Full Assault Mode (12 page)

“Sergeant Bird, I’m here to take you home,” Webber said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “It’s over. We’ve seen enough,” he added.

Moments passed where neither spoke a word. Hawk finally spoke.

“Fuck you, fuck this place, and fuck Delta!”

Webber ignored the profanity but couldn’t hold back a slight grin. He didn’t blame her for the intensity of her words. Hell, Webber knew he couldn’t handle three hours in a place like Black Ice, much less three days. Still, for the pilot program to be fully accepted, the test parameters had to be more stringent on Hawk. If for no other reason than to quiet the critics of Webber’s baby, many who had vehemently argued that women are shackled with emotional and psychological limits at birth.

Mohammad Ghafour Village, Goshai, Pakistan

Kolt squeezed the nylon fast rope as tight as he could to control his descent. He struggled to lock the insteps of his black and tan Salomon XA Pro assault boots onto the rope as gravity, coupled with the downward whipping of ice-cold rotor wash, propelled him to the snow-covered valley floor. Friction heat penetrated his thin Oakley assault gloves after only ten feet of descent.

The impact with the snow-covered ground knocked Kolt on his ass. The rope was pulled from his hands as the helo drifted forward and the tail rose, nosing down to gain speed from the two-minute hover. The fast rope still hung out the back like a giant thread whipping in the wind.

Instinctively, Kolt rolled out of the way. He knew better than to flounder on the ground after roping since the next operator would land on top of him. When that happened, things became a total clusterfuck.

But this time there were no other ropers.

Kolt stood to a crouch as the helo noise faded in the distance. Enemy gunfire, green tracers, and dozens of unseen 7.62 mm bullets chased the bird as it raced to escape the valley. Kolt wasn’t sure where to start. Singleton missions weren’t designed to come off the back of a MH-47G into the center of the enemy target. He’d have a chance if the rest of the troop was on the ground with him. They would methodically clear each building, killing every adult-aged male that stood in the way, until they found the precious cargo.

The assaulters would do the heavy lifting as per standard operating procedure. Kolt always made it a point to stay out of the way. If they needed him, or if it was time to flex off the original plan, then they would call. Normally, though, they just needed the troop commander to put his gun somewhere on the perimeter and stand by.

But now, as he crouched low in Ghafour’s snow-covered backyard, he was not only unsure which building he was looking at but also had no idea where Shaft was. This was anything but normal. Time to develop the situation.

Snow completely engulfed Kolt’s kneepads as he knelt behind the corner of a mud and stone building. He pressed the tiny button on his NavELite wrist compass to activate the blue Indiglo-type background. The pointed compass needle floated slightly, turning to true north and providing bearings. No time to be heading the wrong way out of the blocks. He peered through his NODs, searching for movement, searching for his man Shaft.

Kolt knew Admiral Mason wouldn’t stop the helo from aborting the infil. He wouldn’t risk everyone on board by turning it around to recover Kolt. Kolt figured he might not even know yet that he exited the back of the helicopter. Just in case, Kolt turned his radio knob two clicks clockwise to the Green SAT secure command frequency.

He feared more that maybe the admiral had watched him reach up and pull the cotter pin to release the fast rope. And maybe he watched as the nut-job Delta officer slid his HK416 assault rifle around to his left side before reaching for the near vertical rope with both gloved hands. And if he saw that, then he wouldn’t dare take his eyes off Kolt. He had to have seen Major Kolt fucking Raynor step into the cold dark sky, short hop off the edge of the ramp, and in an instant, disappear below the bird’s tail ramp.

But as much as Kolt wanted to say “eat it, sir!” he quickly turned his attention to his mission. One, safely recover Shaft. Two, get both of them out of the valley safe. And three, so the mission wouldn’t be viewed as an entire failure by the naysayers back in the rear on the admiral’s staff, secure the intel haul that most expected would lead to the al Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri or that might just foil a plot to attack America’s commercial nuclear power industry. Kolt would settle for the first two, but he wanted it all.

Green tracers, fired from a distant rooftop, whizzed past Kolt’s tan and black Opscor ballistic helmet. He needed to move. He slugged through the foot-deep fresh snow and found a short set of wood and mud stairs leading to the second floor of the building to his front. He reached up with his nonfiring hand and dropped his NVGs to just in front of his eyes. A second later, he front-kicked the door open and entered, wondering if he should have led with a nine-banger first.

Kolt quickly cleared the doorway threshold. As he moved forward, he scanned left to right for immediate threats, and then turned hard left to continue deeper into the room.

Dry hole. What next?

Kolt stopped for a second to gain his bearings. Using the moonlight, he looked at the small GTG satellite map on his left forearm the same way a quarterback studies the next play in the huddle. Kolt’s target picture had the buildings marked by numbers with a small passport-size photo of Ghafour’s white-bearded face taped to the upper right corner.

Often it takes twenty to thirty minutes to locate the PC. But the averages were against success the longer the clock ticked, even for an entire assault troop. For a one-man show like Kolt, there was no empirical data.

An explosion grabbed Kolt’s attention. He moved to a back patio on the second floor opposite the helo. His Peltor-radio headgear came alive.

“RPGs at nine o’clock!”

It was Smitty making a net call on the command radio channel. From the far edge of the patio, Kolt observed another rocket launched from the ridgeline at the departing and now out-of-range MH-47G.

Kolt peered through his night-vision goggles at two green halos created by the double-rotor blades’ static electricity and panned to the north to the spot where he figured the rocket came from. Nothing. They couldn’t afford to lose the last helo out there. Kolt didn’t expect Admiral Mason to send Smitty back to get him and Shaft. No, that would be stupid. Moreover, Kolt didn’t want to be responsible if the last airworthy helo was blown out of the sky.

He had no way to contact Shaft short of screaming out. He’d have to get lucky and run into him.

He left the patio and hit the internal stairs before descending to the bottom floor. He quickly cleared the room. Another dry hole. Kolt moved past livestock, chickens squawking and flailing up against the far living room wall, and paused at the open back door.

Through his night-vision goggles Kolt scanned the area. He hoped to see Shaft, but knew that was a long shot. But Kolt knew Shaft had brought a PVS-14 handheld NVG monocular. If Kolt activated his infrared laser on his HK416 and aimed it out into the snow-covered grounds between the mud homes and buildings in the valley, then maybe Shaft would see it. It was all he had at the moment.

Before he could get his rifle up to activate the infrared laser, Kolt’s peripheral vision hit on movement out of the side of his goggles. He turned. Instinctively he raised his assault rifle chest high and thumbed the safety selector switch from safe to fire. His trigger finger was just about to begin the muscle-memory motor skills of engaging a hostile threat until something looked odd. Kolt hesitated. He quickly noticed Shaft’s characteristic build. The narrow shoulders and five-foot-seven frame he had seen a thousand times before.

“Shaft?”

“Hey man, don’t shoot!” he answered in his characteristically dry humor while shivering heavily. “Seen any bad guys around here?”

“You son of a bitch!” Kolt responded while slapping him on the shoulder, happy to see him again. “I almost stitched your ass. What happened to you? We lost your beacon.”

Shaft was covered in snow. He quickly explained to Kolt how he accidentally shot his iPad 4 and then had held the green laser on the center of the landing zone until the prop blast from the hovering helo had knocked him down. Then, he said that he slipped trying to right himself and rolled about ten meters into a washbasin. As soon as he was able to right himself, the exploding rocket impacting the trail helo knocked him back into the basin.

Kolt could see Shaft’s clothes were soaking wet. Kolt noticed Shaft’s thick dark beard was covered with frozen snow and ice particles. His wool Afghan hat was iced over. He looked like the abominable snowman.

“You guys almost got stuck with an RPG before landing,” Shaft said as he shivered in the dark.

“We didn’t land,” answered Kolt.

“What?” said Shaft, a little confused. “You guys roped?”

“Yes,” said Kolt.

“I didn’t think you guys were gonna make it.”

“We didn’t, Shaft,” Kolt said.

“Come again, Racer?” Shaft asked.

“I’m it, brother,” said Kolt. “I got out.”

“You are it?” questioned Shaft. “You are alone?”

Kolt didn’t have time to explain things to Shaft. He was also hoping he didn’t ask. He knew Shaft would be pissed if he knew the details about Admiral Mason’s abort call. Better to save those details for the hot wash.

Kolt just said, “Afraid so partner.”

“Holy shit. We’re screwed, boss.”

“Not yet, brother. Let’s get the PC and book it out of the valley.”

“Book it?” asked Shaft. “Where’s our exfil birds?”

“Admiral Mason was on my bird. Don’t expect him to turn her around to get us. They’re about out of gas.”

Before Shaft could answer, the unmistakable sound of AK-47 fire interrupted the frigid air.

Kolt put his gloved index finger up in front of his lips to tell Shaft he was receiving a radio call. Kolt then motioned with his left hand for Shaft to take a knee. Kolt did the same, dropping his right Crye Precision kneepad into the soft snow.

“Major Raynor, situation report. Over!” It was Admiral Mason. Kolt was surprised Mason had thought he’d be able to reach Kolt directly on Green SAT. But more alarming, Kolt was aggravated to hear his true name over the joint-command radio net instead of his official designated alphanumeric Mike One-One call sign.

But this situation was anything but normal.

Kolt figured the commanding general was either so pissed that he ignored his abort call or, more likely, had no idea what Kolt’s actual call sign was. Either way, given the current shit sandwich Kolt bit into, hearing the CG over any radio channel was actually good news.

Kolt couldn’t hear the MH-47G engines or the distinctive-sounding rotor blades whipping in the distance anymore. He assumed Smitty and the rest of his Delta assault troop were either following the lame-duck 47 back to the border or, worse, were still in the area looking to execute a search and rescue mission.

Screw it. It was too late to change Mason’s mind, anyway. The admiral wasn’t going to reconsider aborting the mission. This Kolt was certain of. He was also certain that the bird was critically low on fuel, already likely flying on fumes, so even if Mason desired to turn the helo around to help Kolt, the gas gauge had a vote.

No, the helos weren’t turning around. They would be focused solely on CSARing the downed helo and recovering all crew and operators. Kolt knew he and Shaft were on their own.

Kolt keyed his radio mike to transmit back to the admiral in the helo. He played it like it was any other op, ignoring the fact that he decided to rope on target all by himself. It would have been nice if some of his men thought to hit the rope behind Kolt and fast rope down to the target. But Kolt never really expected anyone to follow him. It was a split-second decision to help Shaft. He didn’t have time to argue with Mason about it, or even let his men know what he was doing. With one helo struck by an RPG and limping out of the valley, he really couldn’t blame Mason too much for making the call. It was just Mason. The risk-averse JSOC commanding general. Someone who had no business, at least in Kolt’s mind, of even being on the helo. No, Kolt thought, the CG should be back in the JOC at J-bad, watching the mission on a flat screen, sipping coffee, and preparing to give a secure-victory call to the SECDEF about the successful cross-border mission and the capture of Mohammad Ghafour.

No, at the moment, Kolt knew the stark reality of things. There was nothing else to do but operate now. To do his thing. Turn a shit sandwich into a five hour meal at Gramercy Tavern. Recover Shaft first, yes. But somehow Kolt knew he wouldn’t settle for just that. Ghafour was on the target list. Not only was the terrorist the golden nugget to finally finding the al Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri, but every Western intelligence agency was marking Ghafour as the mastermind behind attacks on America’s critical infrastructure. The fact that POTUS wanted any attacks on the homeland stopped before it was too late wasn’t lost on Kolt’s decision-making process.

Kolt pressed the push-to-talk button, paused, and spoke into his mouthpiece very calmly, as if it was just another day on target. “This is Mike One-One. Negative PC. Still clearing the area. Over.”

“We need to get out of here,” Admiral Mason said with obvious urgency in his voice. “We are about out of fuel. Get you and your man out of there and over to the alternate pickup zone immediately. Over.”

Kolt couldn’t believe his ears. Well, he could a little, considering the circumstances, but what about the mission? What about capturing the guy who has vowed to attack America? What about the effort by everyone back at J-bad to develop this hit? What about the risk so many took to get all the way to the Goshai Valley? Are we really going to tell the president that we went into Pakistan and gave it the good ole college try but came up empty-handed? Sorry, Mr. President, but no word on Zawahiri or on the potential radiological sabotage that just might happen in the United States. Never mind the contingency of staying after the helos departed and walking out of the valley.