Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  “Roger, sir.”

  Garrett left Lieutenant Colonel Mike Chizinski standing next to the Humvee and did a half jog, half walk to the back of the helicopter, hovering menacingly in the pick-up zone. He turned and looked at Eversoll, who was saluting. He returned the gesture, but quickly. Saluting in enemy territory was a faux pas, but he understood; it was dark, Eversoll didn’t think he’d be looking, and the young man looked up to him as a father figure.

  Garrett looked into the dimly lit cabin of the roaring helicopter, saw he had all eight of his Alpha team, and then nodded at the loadmaster crew chief. He watched as his men were pulling charging handles back on their M4s. Lock and load.

  He slipped the communications headset on as the behemoth aircraft lifted into the black void above the Hindu Kush.

  Before he could call in his code word to General Rampert, he received a radio call from Montrose. There was trouble, which was not unexpected.

  “Raider six, this is Tiger six! We’re taking fire. We’re hit. We’re hit!”

  ***

  Mullah Rahman, aka the Scientist, sighted down his weapon and pulled the trigger as many times as he could. He could hear the Predator overhead and another airplane that he figured was the AC-130, which he knew would be especially deadly. He watched the MH-47 hover and then land before screaming, “Now!”

  His fellow mujahidin raised the rocket propelled grenade launcher against his face, aligned the tube, and squeezed the trigger mechanism, sending a high explosive warhead screaming through the frigid air into the side of the thin skinned aircraft. He saw the explosion and more importantly saw the American fall from the back of the helicopter.

  A wall of steel began raining down upon them from the AC-130 as they focused their fire on the departing aircraft. Surely they would come back for their fallen comrade, Rahman thought.

  He looked to his right and saw four of his men, dressed in white parkas designed to conceal them in the snow. Their sentries had heard the loud chopping of the twin bladed Chinooks from miles away and had radioed in the direction and probable landing zones. Rahman knew another of the helicopters was on the way as he peered through his night-vision goggles.

  “One hostage is what we need,” Rahman said to his second in command, Hoxha, a fighter from the Balkans.

  Hoxha nodded and gathered three of his men. The snow was driving down on them now and Rahman heard the second aircraft inbound. They had damaged but not destroyed the first and so the second was coming in to rescue the stranded fighter.

  “Go now,” Rahman ordered, his voice struggling to rise above the din of the 105mm artillery rounds that were exploding 100 meters to their front. They were relatively protected in the trench they had dug, but Rahman knew that the thermal radar on the AC-130 and just about every other American aircraft could see the heat from their body mass, which was impossible to disguise in the frigid temperatures. He could only hope for some timid commanders who were hesitant to inflict collateral damage until they had positive identification of hostile intent. Even though they had just put a rocket through the first aircraft, he had been previously amazed at the Americans’ restraint in such situations. He had presumed they would search for women and children before returning fire and Rahman had obliged. He had ten mannequins in blue burqas huddled around a small fire about fifty meters to their rear near the cave complex. Not a complicated deception scheme, but sometimes a little bit was all it took. And for the moment, the American fire was focusing on separating them from the wounded soldier, not on killing them.

  Hoxha looked at Rahman, stared at the virtual wall of steel, and nodded again. He muttered something in a Balkan language that Rahman did not understand.

  Hoxha and his men followed the trench to the steep southern edge of the ridge, popped out on the perimeter of the AC-130 fire and knelt. Rahman watched as Hoxha patted a tall man, who opened his vest, which Rahman knew was a suicide bomber vest full of C4 explosives and other maiming detritus. He pointed at the inbound helicopter then quickly turned to another of his team and pointed at the isolated soldier. Hoxha then grabbed the third member of his team and pointed at the ground.

  Rahman understood the plan. The suicide bomber was going to hug the aircraft. The second man was going to secure the hostage and Hoxha and his wingman were going to lay down a base of fire. Good plan. Rahman liked these Balkan fighters. They were tough and smart.

  Rahman watched the action unfold and thought to himself, if we can capture one American, then we can unlock the rest of the plan.

  ***

  “Tiger six, this is Raider six, give me a status, over.” Zach Garrett’s calm voice hid the anxiety and tension he felt regarding the last spot report he had received. “I say again, send spot report, over.”

  The MH-47 in which he and his team rode chopped against the thin air in the highland range. Garrett stared out of the small circular porthole, barely able to discern the jagged mountain peaks against the first wisps of what sailors call “before morning nautical twilight,” or BMNT – that first moment of a new day when things aren’t completely black, but close to it. A ball of fear burned in his stomach. He was not afraid for himself, rather for the unknown fate of Commander Montrose and his team. Garrett had not lost a single man to the fight after five months in Afghanistan. Now was not the time to start, he thought to himself. He looked over at his men, all staring at him, waiting for the word. He had written on a small piece of Plexiglas with a grease pencil: Landing Zone Hot, then passed it around to his team members. They understood.

  The crew chief got Garrett’s attention by waving a Nomex-gloved hand in his face. “Two minutes, sir!”

  Garrett pressed a button on the small black switch connected by a cable to his headset. “Rampage one, this is Warrior six. What do you see?”

  Rampage was the AC-130 gunship patrolling in the sky directly above the landing zone. The aircraft could deliver deadly accurate fire with its 105mm cannon and high-tech guidance systems. Its infrared and thermal sighting apparatus allowed the pilots to magnify and zoom in close enough to read a name tag from four thousand feet above ground level.

  “This is Rampage one. We’ve got one MH-47 returning fire on the landing zone. We are suppressing an enemy element two hundred meters to the west.”

  “Roger, has the team secured the landing zone? Over.”

  Garrett waited for the response and then heard a short beep, followed by the static of the radio.

  “Negative. Two operators have left the aircraft. Wait a second . . .”

  This was painful. He knew they were two minutes out, less than that by now, and wanted to know whether to abort the mission. He needed to see the action. His fist clenched around the push-talk button of his headset.

  “We’ve got one man down on the ground and another lying on the ramp, shot. The aircraft is taking off. Don’t go! Don’t leave him! Shoot right there, right there! They’re coming after him.”

  Garrett listened as the AC-130 pilot talked both to him and his own crew, expressing operational precision and human emotion all wrapped together. Sometimes it was impossible to keep the two from colliding.

  The crew chief came over to Garrett holding up his thumb and forefinger barely spread apart. “Thirty seconds, sir!”

  Garrett acknowledged with a nod then got back to the AC-130. “Status, over.”

  “We’ve got you inbound. Tiger six team is outbound—Oh shit! RPG just hit their back rotor. They’re going down!”

  “Status of the LZ?” Garrett asked. He was focused. He zeroed in on the previous report of one man missing from the aircraft. He could still save the mission, especially if there was one man stranded on the landing zone.

  “This is Rampage. We’ve got one friendly on the LZ. The enemy is trying to close on him fast. We’re pouring 105 onto the landing zone. Tiger six aircraft is hit, but still flying. Thermals show a smoke trail, but it is stable. Recommend you extract friendly combatant and abort.”

  “Roger, continue to se
parate enemy from friendly. We will extract the friendly.”

  Garrett switched a toggle on his headset and spoke to the pilot flying his aircraft.

  “Pete—”

  “We monitored the entire transmission, sir. We’ve got the friendly in sight. We’re landing now. We will take off once we have everyone on board.”

  “Roger, thanks.” Garrett tore his headset off, pulled on his helmet and gathered his men on the back ramp of the aircraft as it lowered into the blinding snow billowing in the gaping ramp door like fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. They heard the dreadful and distinct metallic clink of bullets off the thin metal of the airframe.

  “One man down on the LZ!” Garrett was screaming over the din of the rotors. “We grab him and get back on this aircraft! The other aircraft is hit and has departed! One man! Team one, you secure left side. Team two, you secure right side. Honeywell, you come with me to secure the friendly. Never leave a fallen comrade!”

  Honeywell, the largest man on the team at six foot seven inches, ducked as they exited the ramp running into calf-deep snow. The twin rotors continued to create a snow blizzard, and soon Zach lost sight of everyone except Honeywell until they got outside of the blinding sphere of snow.

  Orange and green tracers whipped around them like a laser light show. The enemy was close. He saw one spot where orange tracers were emitting closer than any of his team could be. Orange tracers were usually 5.56mm rounds fired by U.S. or NATO forces.

  “This way!” he screamed to Honeywell, who was following him closely, lumbering through the snow. Honeywell stopped, lifted his M4 carbine, which looked like a child’s toy in his large hands, and fired five shots at the enemy. They both continued until they were behind a small rock.

  “That’s him!” About ten meters away was a single U.S. Navy SEAL wearing a parka and a skullcap, firing his weapon at six Al Qaeda combatants who were braving the wall of raining steel emitting from the AC-130. Deafening explosions rocked the small saddle of land situated between two rugged cliffs. It was the only flat land in the area and, therefore, had been well defended by the enemy.

  “Cover me!” Garrett shouted. Honeywell lifted his weapon and began firing short three- to six-round bursts, having toggled his selector switch to automatic. Zach crouched and rolled forward, dodging the return fire. He ducked behind a small outcropping of rocks and then leapt to the tight depression where the SEAL had taken up his defense.

  “Friendly!” Garrett smacked his kneecap as he landed next to the SEAL, and then he pulled out his identification tags from around his neck. Shaking the dog tags as if to prove who he was, he hollered above the gunfire, “Colonel Garrett!”

  “I know who you are, sir! I knew you’d be here!”

  They both laid down a heavy volume of fire as the enemy increased their accuracy. Was Honeywell hit, Garrett wondered?

  “Are you okay?” He looked at the SEAL, whose eyes were wide with fear.

  “I’m hit, sir. Not sure I can walk.” Garrett recognized the man as Petty Officer Sam Jergens from somewhere in Wisconsin. He knew the man well enough to understand that he was a tremendously fit individual. If he said he couldn’t walk, Garrett knew he was going to have to carry him.

  Never leave a fallen comrade.

  “Okay! I’ll put you in a fireman’s carry as long as you continue to shoot at the enemy. Honeywell is covering us!” He hoped that was still the case.

  Suddenly Garrett noticed a movement above Jergens’s head. He stood, and in one continuous motion pulled his knife from its sheath and raised it up through the throat of the attacker who had made a suicide charge through the AC-130 suppressive fire. The man, practically wrapped in sheets, fell between them, blood staining the white snow like a blossoming rose petal.

  “Let’s get out of here, sir!”

  Garrett sheathed his knife and snapped his M4 onto his outer tactical vest. In what was akin to a wrestling move, he swiftly lifted Jergens onto his back and began to run through the snow. He found Honeywell, who was changing magazines. Thank God he’s alright. “Cover us!”

  Honeywell looked up and continued firing, then moved into a crouching position. He began backpedaling as Garrett sped past him carrying Jergens. Zach felt a stinging sensation in his leg that made him buckle but not fall. He knew he was hit. It wasn’t the first time. It probably would not be the last.

  They entered the blinding snow tornado that remained suspended in the minute or two they had been on the ground. Zach could see that both team one and team two were collapsing into the aircraft like a well-rehearsed football play. He counted four from team one and three from team two. He had Honeywell with him, which meant he had all of his men.

  Another stinging sensation caught him in the triceps, causing him to spin and lurch forward. He dropped Jergens onto the ramp of the aircraft as Honeywell passed him, leaping up. Garrett’s body twisted and dropped, his dog tags flapping loosely around his neck. He wrestled with the snap link securing his M4 carbine to his outer tactical vest. It was a fully functional weapon with close combat optics, infrared aiming devices, and other high tech gear lashed to its rail.

  It was also important that he leave it on the landing zone.

  But the helicopter was taking off.

  “No! No! No!” Someone was screaming and then Garrett felt a hand ripping at his body armor as he unclipped the snaplink. He was confused. There was another man running toward them. The aircraft was off the ground, hovering just above the snow. It’s the enemy.

  A figure closed on him, tore at his neck, and then ripped his dog tags from atop his outer tactical vest as Garrett was attempting to retrieve the weapon he had just dropped into the snowstorm. Garrett looked into the man’s eyes, which curiously glanced at the two pieces of thin metal he was clasping in his olive hand. The man then looked up at Honeywell, who had pulled the Al Qaeda combatant off Colonel Garrett. Honeywell was leaning over as the aircraft began to ascend rapidly into the sky.

  The pilot was hearing “Go! Go! Go!” when in fact, as Honeywell was slitting the throat of the Al Qaeda combatant, he was screaming, “No! No! No!” Honeywell looked over his shoulder at the crew chief and kept screaming, “Colonel Garrett is still on the ground!”

  Then Honeywell looked down at the man with a grin frozen on his face and at the same time thought he saw Colonel Garrett through the snow. He pulled back the man dress wrapped around him and saw small packets of C4 explosive secured to his abdomen, nails stuck in the putty-like material.

  They were about two hundred meters above the ground and nosing over a cliff when Honeywell looked back at the cockpit and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath. Then the helicopter exploded in a bright fireball.

  CHAPTER 2

  Spartanburg High School, South Carolina

  Friday (Eastern Time Zone)

  Unaware of either the 9.5-hour time difference between South Carolina and Afghanistan or that her father was facing horrific combat, Amanda Garrett stood nervously in front of the class, two blonde-streaked tendrils of hair framing her face. She had her father’s sea green eyes and her mother’s movie star smile. She was wearing a brown American Eagle shirt with three buttons open to show her yellow stretch halter. Her stone-washed jeans flared just enough to cover the heels of her platform sandals. She was five and a half feet tall with the broad shoulders of a champion swimmer and the honey-blonde hair of someone who spent too much time in the sun and chlorinated pools. Having been called upon to read her poem, she balled up her fist and cleared her throat.

  She glanced at her teacher, the ever popular Lenard Dagus, as he crossed his legs and clasped his knee with laced fingers. Dagus was a tall man with a mustache, a skinny Tom Selleck. A moderate in his journalism teachings, he had already self-published one book, titled Policing the Fourth Estate: Publish or Perish. It wasn’t exactly original, but he never let his students forget it was the foundation of his doctoral thesis. The media should be held accountable for their reporting; otherwise, credibility w
ould wane and the institution would crumble, he argued. The book had received moderate acclaim that had made him somewhat of a celebrity in the high school. He also organized and led an online media watchdog group he called MediaHunt, which resulted in the occasional guest spot on Fox News or CNN as a media expert. In his “spare time,” he taught literature and chaired the high school drama club.

  She could smell the light scent of his aftershave as she stood before the class. Amanda, like many students, found him to be approachable and genuinely concerned. Given the fact that she was the editor of the school magazine, the Venture, she had spent many hours with him going over layouts and copy prior to sending them to print. In a way, he was a mentor to her, as he was for many other students. In some respects, he had even filled the void her father had left behind.

  “Go ahead, Amanda,” Dagus said with a gentle smile. She was nervous and felt an invisible finger trace her spine, unsure of what it meant. She turned toward the piece of paper in her hand and began to read in a slow cadence, carefully inflecting every comma and line change.

  Good To Go

  Biology may deem it so,

  But I can’t pretend to know

  Who you are,

  What you do,

  Or how you came to be

  Related

  To me.

  Memories may reside,

  But I’ve never cried

  Over you,

  To you.

  As I’ve grown

  I’ve not known

  You.

  Where have you been?

  Never mind,

  I don’t want to know,

  Because I’m good to go.

  No Dad?

  I’m glad.