in fact he had been as a youth. He had a classically defined body, yet endowed with just that extra bit of muscle in all the strategic places. He had a face that was well formed, but perhaps overly rough hewn, as if perhaps he’d gone one too many battling rounds during his early days as a keen amateur wrestler. He still had a Mediterranean tan, with dark-brown eyes under heavy brows, and a low forehead almost totally hidden by a thick wave of hair, so black it was almost blue. When people talked of Mafia soldiers, of made men, they could think of someone who looked like Vince Merano. This suited him fine. Off duty, who would take him for a member of America’s elite and highly secretive Special Forces, the Navy Seals?
The men walked carefully towards the compound, balancing the need for haste with the necessity to watch carefully for any as yet undetected signs of enemy activity. But there were none, they were all dead. They reached the truck and piled in with the other Seals. Two of the men, the first-aid specialists, were tending to the wounds of the freed hostages. The others were reloading and checking their weapons. There could still be at least one more hurdle to cross before they reached safety. They heard the confirmation on the commo.
“Bravo, this is Creech. Your hostiles have disappeared under the jungle canopy, but they’ve been joined by three large trucks, and estimated to be carrying sixty plus personnel. Assume armed. Sorry we have no further updates, but if the view clears, we’ll get back to you.”
“Roger that,” Lieutenant Talley replied to the Control Center based in the Nevada Desert at Creech Air Force Base.
The smuggler’s compound was at the end of a long, narrow jungle trail, and there was no other way out. The truck was necessary to take out the hostages, who were in no shape to walk far. A firefight with seventy or more enemy was not part of the mission brief, not with innocent lives at stake. Talley looked around and came to a fast decision.
“We’ll park the truck just inside the entrance to the compound. Carl, you’re dressed for the part, so close the gate and open it for them when they’re in sight. Brad, you take the wheel, keep the engine running. As soon as the last hostile vehicle is inside, floor the gas and we’ll get out of Dodge. Carl, when the truck starts to move, you get aboard. We’re going to try to outrun them, so I want you all ready with grenades.” He checked his watch. “Okay, the exfiltration is set for a half hour from now. It’s going to be cutting it fine, so, Brad, hit it as soon as Carl is aboard.”
“I hear you, Boss,” PO2 Brad Rose replied.
The unit dandy, Brad was slightly below medium height but powerfully built. His hair was thick and shaggy, but he kept it under control with a range of hair products that must have stretched his pay to the limits. It hung to his shoulders, which was long even by Seal standards, and he held it in place by a thonged leather headband. Brad had fine, almost delicate features that he'd once tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard before the Navy made him shave them off. When they walked into a bar, it was Brad that most girls made a beeline for.
He climbed aboard, scanned the panel and started the truck’s engine, then turned the vehicle to face outwards towards the gate. Nolan and Merano positioned themselves at the rear of the truck’s bed, ready to fire on any pursuers. The rest of the men made one final check of their weapons, laid out their grenades ready for use, then ducked down as they heard the sound of approaching engines. The SUVs came into view. The first was a Hummer H2, in jet black and chrome, looking as out of place in the jungle as a sailing boat. It was followed by a Toyota Land Cruiser and two badly dented Ford Explorers, and all of the seats were filled. Behind them came the trucks, the beds crowded with armed men. Without the guns, they would have resembled an Arizona farmer’s truck, collecting illegals to pick his crop. Carl Winters kept his head low as he opened the gate, and the vehicles roared through. The Hummer screeched to a halt in the center of the compound, and the others lined up either side. Brad had already gunned the engine, and the truck lurched forward. Carl leapt for the tailgate and willing hands pulled him aboard, just as the door of the Hummer opened, and a man in a cream linen suit and tropical Panama hat stepped out. Nolan and Merano, already sighting through their scopes, saw him size up the situation in a split second and start shouting orders, but then their truck veered around a corner, and he was lost to view before they could line up a shot. Talley checked his watch. Seventeen minutes to exfiltration. It was going to be close. He shouted to Rose at the wheel.
“Keep that pedal to the metal, sailor. We don’t want to miss our flight!”
He saw Brad nod his understanding, and then he keyed the mic.
“This is Bravo, on our way to extraction point. This will be a hot extraction, repeat hot extraction!”
“Hear you, Bravo. Understood, hot extraction, we’ll be there.”
The truck heeled over and almost overturned as they rounded a sharp bend on the track, and then the road straightened. For more than a mile the track was bordered by solid jungle. There were no openings, no gaps, and no bends, nowhere they could get out of sight of the pursuing enemy.
“Keep sharp, they’ll come into view in a few seconds. Be ready with those grenades.”
The pursuing vehicles roared into sight. One of the trucks was first, and the men crowded on the bed were firing at them. Bullets started to zing all around their truck. Almost casually, two of the Seals, Dan Mosely and Will Bryce dropped grenades off the back of the truck, and they rolled onto the track where they lay, waiting for the pursuing truck.
Dan watched anxiously, his surfer’s eyes screwed up as he measured distances and angles. Blonde haired and blue eyed, he was the image of a California beach boy. Dan was tall, tanned and muscular, after spending every off duty hour searching for the perfect wave in the California surf. The son of wealthy parents, he could have chosen any career he wanted, like the brokerage position his father offered him. But he only had one ambition, and Dan was a man who put every ounce of effort into achieving his ambition. He wanted to be a member of the US Special Forces, the best of the best. And that was the Navy Seals. He was the complete opposite of his partner, Will Bryce, who’d fought his way out of the Detroit ghettoes.
Bryce had a strong, crag-like profile with big bones and a jutting chin under a powerful, almost regal countenance. Strangely for an African American, he had gray eyes, an undoubted throwback to his ancestors. He stared out under thick, bushy eyebrows topped by wiry black hair. When people stared at Bryce, they saw a man of strength and authority, a man who carried his inner strength and power like an aura. Moseley and Bryce, white and black, rich and poor, the men were the best of friends on and off duty. They were Seals.
At the last moment, the driver noticed the deadly objects lying in the road. They smiled as they saw his eyes widen and watched the instinctive turn of the steering wheel as he went to brake and swerve, but a bullet from Nolan’s SWS smacked into the center of his face, killing him instantly. His dead foot jammed down onto the gas pedal, and the truck hurtled towards the grenades. When they exploded, the vehicle flipped over in a shower of fragments, hard metal and soft body parts. Some of the men managed to escape the wreckage, but Nolan and Merano went to work; their methodical, accurate, semi-auto fire joined by the assault rifles of Bravo as they poured fire onto the panicking hostiles. The second truck stopped to pick up survivors, but now they were warned, they weren’t about to fall for the same trick. They followed at a slower rate while the men on board poured out a lethal hail of fire at the Seal’s wheezing old Zaporozhets. The Russian engine roared along gamely, despite the dense cloud of smoke that poured from the exhaust on the cab roof, yet the pursuing vehicles followed them doggedly.
“Now would be a good time to speed up,” Talley shouted down to Rose.
“This track’s pretty rough. If we turn over, we’ll be in a worse state,” the PO2 shouted back.
“It doesn’t get worse than this, Brad. Hit it!”
They hung on grimly as the bouncing, lurching motion of the truck increased, and at times the old vehicle nearly left the track altogether. Nolan and Merano were still firing, but it had become ineffective; the vibration and movement were too much for any accurate shooting.
“Sorry, Boss, it’s just not possible.” Nolan shrugged. “All we can do is to keep their heads down.”
“Not your fault, Chief. Keep at it. At least they’re not getting any nearer. And their shooting is lousy.”
At that moment, a stray shot took out a slice of the truck body, leaving a ragged slot an inch wide and eight inches long, next to where Talley held on to the side. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch, he just grinned. “Most of it, anyway.”
“Boss, they’ve got an RPG,” Vince shouted.
Nolan squinted down his scope. “Yeah, I see it. Looks like a Soviet RPG-7.”
It wasn’t good news. The RPG-7 was a simple steel tube, forty millimeters in diameter, weighing fifteen pounds. The middle of the tube was wood, wrapped to protect the user from heat, and the end was flared to assist in blast shielding and recoil reduction. Sighting was fairly basic; usually an optical sight with a back-up iron sight, but at short range and in broad daylight, it was academic. Even a close hit would damage the truck badly enough to end their chances of reaching the extraction site.
“Can you take him?” Tally’s voice was still calm, but every man knew the importance that hung on his question.
“I guess so. If Brad could slow for a few seconds, it’s a done deal.”
Tally shouted the order, and the truck slowed. They watched the missile shooter stand higher as he prepared to take his shot, then Nolan and Merano each emptied a clip at him. They carried ten rounds in each clip, and twenty heavy, match rounds spat out towards the RPG operator. A quarter of them, at least five, hit him, and they could see chunks of cloth fly off his uniform as the heavy slugs tore his body apart. He was thrown back and sideways off the truck. His finger connected with the trigger, and a rocket soared uselessly into the air.
The two snipers quickly reloaded as Talley shouted at Rose to speed up again. The truck resumed its lurching, pitching motion as they sped towards the rendezvous. The following vehicles had drawn closer now that they knew the Seals were going too fast for accurate shooting, staying just outside of a range that would allow the use of the grenade trick again. Once more, Talley checked his watch, estimating times and distances. He keyed his mic.
“This is Bravo. ETA to LZ four minutes, repeat four minutes. Fifty plus hostiles in hot pursuit, say again, fifty plus.”
“Roger that. We’re ready for you, Bravo.”
A Seal muttered. “They fuckin’ better be, or we’re toast.”
Talley suppressed a grin and started making final checks. Then he shouted orders over the noise of the engine.
“We’ll slow fifty yards before the LZ. I want ten men to drop off and form a defensive line. Well, take ten men of Bravo One for that honor. The rest of you, start transferring the hostages the second we reach the slicks. Look sharp, this is going to be tricky. If we start a full scale war down here, the local Federales will start swarming like flies around a turd.”
“Yeah, lookin’ for their payoff from that honcho in the Hummer,” Carl Winters grunted.
Talley keyed the mic. “This is Bravo. Two minutes out. We’ll form a defensive line and hold them off while the hostages get aboard.” He had to shout above the roaring noise of the truck’s engine.
“Negative, Bravo. I say again, negative. Two gunships are waiting to cover the exfiltration. They need a clear field of fire.”
“Understood.” He checked his watch and took a quick look at the trail ahead. “One minute. Belay the order for the defensive line, Will. Just get ‘em aboard the helos.”
“Copy that.”
Only seconds later, they roared out of the heavy jungle foliage into a wide, open space. There was a range of low hills in the distance, but for half a mile the ground was relatively flat and covered with low, thick scrub. A few trees populated the landscape, but for the most part it was a perfect landing ground for rotorcraft. Four hundred yards ahead, they sighted the two Blackhawks on the ground, the ‘slicks’, their rotors turning slowly. The two camouflaged UH-60s had been transported in a Lockheed C130, the same type of transport aircraft that had ferried in the Seal platoon. The replacement for the venerable and iconic UH-1, the Huey, the Blackhawk was faster, better armored and carried more personnel and armament, powered by its two General Electric T700 turboshaft engines. Hovering in the sky like birds of prey above the Blackhawks were two McDonnell Douglas Little Birds, the tiny aircraft that had proved invaluable to the Special Forces. Unlike the standard MH-6 variant that carried four soldiers, these were the AH-6 attack model. Gunships. Each of them carried a thirty mm M230 Chain Gun, designed to shatter enemy materiel. The Little Birds hovered now, like hungry hawks searching for their prey. They were not to be disappointed. Brad Rose screeched to a halt next to the waiting Blackhawks in their distinctive irregular pattern camouflage. The men jumped down and almost threw the hostages out of the truck bed and across to the waiting helos. Chief Nolan and PO1 Merano crouched behind the stopped truck, sighted their rifles and waited while the Team finished climbing aboard. The enemy vehicles appeared suddenly, and the two snipers got off six rounds apiece before Talley shouted.
“That’s it, men, get aboard, leave it to the Little Birds.”
One of the Blackhawks was already climbing, and the two snipers ran to the other craft and leapt aboard as the pilot engaged his collective. The heavily laden helo began to lift off the ground. The cabin was a litter of men, equipment and weapons. A door gunner was stationed at either side, calmly searching for targets. The hostiles had halted, and men were piling out. One held another RPG and was already leveling it ready to fire. Scores of gun barrels pointed upwards towards the slicks, yet incredibly they hadn’t seen the Little Birds hovering, waiting to fall on them. They started to shoot at the slicks, and several shots banged against the fuselage of the second and lower machine. The door gunners elevated their barrels and began to press the triggers, but they were unnecessary. The AH-6s swooped like avenging angels of death. The monotonous cacophony of the miniguns began to make the ground tremble. The incoming fire still peppered the slicks, and a few bullet holes ventilated the bodies of the slicks, but the fire dwindled as the enormous weight of fire squashed the opposition. The engine of the second Blackhawk coughed as a vital component took a hit, but the engine kept running. The Seals had started shooting too, pouring fire back at the hostiles through the open doors, but they stopped shooting as the miniguns scythed through their targets. The missile shooter fell back; his body a broken, bloody ruin. Like casualties of a First World War charge against entrenched machine guns, the surviving hostiles were swept away in the hurricane of lead that poured down a rain of ruin upon them. The firing died away. The Seals watched, satisfied that this mission was finished. Except that it wasn’t. The Hummer H2 had stopped fifty or so yards away from the main body of men and outside of the arc of gunfire. The door opened, and a man stepped out and watched the slicks and gunships as they climbed higher in the sky.
