No problem.
Dobbs and his dudes departed to prepare their defense. Anzo enforced a ten minute delay before we could pursue them. He'd listen to my warning order and quick briefing on the operation before following us through the Georgia thicket.
Following the book, acting as expected, the cadre would be unlikely to fail me. They set up the scenarios. They knew the expected results of each drill.
Michelle needed me to be selected. To not fail this FTX. I couldn't let her down again.
Going my own way was riskier. Meant I couldn't point at the manual later to justify my actions. I'd be on my own, responsible for my own success or failure.
Really, I just hated to lose, even by the book.
“Watkins, Madsen, here's the situation. Three or more opponents hold a bunkered position at the top of the hill. We'll proceed to the edge of observation distance of the target bunker. We won't have the forces to follow the standard Knock Out Bunker drill. Instead, I'll issue a frag order based on our recon.”
They answered in unison, “Roger that, sir.”
Was I ready to throw the book out?
Judging by how the bunker sunk into the hill, previous occupants dug into the bare hilltop. Surrounded it with sandbags. Piled them on a sheet of steel as a roof. Left three horizontal firing slits just above ground level. Spread coils of razor-wire in concentric semi-circles to cut off any approach.
Not an easy target. Not without heavier weapons than we possessed.
A steep incline fronted the hill, barely walkable. A storm runoff fed ravine choked with brush ran down the right side. A precipice gaped beyond the bunker; the gradient falling off to form a cliff. The bunker commanded all the reasonable approaches.
The three of us, plus Anzo watching off to the side, spread out enough to observe the defenders while communicating about the course of action I was going to develop any time now.
“Madsen, standard bunker drill?”
He replied on our dedicated radio channel, “Blow the protective obstacles with a Bangalore torpedo from cover if we had one, but we don't.”
“Let's focus on what we do have available. Watkins?”
“Sir. Madsen and I could provide suppressive fire to isolate the bunker. You'd be the flanking force, find a concealed approach to assault from, like that ravine on the right. Grenade into the bunker once close enough. All she wrote.”
I nodded, even though I knew they couldn't see me over the radio. “That's the standard procedure. Opfor knows that. Dobbs'll plan for your suppression spots, but most of all, he'll station someone to cover that ravine. Take out anyone approaching from that direction.”
Madsen voiced the obvious objection, “Roger that, sir, but the only other approach is across the bare hill. They can take that whole approach under fire from within the bunker.”
Michelle liked to tell me to “Do the smart thing.” In this case, that was to run this by the book. Lay covering fire and assault up the concealed ravine, but Dobbs would anticipate that. We'd lose. War wasn't fair, but sometimes doing the smart thing required a certain measure of unpredictability.
“Here's the plan. Choose the third or fourth best locations for suppressive fire. Farther away than normal. Occupy those. They won't expect you there. No need to take them out, just keep 'em busy. Keep 'em focused on you. Stay under cover and alive so they can't look around. I'll flank 'em, but not where they expect. Signal to assault is a grenade in the bunker. Understood?”
“Roger that, sir.”
Time to do the right thing, instead of the smart thing, even if it put me all alone, out on a limb. Departing from the book solution, I'd be totally responsible to the review board for success or failure, but that's an Army officer's job.
No dodging ownership of the results.
Captain Dobbs wiggled his hips to adjust his position within the brush at the top of the hill's ravine. He needed to remain still, but to do that, he also needed to be comfortable. Listen for the inevitable flanking maneuver.
Risky to leave only his heavy weapons gunner inside the bunker, but that'd hold a frontal assault long enough for the rifleman he'd placed in reserve to join him as needed.
If Harper followed the dictates of the standard bunker assault drill in the Ranger Handbook, the person on his team he relied on to capture the bunker from the flank would walk right into another ambush.
If not up this ravine, then into the fire of his rifleman. He'd positioned him behind the bunker, out of sight from the bottom of the hill, but able to cover the other flank, stop anyone climbing the cliff face, plus ready to reinforce inside the bunker at a moment's notice.
Dobbs had all the angles covered. No surprises, today. At least not for him.
Surprise takes place in the mind of the enemy. I needed to accomplish the unexpected. Surprise Dobbs and his dudes. A simple flanking maneuver up the obvious ravine wouldn't do it. He'd place two in the safety of the bunker, but he'd also watch for an approach from the ravine.
Instead, I'd climb the cliff. My ruck held a standard set of climbing and rappelling gear: harness, carabineers, and slightly used rope. Climbing would be longer than the ravine approach, but that just gave Dobb's dudes more time to doze off. To be less prepared. We had time.
Leaving Madsen and Watkins in positions covering the hill from within the wooded border, I circled around the hill to the left, opposite the ravine. Quiet woodcraft, but I didn't want anyone stationed at the head of the ravine to have even a meager opportunity to hear my course.
A stream cut behind the hill, so I followed its cleared bank. Over the years, the stream carved a twenty-foot overhang out of the bottom of the cliff face.
I backed into the tall pines feeding off the extra water in the stream. Got out from under the overhang. Stared at the sheer cliff, fifty-feet of straight-up solid granite.
Few hand-holds in the hard surface. One ledge halfway up on the right-hand side collected enough dirt run-off to support a lone pine. A rock chimney up the left-hand side, where water had carved a hole before petering out midway down the cliff.
Could I really climb that? The most difficult would be the overhang. I'd need to climb upside-down, almost horizontally.
Splashing across the stream, I dumped my ruck on the bank hidden from above by the overhang. Slung my M1A1 carbine over my left waist and right shoulder. Hung a trio of M116/A1 grenade simulators on my plate carrier. Strapped myself into the climbing harness. Easiest way to carry it and my attached coil of rope. Filled my cargo pockets with extra carabineers and anchors.
Running and surfing, my typical daily exercises, build balance, lankiness, and core strength; all great for climbing. Doesn't do so much for grip strength, so I'd need to rely on my legs whenever possible while scurrying up the cliff.
Time to climb.
I flexed my tactical gloves. Bonus grip. Padded palms reduced impact. Fingertips kept thin to remain sensitive enough to work a trigger, smartphone, or finger hold. Reached overhead to grasp a pair of rock ledges in each hand.
Found a toe hold. Slipped off of it.
To hold myself in place while hanging, I'd need opposite pressure. I switched one hand to an undercling hold, gripping the rock between my arms. Got my foot up on the toe hold again. Used a toe-hook just below it with my other foot to create a second pair of opposed pressures.
Set an anchor. Hooked the rope on my harness to it. Might not do me much good here, but eventually I'd have a nice set to save me from a fall.
Five sets of holds, a trio of anchors, and eighteen feet later, I hung at the end of the overhang. My carbine dangled behind me, directly over the center of the stream. This was the crux of the climb. The difficult spot where the roof transitioned back into a vertical cliff, requiring me to get around the almost ninety degree corner somehow.
I found tiny ledges for my fingers on the vertical side of the transition. Pulled my upper body around it. Now the edge cut off any view of my feet. Leavi
ng my toe-hook in place, I felt around for another hold for my free foot. Nothing.
My arms ached. My other foot cut-loose. Swung me out vertical, twenty-two feet in the air, toes dangling in the wind. Tried to get a boot high enough to find a hold on the vertical cliff face.
Failed. Too much weight for my fingers. Fell.
The closest anchor tore free from the rock with the impact of my weight through the rope. That tumbled me through the air. I splashed into the stream bed. Grunted with the impact of my carbine into my back. Rolled to dissipate momentum. Slammed my left hand into an underwater rock.
Ouch.
All wet. Cold. My wrist hurt. Hopefully not broken, but at least sprained.
Crawled out of the stream. Lay on my back next to my pack. Panted.
Well that sucked.
First aid kit in the ruck. Splinted my left wrist. Wrapped it up tight. I could still use the hand, just not bend the wrist. SNAFU. Checked my M1A1, just in case. Looked okay. The I-MILES system lit up, so it had power.
Did I really want to kill myself just to keep a promise to Michelle? I'd been doing okay working in the pentagon, designing and testing new weapons and transportation systems. It wasn't the perfect job, but I got to surf every day. They probably didn't even surf in Seoul. Ocean too far away.
Either way, I needed to find another path. I could take more climbing lessons later, but right now I just wasn't good enough to scale that roof to vertical transition.
Back to the ravine? After all this delay, maybe I could sneak up on a bored sentry. Perhaps they'd heard my fall, sent someone to the cliff to investigate, and left the ravine unguarded.
Couldn't count on that. I'd underestimated Dobbs before. Not again.
Adapt and overcome.
New plan. The tallest pine tree on the other side of the stream stretched halfway up the cliff. There was a ten-foot gap between them, but a tree with a nice supply of limbs would be a much easier climb than that overhang.
I could do this.
Same gear, but this time I reached from branch to branch. Stayed close to the trunk, where they were thickest. Shifted around the circle as needed to find the easiest path upward. In no time, I stood near the treetop, literally all alone, out on a limb.
Somehow, I had to clear the ten-foot gap to the horizontal ledge with the lone pine halfway up the cliff. Once there, I could rest for a minute, and then tackle the rest of the climb.
The ledge extended right in front of me, but the pine was off to the right a dozen feet. I saw nothing else to anchor a crossing, though.
Mentally apologizing to the armorer, I tied one end of my rope to the front of my M1A1 and the other end to the back. The steel loops for my sling provided the perfect attachment points.
That'd hold, right?
I looped the rope around my waist to keep it secure, yet get it out of the way. Took my rifle in both hands. One, two, three; tossed it at the spot between the lone pine and the cliff.
Miss! It clanked off the cliff about three-feet short. Bounced off the edge of the ledge. Flipped end-over-end as it tumbled down the cliff. Eventually, the rope pulled it away from the cliff to dangle in the air below me.
Tried to pull me off the tree limb, but I won. Simple matter of mass ratios. I was bigger.
I hauled up my rifle. Used my attached pair of ropes to untangle it from the tree as it rose. Set myself for another attempt. One, two, three; another toss. Aimed higher this time.
Hit! Right through the gap. My rifle took another tumble, but this time, on the other side of the lone pine on the ledge. Its weight pulled the rope around my waist taut.
Grasping both lines, one in each hand, I flipped them toward my hanging rifle. Got the right one around it. Good enough. Pulled on them to haul the rifle back up to the lone pine, this time between the ropes. Now it was my new anchor. It'd hold for a simple ten-foot swing, right?
What was I thinking? I'd die from this height if that rifle strap broke with the force of my fall. No promise was worth this. I should just pack it in. Use the ravine. The cadre and the RASP Review Board wouldn't dock me for following the book solution, even if it took me longer than anyone else.
But I wanted to win. To prove myself against tough competition. To be a Ranger.
Besides, however foolishly, I'd promised Michelle.
I looped the double-rope through my climbing harness. Pulled it as tight as possible to minimize the swing. Double-checked it was secure. Reached out to get a double-grip on the ropes. Took a deep breath.
Jumped off the limb I was out alone on.
Flew through the air. Hit the rope's full extension.
The rifle groaned as it took my full weight. Dirt cascaded from behind the pine as the rope tightened around it.
I swung instead of falling. Bent my knees. Bounced off the cliff face, just as if I'd been rappelling down it. Let out my breath.
Using the doubled rope, I climbed to the ledge. Gave some slack to the rope. Lay down next to the lone pine and loosened my rifle. Untangled it. Nothing appeared too cracked. Mostly surface scrapes and damage. Lay on my back for a moment, resting.
No sign anyone on top of the cliff heard me crashing around down here, but that risk increased as I climbed closer. Time for a distraction. For audio cover.
Radio mic on, “Madsen, Watkins, start the party.”
“Roger that, sir,” echoed in my headset.
Simulated gunfire broke out on the other side of the hill. They'd be aiming into the bunker's firing slits, trying to get lucky, firing a few rounds, and then shifting to a new position in the woods to keep Dobbs and his dudes guessing. At that range, the probability of a hit by either side was slim, but I just needed the noise and distraction.
Return fire from the bunker took the form of a light machine gun. Strange, no additional single rifle shots. Dobbs only allowed his gunner to return fire for some reason.
There was a chimney off to the left-side of the ledge, but I wanted to stay as far away from whoever was posted to guard the ravine on that side of the hill as possible. I used the lone pine and the cliff as an improvised chimney of sorts. Instead of pushing out against both sides of rock, I pushed against the rock face of the cliff and the wooden bark of the tree. Used primarily my longer legs, not my arms. Left-wrist was mostly useless, anyway.
More exchanges of fire as I climbed. No sign of anyone hit.
The cliff sloped too far away from the pine to continue chimneying. I shoved off the tree and transitioned into right hand and both feet gripping the rock. Only a few more feet to the top.
Dobbs' rifleman spoke. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. He sounded off right above me, maybe a few meters back from the cliff, “Should I reinforce the bunker, sir? No sign of anyone on this flank, but the bunker's taking heavy fire from at least two sources.” A pause. “Roger that, sir.”
I strained for the sound of any movement between the gunfire. Hard to tell if he departed, or was still in place. Did I dare risk covering the last few feet to peer over the cliff? He might be staring right at me. Could ruin everything.
Wipeout.
Nothing else to do but find another route. I set a trio of rope anchors, twisting them into cracks in the rock to ensure they held. Rappelled back down to the ledge.
I was beginning to dislike this ledge. Dislike the entire cliff.
Slid sideways across the ledge to the chimney on the left, under the top end of the ravine. Pulled my carbine around to my chest. Locked my legs against the left-side of the chimney. Pushed my back into the right-side.
Walked horizontally up the rock chimney. Used my right arm to periodically slide my back up the rock. My bound left wrist didn't help much. Bounced my firearm off my knees as I rose, but I scaled back to the top of the cliff.
Caught my breath just below the lip. I'd have to take my chances with whoever guarded the ravine. At least he'd be paying attention to it and not staring at the cliff. If this didn't work I'd have t
o watch Dobbs insult me again. Let Michelle down.
My noise-canceling headset couldn't block the pounding in my own ears. I dug another trio of rope anchors into crevices. The rope and harness would limit my movement on top of the hill until I unclipped, but better safe than sorry. My wrist throbbed. My legs ached from climbing, but this was almost over.
Calm. Focus.
Only one in the bunker. Two outside. Show time. “Watkins, take the ravine.”
“Wilco.”
Thrusting with my legs, I raised my head and shoulders over the lip of the chimney where it met the hill. Poked the barrel of my carbine ahead of me. Rested it on my splinted left arm. Moved my finger from the guard to prep the trigger.
Dobbs hid with his back to me, ten meters away, camouflaged at the top of the ravine. Some slight sound or sixth sense warned him. He rolled over. Angled his rifle back.
My sights slid over him. I pressed the trigger to break the shot. Pop. Pop. Two blank cartridges. Two sets of laser bursts to his sensors. Double-tap.
Dobbs' gear buzzed. He relaxed on his back, officially dead. Muttered something about engineers and infantry, but I paid him no heed.
Heavy footsteps as his rifleman heard the shots and ran along the cliff's edge toward us.
My head swiveled to spot him, but I couldn't turn my body enough to aim, not without using my hands, the ones supporting my carbine. I tried anyway.
Slipped as my twisting back reduced its friction against the rock behind me. My torso rapidly slid below my feet, relieving my pressure on the other side of the chimney. I fell headfirst. Stared at the rock at the base of the chimney, desperately hoping that if I hit it, I wouldn't bounce outward and also miss the bottom half of the cliff.
My harness caught. Squeezed my groin with the pressure. The rope anchors I'd embedded near the top held. Swung me into the cliff face with a scrape. I dangled upside down, ten feet lower, but alive.
Dobb's rifleman appeared at the top of the chimney. Aimed down at me. An easy target.
Ranger Selection Page 2
