Raid on Afghanistan, page 5
Nolan thought furiously. He remembered how close he’d come to blowing out his brains. Now he had something to fight for, revenge. The guys of Charlie Platoon were, like Bravo Platoon, like brothers. Yes, they had to be revenged. But he had unfinished business here. He thought of Grace, and he needed another drink. Several more drinks.
They killed Grace, murdered my wife.
“Vince, guys, I know it’s important, but…”
“Kyle, listen.” It was Will Bryce; the black PO2 who carried power and gravitas the way a sheriff carried a gun. His strange gray eyes stared at the Chief. “This business in Afghanistan, it’s vital. No one hits the Frogs and gets away with it, no one! And the business with your wife, we’ll take care of that when we get back. She was family, and we’ll never forget that. Never! But first things first. These bastards in Afghanistan are killing our guys, and they have to be stopped.” He brought his fist down on the table, so hard that the glasses jumped an inch in the air and beer spilled out. “Stopped permanently. There’s no room for crying off. We’ve got to go in there hard, do the job, and finish them. And we need you on board to help us do it. You’re coming back, Chief. You have to, you’re a vital part of the unit.”
They waited for him to process the data in his brain. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. When do we leave?”
* * *
After Nolan had left, Carl looked at Vince Merano, Nolan’s fellow sniper.
“What do you think? You saw him have one of these blackouts. And look at the way he’s putting the sauce back, he’s killing himself. The Chief could be a liability if anything goes bad in the field.”
“What do you mean, ‘goes bad’?” Vince replied, his voice cold.
“You know what I mean. He’s the number two man in the platoon. If he blacks out at the wrong time, it could jeopardize everything. He even tried to off himself, we all know that.” He realized that Vince wasn’t taking it well. “Fuck it, Vince, we’re Navy Seals, not a bunch of chow pushers in the galley of a carrier. You know what it’s like. We leave nothing to chance. And the Chief’s blackouts sure are a big question mark.”
“He’ll be fine, Carl. Believe me, I know him better than anyone. Maybe he’s not firing on all his cylinders, but he’s the best we’ve got.”
The other men nodded their agreement, and Vince relaxed, but only slightly.
I hope to fuck that’s true, what I just said to them. If it isn’t, some of them may not be coming home, and it’d be me to blame.
* * *
The hardest part was breaking it to the kids. The next morning, they somehow sensed that something was different. Their father had changed overnight. He had a determination in his eyes, like he used to have. When he moved, it was with the old, springy step, as if he was always about to step off the ramp of a C-130 and parachute down into action. He’d even shaved and combed his hair!
“I need to talk to you kids.”
They sat around the table. He could feel John and Violet in the kitchen, knew they were listening.
“I have to go to work.”
Their faces fell. “You’re supposed to be sick,” Daniel objected.
“Yeah, I know that, Dan. I was sick, but now I feel better.”
“Can’t you stay with us a while longer?” Mary pleaded, in that plaintive, little girl voice she used to wheedle her way around him.
At least she wasn’t swearing any more, he grinned to himself.
He shook his head. “Listen, kids. You know about Afghanistan, the war over there?”
They nodded their heads. All American kids knew that. He should have realized how stupid he sounded, asking them if they knew. Christ, he’d been out of touch the past weeks.
“Right, a bunch of our guys got killed, and they need us to find them and deal with them. I have to do this, to save the lives of my friends and buddies.”
“Are you going to arrest them and put them in prison?” Mary asked.
He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t lie. But Daniel supplied the answer.
“Dad’s a Seal, you stupid girl. Seals don’t arrest the bad guys. They kill them.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?” she asked.
“Is that what I should do, kill the bad guys who are murdering my friends and other Americans?”
She nodded solemnly. “I guess so, if it’s the only way to stop them.”
He was relieved that she didn’t fully understand the concept of killing, only enough to know that it put an end to things.
“But what about Mom?”
“Yeah, honey, I haven’t forgotten Mom. When I get back, that’ll be dealt with.”
“Are you going to kill the motherfucker who did it, Dad?” Daniel asked, staring at him intently, waiting for the answer.
Nolan gulped at the language. But he let it go. He knew it was important to his son. He just couldn’t think of the right answer. John and Violet walked quietly into the room. They were staring at him, waiting for his answer too. He couldn’t lie. Not to them, they were Grace’s parents, not to the kids either. They were Grace’s kids. But he couldn’t tell them the whole truth either.
“Dan, I promise you that the guy responsible for your mother’s death will be punished. And I mean punished severely. I can’t say any more.”
The motherfucker’s going to die, and you can take that to the bank. I just can’t tell you, not right now.
But his eyes told them what he meant. He saw Grace’s mother, Violet, break into a smile. “I’m glad, Kyle. We’re all glad. People like that don’t deserve anything good. Make him suffer the way he made our little girl suffer.”
He looked at her and at John. “I will deal with that man. I make that promise to you all.”
He reported back the next morning. Talley welcomed him warmly and was gracious enough not to ask what had changed his mind. Neither did he enquire about his mental state. He took it for granted that Nolan had suffered after learning of his wife’s murder. Now he was back on deck. They were due to ship out the next day, and he endured twenty-four hours of almost constant sweat as he worked to reach a peak of mission fitness. Out on the Marine Corps Air Station at Miramar, the long distance firing range, he found where the lost weeks had really taken their toll. He’d been shooting in the high nineties, and a perfect one hundred was by no means unusual. He kicked off with a low nineties score, and after three hours of work and sweat, fighting to control the muscle reaction, the breathing and the mental control that are the essential tools of the Seal Sniper, he’d scraped into the upper nineties. But only just. After Vince Merano fired off a perfect hundred, he grinned at Nolan.
“You’re getting past it, Chief. Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done when I’ve finished shooting my round.”
Kyle chuckled. “In your dreams, Vince. This is a touch of the Jack Black shakes. Another day or two to leech it all out of my system, and I’ll be back up in front. And you’ll be right behind me, where you should be.”
“You’ll need to put some effort in, Chief. While you were carousing, I’ve been putting in some real work. You’ve got a way to catch up.”
Nolan nodded, pleased. What he needed was this. The shared companionship, the knowledge that they were about to go into harm’s way, the challenge of performing at your best, and of honing your skills to the razor edge of perfection; to aim at the very top, where no man could aspire to be your equal. They fired off a couple more twenties, and he kept above the mid-nineties. But Vince was right. He had a way to go, but he’d get there. He had to. He had to carry out the prime function of the military sniper. To ‘Reach out and touch someone’. Both in Afghanistan, where there were men who’d staged such a cowardly ambush on Charlie Platoon, and then back here, in San Diego. Despite what Carol Summers said, Mohammed Gul was a dead man walking. His time would come soon. He looked up as he realized that Vince was calling to him.
“Hey, Chief, that was the Boss. They’ve moved us up, so we’re leaving in two hours. We have to get back. And Chief…”
“Yeah, Vince?”
“You used to be great, the platoon looked on you as invincible. Do you mind me saying something?”
“What is it, Vince?” He quelled his anger, and reminded himself that Vince was a friend, not an enemy.
“Knock off the sauce, eh, partner. It’s killing you.” He grinned, to ease the tension. “And besides, you’ll never beat my scores if you keep knocking it back.”
Nolan nodded. “Copy that.”
He smiled an acknowledgement that he hadn’t taken any offense and began emptying his rifle. He’d done enough for now, and he’d started to pick up the rest of his skills for when he was back in the field. When it was for real.
But would that be soon enough? Did he have enough time? Or would he let them down when it counted?
* * *
He watched as the security guard opened the door and entered the room. He looked around the opulent setting, the polished mahogany table, with chairs drawn up ready and crystal decanters and water glasses. He glanced around space, ignoring the silk hangings, the artworks that were placed in strategic positions to underline one single fact. The people who used this room had access to immense wealth or power. Probably both. He kept his AK-47 held ready for use, but saw nothing untoward. He looked fearfully at the man waiting patiently outside the door, and nodded.
“It is all clear, Sir.”
The man ignored him, entered the meeting room and stood impassively at the head of the table, as if in a trance. He had a serene look in the hooded eyes, and a look that to those who knew him spelled one word. Danger. He was heavily built, and he moved with a loose, ungainly walk. His face was broad and surprisingly unlined, despite his obvious age, but his skin bore the stigmata of severe childhood acne. Thick drooping brows hovered above shadowed eyes of a startling bright green hue, strange in an Afghan; the throwback to some previous invader strain, without a doubt. His black hair was cut short around the back and sides but worn full on top in defiance of any known style. He was dressed in a cream linen suit, slightly rumpled, over hand-made tan suede desert boots. The effect was of an adventurer or explorer gone to seed. Yet this man was a politician, which perhaps made him more of an adventurer than those who adopted that probing and uncertain lifestyle. He looked at the men around the scratched woodwork of the ancient carved table, noting their expressions, fear, respect, in some. Hate in others. Yes, it was expected. He sat in the throne-like carved chair that was reserved for the most senior man at these proceedings, and the rest of them sat in their places. This being the Afghan Ministry of Defense, that man was him; Major General Faramarz Azizi, Afghan Minister of Defense, head of the entire armed forces of Afghanistan.
“Well?”
One word, but they all knew what he meant. What was wanted, who had succeeded and who had failed. Who would look for promotion, and who would fall. Or worse. He listened to their reports, nodding and shaking his head automatically. His secretary interpreted his moods, and made short notes on his pad. Finally, he dismissed them all, tired of their chatter, and of their failures. And despite what they called them, failures they were, all of them. There were precious few successes. No matter. He dismissed his secretary and stared down the table at the man who remained.
“Abdul, my friend. To business, what have you to tell me?”
Abdul Walid was expressionless. He went through his report, checking it off from memory item by item. He was an imposing, theatrical figure in Afghan dress, white robe with full sleeves, baggy trousers, and laced soft leather boots. His hair was a tangle of black snakes. A large drooping black moustache almost hid the full red lips that were themselves barely visible above the top of a full, black flowing beard. The eyes were fierce and cruel on either side of a syphilitic nose. His hands were decorated with gold rings, and one of the hands rested on the curved dagger, that no amount of persuasion could make him give up when he entered the Ministry. To anyone who saw him, they would know instantly he was a man who had killed, many times. And would kill again, for his was a warrior. The title on his ministry pass said, ‘Senior Tribal Liaison Officer’. But his tasks were to carry out General Azizi’s wishes, whatever they were and no matter how bloody. For Azizi was a man with a mission, a mission that only the two men present knew in full.
“Business is good, General. Shipments of product are up and continue to rise, and the Americans are content to leave us alone while they fight this stupid war.”
“Good, good. And the Americans, do they suspect anything?”
Walid grinned, drawing back his thick lips to display a black gap in the row of white teeth.
“They suspect nothing. They are still looking into the matter of their Special Forces that were killed. I do not believe they will allow the matter to go away until they have answers.”
Azizi nodded. “They are sending in replacements to continue the mission.”
Walid looked up sharply. “And you have allowed it?”
“The President himself gave permission. I had no influence in the matter. It will be up to you to make certain they find out nothing.”
“Perhaps they could meet the fate of the other unit. I could arrange another ambush.”
Azizi looked thoughtful. “We must be careful. They are not fools, and it could establish a link that will lead directly to this office. I would suggest you assign an officer to them who knows what to do. If he could lead them into a hopeless battle that resulted in their deaths, it would be better than a simple ambush.”
“It could mean a lot of our fighters will be killed. These Special Forces are not easy to kill in open battle.”
Azizi shrugged. “So? They must take their chances. And we must be patient, Walid. Everything we are working for will come to fruition.”
“It will be as you say, Minister.”
Chapter Three
Nolan watched the starlit landscape speed past through the narrow Perspex window, mile after dreary mile of barren plains and rock. They were flying in a specially modified helo, a Chinook MH-47E, adapted for both day and night operations. Outwardly, a regular helo, this aircraft had upgraded engines, aerial refueling capability, and terrain following and terrain avoidance radar. With its modified integrated avionics and multi-mode radars, it gave the Special Forces platoons infiltration and exfiltration capability. The capability to strike hard, kill the enemy, and get out fast before they even knew they’d been hit. He looked away and surveyed the men. They all sat in that relaxed way that is common to Special Forces the world over. They’d trained to the peak of perfection, and now they were going to put the lessons into practice once more. They were not men to harbor doubts about their abilities, men like Vince Merano, the second unit sniper. Lieutenant Talley, the tough, competent platoon commander. PO2 Will Bryce, underwater demolitions specialist, a man who moved and struck with the stealth and power of a cobra. PO3 Dan Mosely, the California beach boy who turned his back on the boardroom to pursue the career he loved.
Chief Nolan thought back to the past few weeks when he’d hovered on the fine line between life and death. And these men had trusted him and brought him back to life. When they said a Frog was married to his unit, to his career, they were right. Without them, he couldn’t have pulled through. But with these men, united, there was nothing they couldn’t do; like now.
They were flying towards an LZ ten miles out from a village on the Afghan and Pakistan border, the famed Hindu Kush range of mountains. When the helo was ten miles out, they’d make a low altitude drop with the aircraft shielded from the target by the mountains. Landing was not an option. If the enemy heard a Chinook land, even this modified version still made a lot of noise, the enemy would be alerted, and they’d disperse. All they’d hear tonight would be a passing aircraft, nothing more. The target was a town named Adasabad, close to the mountains and next to the border with Pakistan. Intelligence had discovered that a bombmaker was making the trek into Afghanistan with a large cargo of IEDs constructed ready for use; the deadly Improvised Explosive Devices that caused so many casualties to the ISAF forces, the International Security Assistance Force led by NATO and established by the United Nations Security Council. They’d asked SOCOM, the US Special Operations Command, to assist them with this one, because of the potential danger to so many of their troops from the devices. But there was another reason for this mission. The man waiting for the consignment of IEDs was on the ISAF most wanted list, Gemal Rahimi. The man was wanted for a number of serious war crimes, most recently the murder of two American soldiers he’d taken prisoner. The beheading had been a hit amongst those people who got off from that kind of thing. The platoon had watched it as part of the mission brief. Afterwards, there was a long silence, and each of them had considered how they’d like to deal with the butcher responsible.
“Coming up to target zone,” the co-pilot’s voice sounded in their headphones. “Five minutes to drop.”
Talley stood up. He was dressed and equipped like the rest of them; camouflaged MICH 2000 lightweight ballistic half-helmet, and his face almost invisible under the camo cream painted in a nightmarish pattern. Camouflaged uniform, webbing stuffed with weapons and equipment, lightweight cross-country boots, and a parachute strapped to his back. There was no reserve. On a LALO drop, if the main ‘chute didn’t open; there was no time for second-guessing. It made for a great deal of care when packing their ‘chutes. His assault rifle, the HK 416 was slung across his chest, and strapped to his belt his Sig Sauer, P226, the Navy Seals’ nine-millimeter pistol of choice. Strapped to the helmet was his night vision device, and at the side of his mouth the microphone of the unit’s commo system. The Lieutenant made a final check of the navigational computer strapped to his wrist.
“You know what to do, each check your partner. Chief, would you do me the honors?”
