Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel

by Nicholas Irving

  “I think you and me can do anything we set out to do, Clutch. Now, focus,” Harwood said. Despite his admonition for Clutch to stay focused, Harwood’s mind reeled with previous failures regarding his teammates. Sure, he’d been successful at killing bad guys, but Clutch was right. He couldn’t seem to keep anyone close, except maybe Monisha, his adoptive daughter, whom he had saved from certain death a couple of years ago. She was a thriving teenager preparing for medical school now.

  A new column of tanks poked through the gorge and spilled onto the valley floor beneath them.

  Clutch patted his arm and said, “Look at that. Tiger Forces leading the advance.”

  “Okay. Call Stoddard and tell him,” Harwood said.

  The Syrian Tiger Forces were the most elite and well equipped in the Syrian military. A combined arms task force, the Tiger Forces had been ruthlessly dispatching the Syrian rebels who were attempting to overthrow the Assad regime. In a nighttime pivot that was not overtly telegraphed, the Tiger Forces vacated their defenses, assembled, and began an unrehearsed attack on the Golan.

  “Roger that,” Clutch said. He fumbled with the radio handset and whispered, “Zodiac base, this is Zodiac one.”

  Stoddard came back immediately, “Roger. Send it.” His voice was crisp and clear.

  “Tiger Forces advancing within range in approximately forty T-90 tanks,” Clutch said.

  “Any sign of a logistics column?”

  “Negative at this time.”

  “Roger. Continue to monitor. Engage if you have a clean shot. Might activate medical personnel.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Heard that,” Harwood said. To their left, the towering ridges of Mount Hermon climbed into the sky until they were shrouded in clouds that appeared snagged by the peak. Harwood had accounted for the slight breeze from the northeast. The valley below was lush with fields and groves of olives, barley, and chickpeas. A highway threaded the farmland and then climbed into the Golan Heights.

  The ambient light of dusk provided him a perfect sight picture. He squeezed the trigger and watched the bullet work its magic on the tank commander’s head. The rest of the crew searched frantically for where the shot might have originated, but Harwood and Nolte looked like rocks over a half mile away. There was no way that the Syrians or Hezbollah would find them. The tank continued forward, the driver wanting to get out of the kill zone. The tank was a Russian T-90, recognizable by its 125 mm smooth-bore main gun, the 12.7 mm Kord machine gun, its distinctive shallow, angular turret, multiple plates of reactive armor, and even spacing between its tracked wheels.

  “Good shot,” Nolte said. “Still moving.”

  “No shot on the driver, but the gunner is doable,” Harwood said. He aligned the sight and pulled the trigger. Two shots, two kills. The silencer on the barrel of his SR-25 muffled the sound of the shot so that only someone in proximity could hear the metallic ratcheting of the weapon and its muted pop.

  “Another column heading up the road,” Clutch said. He was using the M-151 sniper spotting scope with an AN-PVS-14 night-vision device attached to the scope’s eyepiece. His job was to identify the target and observe the sniper’s shot. Harwood, the sniper, who had earned his nickname the Reaper by killing thirty-three Taliban commanders in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, had a clear mission—to kill the target. The Third Ranger Battalion had been on its counterterrorism rotation in the Kandahar and Helmand areas, and Harwood had seen more combat in those ninety days than in the rest of his entire career. He had been executing daily missions as the Taliban came crawling out of the Kandahar Mountains like cockroaches. He’d done his duty and served the Rangers well, as he continued to do. The reputation, though, had landed him on the classified mission list, and he found himself training and executing more top secret missions than he had ever imagined.

  “There it is. Resupply convoy,” Clutch said. “Ten o’clock. They’re stopped.”

  “Call it in,” Harwood said.

  “Zodiac base, Zodiac one, over.”

  “Send it.”

  “Logistics convoy of multiple snub-nosed Mercedes-Benz trucks moving from north to south at projected resupply point number four.”

  Harwood shifted his weapon, lifted his head, got his bearing, and then sighted in on the trucks that were stacked up. A large man was walking along the convoy, shouting like Patton at the crossroads. One of the logisticians stepped down from his truck and was at least a foot shorter than the big man, who pointed at the lead truck and was saying something emphatically. Harwood couldn’t see it, but he imagined spit flying into the shorter man’s face. He appeared to show the man a piece of paper or a tablet, pointed at what was in his hand, and kept shouting.

  He drew a bead on the center mass of the big man, dialed in his sight, and put his finger on the trigger. He was about six hundred meters away, which was a midrange shot for him. Should be no problem at all.

  “Big guy or little guy?”

  “Big guy looks like he’s in charge,” Harwood said.

  As he was pulling back on the trigger, the big guy eyed his tablet, then looked up in Harwood’s direction as if he were staring right at him through the scope.

  “What’s that noise?” Nolte asked.

  “I’m focused,” Harwood said. “Figure it out.”

  The big guy was moving his hands as he walked quickly and then darted to the opposite side of the trucks. Harwood squeezed off a rare wild shot—like the baseball pitcher with his 100 mph fastball who lost control of a high-and-inside pitch into the netting behind home plate.

  “Damn. Someone’s shooting at us!” Nolte said.

  Bullets pocked the rocks that hid their location, which was providing both cover and concealment.

  “We should be okay,” Harwood said calmly. “We’ve got good cover, but find whoever is shooting at us.” He was still scanning for the big man but coming up empty. Instead he focused on the fuel tank of the truck the man had fled behind. Harwood pumped three rounds into the tank but got no immediate explosion. The bullets continued to rain down on their position. The only thing he was concerned about was their lower legs, which were exposed beyond the granite overhead cover that protected them.

  “Watch your legs,” Harwood said.

  “Roger.”

  “Got it. UAV at two o’clock. Maybe a hundred meters. Taking the shot.”

  Harwood rotated his weapon so that he could aim at the UAV. It was weaponized with some type of small machine gun, which was spitting lead at them. The aircraft swooped high and banked like a racing jet, which provided Harwood with a good view of the drone as it flew toward them for another gun run. The device looked like a B-2 stealth bomber with its swept wings. He memorized the dimensions. About twelve-to-fifteen-foot wingspan, one machine gun under the nose like a fighter jet, and small rockets on the rails under the wings. Both rockets released and smoked at them with a whoosh.

  “Rockets!” Harwood said through clenched teeth. He kept tracking the UAV, though, knowing that it was nearly impossible to hit an object this small and flying so fast. He waited for the drone to begin lining up for another run at them. It turned on a dime, exposing its flat broadside to him. Leading the nose, he fired five rounds in quick succession. At first, it appeared he missed, but then the aircraft wobbled, broke its orbit, and began to recover toward the convoy. Harwood continued to track it until the rockets exploded into their redoubt. Shrapnel and rocks spat into their faces through the firing port they had created.

  “Shit,” Nolte coughed.

  “You okay?” Harwood asked.

  “Roger. Face just got sandblasted.”

  The dirt and rocks sprayed into his face but bounced off his ballistic eye protection. The big guy had to be controlling the aircraft with the tablet he was holding, so Harwood shifted back to the truck. Saw nothing. Scanned the sky. Saw nothing there.

  Another swept-wing UAV lifted into the sky and locked on to their position. Harwood and Clutch unloaded two magazines on the ai
rcraft strafing their position. The drone pinwheeled and slammed into the ground.

  They continued to scan the convoy, which had deposited the supplies and turned around. Stacks of wooden ammunition crates and ration cartons lined the road.

  “Anything?” Clutch asked.

  “Nothing but ammo and chow.”

  The convoy dipped over the horizon to the north, then took a left-hand turn to the west, toward the Beqaa Valley.

  CHAPTER 4

  “We need resupply. Stat,” Clutch said.

  It had been an hour since the drone shootdown, and they needed to move. Their position was burned. Harwood contemplated the tipping point between moving too soon and too late. Too soon, and you could miss opportunities or step into an ambush. Too late, and you could allow the enemy to maneuver on you.

  One issue that Harwood had with black missions was that they were lean on details and leaner on resupply. They had jumped with enough food, water, and ammunition for up to seventy-two hours. This being the third day, they were low on all classes of supply. The arid climate increased water intake, and the constant movement burned calories that needed to be replaced with the delicious Meals, Ready to Eat. The truth was that Harwood never complained about MREs. They were better than 90 percent of the chow he had eaten as a young orphan and foster kid in Maryland. When he joined the army, the food had been one of the perks. And while food and water were important, ammunition was essential.

  Nonetheless, Harwood continued to plink away at the Syrian Tiger Force tanks and infantry that were wandering amid the battlefield littered with the decimated remnants of an entire tank brigade, nearly a hundred tanks. The combined arms effects of Israeli tanks, attack helicopters, artillery, jets, and Harwood’s invisible sniping had stalled the attack. The sun was setting behind Mount Hermon’s massive peak. Shades of gray began to blend with the terrain until darkness enveloped them.

  “Switching to thermal,” Harwood said.

  “Roger.”

  To Harwood’s right was his depleted rucksack. He had two magazines of 7.62 ammunition remaining. Each night, they had repositioned slightly despite having secured what they considered the best terrain from which to fight. With each move, they risked detection. However, if they remained stationary, they risked the Syrians or Hezbollah doing the forensics on how their tank commanders were getting shot in the back of the head with NATO ammunition. From there, the remaining Tiger light infantry would about-face and climb the hills in search of them.

  “That was close,” Clutch said. “Still not sure why the Israelis can’t do this instead of us.”

  Harwood continued scanning the battlefield. “Israeli soldiers can’t be found anywhere inside Lebanon or Syria. They’re trying to play fair and square to show the international community that they are on the defense. Israel has to be squeaky clean on this.”

  “Roger that.”

  Harwood sighted again.

  “Jets,” Clutch said. “Two o’clock.”

  Two jets buzzed low overhead, lifted into the sky, and released bombs on the Israeli troops dug into a trench about two miles away, just across the border in Israel. Air Defense missiles smoked into the sky, their white contrails parallel exclamation points punctuating the night as the two airplanes exploded in bright fireballs.

  “Let’s move,” Harwood said.

  “This was a good spot—but, yes, it’s burned,” Clutch said.

  “Roger that.”

  “Probably take them an hour to get up here if they’re coming.”

  “Unless they have helicopters.”

  “If I’m a pilot, I’m not liking flying after two jets just got smoked,” Harwood said.

  “Roger that.”

  “Okay, look at position number five and call for resupply. We’ll get the resupply here and then move.”

  “Good plan.”

  Harwood’s left forearm buzzed. He and Clutch maintained small tactical satellite radios—called TacSleeves—on their forearms, like the play sheets NFL quarterbacks wore during football games. The TacSleeve had all the power of a smartphone, was encrypted, and allowed the chain of command to geo-locate soldiers. Harwood had covered his with a thick chunk of burlap to deaden any noise—it hummed lightly with an incoming message—and block any light from the control panel. He had the light dimmed, but there was a switch that allowed him to modulate the brightness if needed. The burlap was more preventive than anything. If he accidentally turned on the light, then the cloth would still keep the device concealed.

  Noise and light discipline was paramount when operating behind enemy lines. Harwood didn’t care as much about the epic struggle between the Israelis and the Arabs as he did about keeping himself and Clutch alive so they could get back to their respective families.

  Harwood said, “Poncho.”

  Clutch slowly slid a poncho over their heads as Harwood peeled back the burlap and stared at the message that had appeared on his TacSleeve.

  Resupply ready. Send coordinates.

  “Stoddard’s reading our minds,” Clutch said.

  “He knows how much we’ve been shooting and killing and how long we’ve been out here. Not sure he knows about the drone.”

  Harwood typed in their position and sent the encrypted message to Stoddard.

  A message pinged back to him quickly.

  One hour max. If not received, exfil at own risk. If received, 5 min on station.

  Harwood responded and muttered, “Roger.”

  “I can’t handle all the love,” Clutch said. He was shoulder to shoulder with Harwood under the tarp.

  As they waited, men shouted for medics and ammunition cooked off inside the turrets of flaming tanks in the valley below. Israeli F-35 Adir jet fighters buzzed along the border, attacking obliquely into Syria. The tanks stacked along Route 7, the road running north to south from Damascus to the Israeli border in the Golan Heights. The jets’ 20 mm guns did as much damage as the AIM-120 air-to-surface missiles. The sheer number of jets the Israelis had in the air was overwhelming the Syrian air and ground forces. Air-to-air Sidewinder missiles smoked through the night sky as Israeli F-35s dominated Syrian MiGs in dogfights.

  A light hum resonated behind them, all but extinguished by the roaring jets and exploding rockets.

  “What’s that?” Clutch asked.

  “Behind us,” Harwood said.

  The hum became a buzz loud enough for Harwood to determine it was within fifty meters of them. Half a football field away. He covered the tablet and withdrew his pistol from his holster. Moving imperceptibly, he lifted himself to his elbow and looked to the rear of their position. Clutch was doing the same thing in the other direction, always keeping 360-degree security.

  “What the…?”

  Harwood held up his hand to quiet Clutch.

  An aircraft the size of a small SUV, but sleek and modern, with at least a twenty-five-foot wingspan circled their position and then flipped its four Fenestron blade-in-rotor engines upward so that it could land vertically on a level spot less than fifty meters to their north. The pilot had found the one spot that was not immediately detectable from the valley and landed.

  “Okay, pack up and let’s roll,” Harwood said. He collapsed the bipod, and they spent two minutes sanitizing their position. With three minutes remaining to offload their resupply, assuming that was what was occurring, Harwood hustled over the ridge and toward the gray vessel. It had four blades turning inside their circular protective sleeves that were three feet in diameter. He was impressed with the stealth of the aircraft, the buzzing and humming of the blades and motors significantly more muted than, say, a helicopter that could be heard for miles in this valley.

  By Harwood’s count, they had maybe two minutes to offload the aircraft or get into a firefight if this was an enemy insertion. Breathing hard and feeling the lightness of the rucksack on his back, Harwood raced to the open ramp of the aircraft, rifle at the ready. Inside the dimly lit cargo bay was a small pallet of MREs, two green ammun
ition containers, and two cases of water bottles. Almost exactly what they needed for the next three days, should the mission last that long. He gathered the supplies, noticing the Sabrewing logo for the new autonomous resupply drones that could carry a thousand pounds a thousand miles.

  “Provide overwatch,” Harwood said. He ran into the bay, saw that there was no pilot in the cockpit, loosened the cargo strap, and dragged the resupply items onto the ground. Whoever had packed them had conveniently placed the supplies on a burlap tarp, which Harwood tugged off the ramp. Clutch came toward Harwood, exposing himself barely above the ridge, and was hit by a bullet, spinning him sideways as he fell at Harwood’s feet.

  “Shit,” Clutch moaned.

  Harwood dropped his rucksack, laid his rifle atop it, and retrieved his Blackhawk knife before popping open the blade and cutting through Clutch’s ghillie suit and uniform near his left shoulder.

  “Bad?” Clutch asked.

  “Be fine,” Harwood said, though he wasn’t sure. More gunfire pinged overhead. The resupply drone beckoned in the background.

  “This should get me elected one day.” Clutch grimaced.

  Blood oozed from the wound like a weak water fountain. The burlap ghillie suit made applying the field dressing more challenging than if he were just dealing with a uniform, but then again, they weren’t wearing body armor and perhaps there’d be no wound at all if they had been.

  The resupply Sabrewing aircraft buzzed ten meters behind them. According to Stoddard’s timeline, Harwood had maybe a minute to stop the bleeding, stabilize Clutch, get him in the back of the aircraft, and continue with his Ranger mission, whatever that may be. He poured a half bottle of rubbing alcohol on the wound, flushing it, as he ripped open the first of two field dressings. Applying the gauze directly on the wound, Clutch muttered, “Fuck, that hurts, Reaper.”

  “I’ll pop you some morphine in a few seconds, brother,” Harwood said as he wrapped the pad, pushing as much as he could into the entry wound. As he was rotating Clutch’s body, he saw the slightly larger exit wound, opened the second field dressing from its sealed pouch, and repeated the process of alcohol and tight packing on the rear wound.