SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (25 page)

That missile shooter I took out, he wouldn’t have been alone, no way. It’s not how they operate. The Taliban will have no shortage of the rockets in any area they control.

He leaned forward and tapped Boswell on the shoulder.

“Lt.”

The Lieutenant turned. “What is it?”

“That missile shooter I took care of. He can’t be alone. There has to be more of them. We need to keep our eyes skinned moving out in the Stryker. We’re a plum target for these people. I wouldn’t mind betting they’ll try and hit us again before we’re away from here.”

Boswell nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. Did you see any more of them while you were out there?”

“No, it’s just a hunch.”

“Okay, that’s good enough for me. We’ll need better visibility. We won’t see them coming from inside, so we’ll have to open up the hull and hope they don’t lob grenades down onto us from the rooftops.”

“It’s a possibility, but the RPG is almost a racing certainty.”

“Yeah.” He called up the rest of them. “Listen up, people. We’re opening up the hatch. I want men outside on the hull to spy out any missiles pointed our way, or any way. I don’t give a shit which way they’re pointed. Whitman, is that M249 ready to fire?”

“It sure is, Lt. Locked, loaded, and set to go.”

“Okay. Open the top hatch and get up top. You can cover our six, and make sure you don’t get in the way of any dust flying toward your eyes this time. Lucas, you’re to watch ahead with the remote system. We may need that .50 cal yet. Chief, I’d like you and Vince out there too. Those eyes of yours are our best defense against a shooter at long range.”

They acknowledged, and Whitman flung open the hatch, clambering out with his Minimi and the bag of ammunition. Vince and Nolan followed him, and Boswell stuck his head out too.

To be fair to the Lieutenant, he's prepared to share the risks
, Nolan acknowledged.

He wedged himself in the top of the turret with his MP7 held grimly in both hands, ready to loose off at the first sighting of the enemy. Nolan found a position on the hull where he could quarter the surrounding streets, and brace himself against the steel of the hull stanchions to get in a good shot. Vince followed suit on the other side, and Whitman set up at the rear of the hull.

“Lt!”

The voice came from down inside the hull, and it sounded like Dave Eisner.

“What is it?”

“The Paki, Masih. He’s looking bad, and the bleeding looks even worse. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“Shit! Can’t you do anything about it?”

“It’s internal, Lt. I just don’t know.”

He looked across at Whitman. “Jack, you were taking care of him. Get back inside the hull and try and fix him up. You can tell Eisner to come up and take over the Minimi.”

“Copy that.”

Nolan held the weapon while he scrambled inside. Seconds later, Dave appeared and took over the machine gun.

“Do you think he’ll make it, Dave?”

Eisner shook his head. “It’s touch and go. I don’t know, maybe. He may get back to Bagram so they can patch him up, but his long-term prognosis is not real good. The Taliban roughed him up pretty bad, and at a guess, I’d say they’ve ruptured something inside. Whitman may be able to tell us more.”

“So Danial isn’t going to lead us through those tunnels into Abbottabad?”

“Not in this lifetime, no. But we can talk to him when we get back. Maybe he’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“Yeah.”

Nolan settled his MP7 so that he could lay prone and use the red dot sight. He looked toward the end of the street about a hundred meters ahead. The Stryker was hurtling toward it as fast as Zeke could push the screaming diesel engine. He settled his aim and saw movement, and then a distinctive shape appeared. Missile!

“RPG, dead ahead, one hundred meters.”

Lucas was already on it. Nolan saw the remote turret turn to aim at the shooter, and a stream of .50 caliber rounds hammered out of the barrel to chew chunks of rock and woodwork out of the nearby houses as he tracked on the missile. Grant had been ready, and he was damn good. Lucas walked the fire right onto the target, and the huge rounds blew the shooter and his weapon to smithereens. Lucas ranged the turret around, seeking more targets, just as the first missile arced toward them. Nolan jerked his gaze up to the rooftop. He’d seen the missile trail as it descended before he had a chance to react. The missile exploded in the street, ten meters behind them. There was a shout of pain. Dave was back there, and a fragment had obviously hit him, but it was no time to stop to ask if he was hurt bad. He and Vince sighted up to the rooftop, located a single shooter in the process of reloading his launcher, and both men fired. The hostile was thrown back just as his loader stepped into view. Nolan double tapped him, and immediately began searching for more targets.

“Two o’clock, third floor window,” Vince shouted as he squeezed off a couple more shots.

“Copy that, we have activity in the street. Looks like they’re coming at us in force.”

“Jesus Christ,” Boswell breathed. “What the fuck is this?”

‘This’ was a crowd, marching slowly and resolutely toward them, a crowd of children, veiled women, and old cripples. A crowd that was at least two hundred strong, and growing.

“They must have rounded up every non-combatant in Kabul,” he snarled angrily.
 

“They’ll have shooters and RPGs at the back of that crowd,” Nolan warned. “It’s a repeat of the tactic they used at Parachinar.” He looked keenly into the distance at the outskirts of the crowd. And saw another problem.

“Heads up! There’s a CNN News team right at the back of the crowd. They’re hugging the edge, next to the buildings. I see two of them, a guy with a camera and a woman, and they’re both wearing armor and blue Kevlar helmets.”

Boswell raised his eyes skyward. “As if we haven’t got enough problems.” He raised his binoculars and scanned the crowd. “Yep, they’re there, reporters at the back of the crowd, and a bunch of armed Taliban close by. Shit!”

“Lt, you should see this. There’s another bunch of people coming up behind us,” Dave exclaimed.

Nolan turned his head to look at Eisner. The Seal had a deep gouge in his armored vest on the shoulder, just above the front ballistic plate. Some of the fragment that hit him must have penetrated. His left side was covered in blood. Past him, he could see a further group of insurgents blocking the street behind them. They waited, uncertain as to how they could respond. If they opened fire, the newsies would capture it all on camera, and they’d be screwed for opening fire on civilians. If they didn’t open fire, the Taliban shooters would destroy them in a shower of missiles augmented by incoming fire from their Russian assault rifles. Boswell scanned up and down the street, desperately searching for a solution. He keyed his mic.

“Zeke, turn right now.”

“Turn right? But it’s…”

“I don’t give a shit! I said turn right. That’s an order, Mister. Pedal to the fucking metal, and get us out of here. You men on the hull, keep your heads down low.”

Nolan threw himself flat on the steel platform, just as Dave and Vince heard the order and followed suit. Boswell’s head popped down inside the hatch, and the vehicle shuddered as it hit the front wall of an adjacent house. Bricks, rubble, masonry, and timber framing all showered down on the Stryker. Nolan peered out from where he was hugging the steel deck, in time to see a family of Afghans sitting at a table, open mouthed and about to eat their meal. They screamed and ran as the abrupt realization hit them. A twenty-ton military behemoth had just crashed through the front wall and invaded their home. The Stryker shuddered again as it hit the wooden staircase a glancing blow, and the whole structure began to collapse. Zeke kept his foot pressed down, and the APC crashed through out the rear wall, staggering as chunks of masonry threatened to block its progress. Zeke gave it the gun, and the massive wheels rode over the broken masonry and broke free. There was another street at the back of the house. He smashed through a rear garden wall and turned into it. The street was empty.

“Keep it going, Zeke,” Boswell shouted. “Take us all the way back to Bagram.”

Nolan remembered Zeke’s words, about Boswell imaging himself in command of an armored column.

Maybe that was true, but he’s done well, the Lieutenant, as well as anyone could have done. He kept his head and got us out of a real tight spot.

Someone shouted, “Hostiles, three hundred meters ahead. They’ve just seen us.”

Boswell was back up in the turret, surveying the way ahead for targets. They were driving toward an open square, and once again men with guns blocked their way. Men they could shoot at. He spoke quietly.

“Open fire, men. Kill those bastards. Clear them out of our way.”

Nolan sighted on a guy who was out front. He was waving an AK in the air and seemed to be shouting encouragement at his people. Before he shot him, he searched the crowd and saw why he was shouting. They were retreating, edging back, clearly unhappy about taking on an armored Stryker APC with only assault rifles and maybe a couple of RPGs. He squeezed the trigger, and the guy went down. The man behind him followed. He was unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. As Nolan’s target dropped, Vince had been sighting on the guy next to him, and the two sniper rounds felled his target and a man stood next to him.

Nolan searched for the next target but relaxed his trigger finger. They’d turned and were running, leaving the street littered with abandoned weapons and equipment. He focused on some of the fleeing group and saw the reason why. They were young, very young; some looked no more than twelve years old. Just like Hitler’s last-ditch defense of Berlin, when the SS had forced children armed with no more than a Panzerfaust to do battle with hardened Soviet Tank Divisions. He smiled as he thought of the primitive weapon. After firing, the launcher was discarded, making the Panzerfaust the first disposable anti-tank gun. They were not effective, and German generals commented sarcastically that the tubes could be used more usefully as clubs after firing, when they may kill more of the enemy. The Russian built RPGs were a huge advance on the Panzerfaust, but the motivation and training of the boy soldiers that fired them was little different from that of their predecessors. The hate-filled rhetoric of the religious leaders soon evaporated in the face of a trained and well-equipped enemy. Nolan couldn’t open fire on the fleeing boys, couldn’t add to the death and misery that had arrived in this Kabul suburb. The other Seals kept shooting as Boswell urged them on.

“Pour it on, don’t let them get away. Chief, what’s going on? Keep firing. I haven’t given the order to cease fire.”

Nolan glanced in his direction. “They’re only kids, Lt.”

“Kids with AKs and RPGs. You leave them to run away, and they’ll be back killing our guys. Is that what you want?”

Boswell was right, and in his head, Nolan knew it. But in his heart, it wasn’t so easy.

“Copy that.” Loathing himself, he nodded and opened fire on semi auto. He wasn’t particular about aiming. Even so, he was aware that some of his single shots would have hit their mark. He emptied the clip and rammed in a new one, then sighed with relief as the Lieutenant ordered the ceasefire.

“It looks as if they’re either dead or ran away. Zeke, move forward again, but take it easy. The rest of you, keep alert, some of those casualties could be faking. Let’s go.”

Zeke gunned the engine. The APC rolled forward, and soon they were adjacent with the scene of the carnage. Bodies were strewn in the street, dropped weapons, AKs, and several RPGs. Nolan recalled the Duke of Wellington’s famous dispatch after the battle of Waterloo. ‘Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.’

Yeah, this is sure melancholy,
Nolan reflected.

They were all looking at the bodies carefully, watching in case one of them was waiting to hit them with a sucker punch, to leap up and lob a grenade at the American APC. Nobody moved, and they started to relax. The Stryker was almost past the last of the fallen Taliban. Boswell nodded to himself and looked at Nolan with a grin. He’d done well, as well as could be expected, and he knew it.

“I reckon that does it, Chief. We’re almost home.” He clicked his mic. “Zeke, you can step on it now. Take us back to Bagram as fast as you can, and with any luck we’ll be there in time to save our Pakistani friend.”

“Copy that.”