Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Choke Point (Tom Clancys Ghost Recon)

by Peter Telep

  Pepper could already hear 30K translating the OPORD into 30K-speak:

  Situation: Bad guys on island with missiles and shit.

  Mission: Kill the bastards unmercifully.

  Execution: Well, yeah, we’re going to execute them with help from the Marines on board the LCS.

  And the rest was just details.

  Pepper smiled to himself, but then out of nowhere he was struck by the length and breadth of the operation, and by these men who were about to put themselves in harm’s way.

  A powerful chill fanned across his shoulders.

  It was a moment to confront his own mortality – and theirs – and these feelings were happening more often and at the most inopportune times. Nearly getting buried to death inside that minaret hadn’t helped matters. He closed his eyes and swore he would do everything he could to complete the mission and protect them, and when he opened his eyes, 30K was staring at him.

  ‘You hear that?’ he asked.

  Pepper frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Listen … I hear one of the trains …’

  SIXTY-ONE

  The storm hit by 1830 hours, the sky gone to soot, the thunderheads finally upon them, and they huddled in their tiny bivouac, waiting it out, while Ross kept in close contact with Mitchell and with the LCS’s skipper.

  What wasn’t wet already was about to get wet, and Ross wished they could just get on with it instead of waiting around, getting waterlogged. Story of your life in the military: Hurry up and wait. That it stopped raining forty minutes later offered only a brief respite. They still had to hold there for another four hours before Mitchell finally gave them the signal to move out, and Ross’s ankles cracked as he got to his feet.

  Pepper and Kozak headed off south along the railroad tracks, with Ross and 30K taking the northern route, each two-man team tasked with reconnoitering the outpost one more time as three Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) carrying a Marine platoon of nearly forty were deployed from the LCS.

  Ross noted immediately that the Penguin missile launcher they’d spotted earlier was no longer there and had been moved farther north, perhaps as far as ten or fifteen miles away, well out of their reach to conduct a demolition operation, and Mitchell called to confirm that the second diesel and launcher had been moved again as well. Hamid wasn’t taking any chances with his most valuable weapons, keeping them rolling and well guarded, especially at night when he probably (and rightly) suspected he might be attacked.

  Wagner on board the LCS reported that no boats had approached or left the island, and no aircraft had been spotted on the Sea GIRAFFE radar, just the routine shipping traffic passing through the strait. He’d assured everyone that the system could detect small targets like sea skimmers, anti-radiation missiles, mortars, and even RHIBs from his position approximately one hundred kilometers southeast of the island. The LCS was now speeding their way.

  30K blazed a trail like a relentless cyborg, leading Ross to the outpost’s perimeter bunkers on its northwest side. He found the first set of trip wires and placed a marker there, then pointed for Ross to step carefully over the wires, while the men in the bunkers saw nothing.

  They advanced to the lean-tos where the APCs were parked, and once there, they glanced at each other and bit back their expletives. The trucks were gone. Ross reminded himself that two of those Pumas were the patrol variant, six-man crew, fitted with a protected cupola with 360-degree traverse that carried either a 12.7 or 14.5mm heavy machine gun.

  The other two APCs were the basic armored variant, carrying crews of ten and fitted with two exterior-mounted light machine guns and eleven shooting ports so the crew could fire their personal weapons from within the vehicle. Ross strained to hear their engines in the distance, assuming they were on patrol, rolling up and down the island along the beach or on that narrow dirt road they’d crossed.

  Well, plan A was shot to shit. Ross and 30K were supposed to place their blocks of C-4 between the APCs and take them out the easy way. They moved inside the empty lean-tos, and Ross whispered into his boom mike: ‘Guardian, Delta Dragon. APCs are out and on patrol. We’ll need the Seahawks to take them out.’

  ‘Roger that, Delta Dragon.’

  The LCS’s two Seahawk helicopters were each armed with eight AGM-114 Hellfire Missiles, single 7.62mm pintle-mounted machine guns, and equipped with an AN/AAS-44 Infrared Laser Detecting/Ranging/Tracking set.

  Despite the choppers’ offensive capabilities, the ship’s skipper and the Seahawk pilots and crew would not be thrilled by this news because while they could stand off and fire beyond the range of enemy surface-to-air missiles, they were also needed to provide Close Air Support for Ross and his men. The Seahawks were tolerant to small arms fire and medium-caliber high-explosive projectiles, but Hamid and his troops did indeed possess those Grinch SA-24s, and any one of them could lift a launcher to his shoulder, get off a shot, and send one of the Seahawks exploding across the sky.

  30K signaled to Ross: They would leave the lean-to now and head toward the forward bunkers past the tree line.

  Ross understood what 30K wanted to do now, and he nodded.

  If they couldn’t blow up the APCs, they’d take out some bunkers for the Marines. That C-4 was, after all, burning a hole in their pockets.

  The Eurocopter EC275 Caracel transport/cargo chopper sat in the dirt clearing where it had landed the morning before, after dropping off Hamid.

  At the edge of the clearing, facing the beach, sat two bunkers about ten meters apart, each manned by two guards equipped with night-vision goggles (NVGs). There were no men posted near the chopper itself, so if Kozak and Pepper made it past the bunkers, they were home free to plant their charges and withdraw toward the jungle behind the bird.

  Kozak reminded himself that this was a no-brainer – nothing to be worried about. Create a diversion. Cut off your enemy’s lines of escape. Celebrate with beer and rock ’n’ roll. All in a night’s work. What could possibly go wrong?

  Shit. He shouldn’t have considered that question.

  They each clutched a block of C-4 with remote detonator, but damn, from their position they had no choice but to move in the wide open, right between the bunkers to reach the chopper. Active camouflage or not, this was pucker-up time.

  Pepper signaled that he would go first. Hell, yeah, he would. No argument from Kozak. Taking long, deliberate strides, Pepper advanced several meters, then stopped and crouched down, allowing his camouflage to catch up with the surroundings. The NVGs worn by the guards would make it even more difficult to spot Pepper, but he remained vigilant, his footfalls light, his movements slow and practiced. By the time he reached the helicopter, Kozak gasped. He’d been holding his breath the entire time.

  Pepper, whose outline stood in sharp juxtaposition in Kozak’s HUD, waved him over.

  Walk and stop. Walk and stop. Swift and silent. Once he was between both bunkers, Kozak stole a look to the left, a look to the right. The guards were just sitting there, one of them cleaning his .50-caliber machine gun, the other staring out across the strait. At the other bunker, practically the same thing. And then a shout in Spanish:

  ‘Hey, you got one of those snacks?’

  ‘Yes, come over and get it.’

  One man climbed up a small ladder and on to the beach, marching a few meters behind Kozak to the opposite bunker. As he neared his comrade, Kozak took a deep breath and started off, reaching the chopper precisely two seconds before his heart exploded. Or at least it felt so.

  They planted their charges fore and aft, then retreated to the shadows of the forest, where Kozak issued his report: ‘Ghost Lead, we’re set over here.’

  ‘Roger that. The Marines are about twenty minutes out. Shift to your secondary and stand by.’

  ‘On our way.’

  SIXTY-TWO

  ‘Delta Dragon, this is Cannonball,’ came a familiar voice over the command net. Ross had met Captain Pat Rugg on the LCS. At six-five, 270 pounds, the Marine was an irradiated
beast, lacking only the green skin and glowing eyes. His biceps were as thick as Ross’s hips. He had this Genghis Khan/Conan the Barbarian rap about not being happy until his enemies were crushed, their cities reduced to ashes, their women lamenting. This, he explained, was what was best in life.

  Well, it was time to make the platoon leader happy.

  ‘Cannonball, this is Delta Dragon. Where are you guys?’

  ‘Getting into position now.’

  ‘Roger that. Wait for our charges, then cut loose.’

  ‘Understood. Cannonball, out.’

  The Marines had planted charges along the railroad tracks and would also take out the trip wire booby traps Ross and the team had marked for them.

  A window popped up in Ross’s HUD, and there was Mitchell, seated at a command terminal back home in Fort Bragg, his face illuminated by the bank of monitors around him. ‘Ross, the Stallion and Seahawks are inbound, ETA two minutes.’

  ‘Roger that, sir. We’re set. I can already hear the choppers.’

  ‘Good hunting, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  30K, who was crouched down beside Ross in the trees behind the bunkers, lowered his binoculars and said, ‘They’re starting to freak out now.’

  ‘Kozak? Pepper? You ready?’

  They chimed in, one after the other.

  ‘All right, guys. On three. One, two –’

  Ross thumbed the button on his remote detonator, as did 30K. Two of the bunkers vanished in white-hot flashes followed by an echoing boom and blast wave that stretched as far back as their position. Even as the dirt was still flying, multiple explosions went off behind them, and that was Rugg and his people exercising their addiction to high explosives.

  As those random thunderclaps rose, an even larger explosion resounded from the opposite side of the outpost, where Kozak and Pepper had planted their charges on Hamid’s helicopter.

  Not a gasp after those fires lifted into the air, the remaining men in the perimeter bunkers turned their machine gun fire skyward, tracer rounds gleaming like laser fire and reaching out toward the approaching Seahawks –

  But that offensive lasted only a few seconds before Rugg’s Marines, carefully concealed in the jungle, opened fire on those bunker positions, while he sent in another squad to flank them.

  Ross and 30K sprinted off, weaving through the trees and toward the huts, just thirty meters away, where their own intel indicated that Valencia, Delgado, and Hamid were inside the center hut, where they’d established a command post. Bahar had not been spotted since his first appearance with Hamid near the chopper. They were about to find out if he was still there.

  ‘Delta Dragon, if you’re gonna move, move now,’ cried Cannonball over the command net. ‘I’ve got the bunkers tied up for you, but I don’t know for how long.’

  ‘Roger, we’re on it!’

  As Ross and 30K drew closer, 30K tossed out a sensor grenade that revealed six more men posted beside and on top of at least three of the huts.

  ‘Kozak? How’re you doing?’ Ross asked.

  ‘The big boy’s still about a minute out. Stallion’s just coming in now.’

  ‘Get a move on!’

  ‘Hell, yeah, sir!’

  SIXTY-THREE

  The fifth member of the Ghost Team, the Warhound, was sitting in the back of the Sea Stallion chopper, waiting to be dropped off on the beach. Kozak had already powered up the four-legged, heavily armored Unmanned Ground Vehicle (UGV). He guided the robot around the cargo compartment to be sure all systems were nominal. When he panned the Warhound’s digital camera with stereo vision system to the right, he spotted the chopper’s crew chief, whose jaw was still dropped.

  ‘It’s okay, Chief,’ Kozak said via the Warhound’s public address system. ‘I’m in control from down here, and I promise not to blow up your helicopter.’

  ‘Thanks!’ hollered the chief, his tone turning heavily sarcastic. ‘Thanks a lot!’

  Kozak checked to be sure that the 60mm mortar and micro guided missile systems were online, then he turned the Warhound around, facing it out toward the ramp, the octagonal-shaped plates on its articulated legs shielding its hydraulics, its communications antenna sprouting from its back. With a few quick movements on the Warhound’s touchscreen remote, Kozak could get the drone to crouch like a dog, then spring up and attack. More armor plating covered its body, which was shaped like a diamond whose pointy bottom had been chiseled off. The mortar and missile launchers sat piggyback. With the drone’s legs fully extended, it was almost as tall as Pepper, who was positioned beside him, having just released the team’s UCAV.

  ‘Pepper, how’re you doing?’ Kozak asked.

  The battle plan was rapidly evolving before Pepper’s eyes, and if he had his choice, he’d rather be in a good old-fashioned gunfight instead of crouching in the jungle to remote pilot an Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle; however, his role was now more vital than ever.

  The Seahawks and their Hellfires were supposed to take out the Penguin launchers on the train tracks, but they’d been temporarily diverted to put fire on the APCs. That meant that Pepper’s task was to get the UCAV in position to launch both of its EMP missiles simultaneously in an effort to knock out power to the missile control system (MCS) of each launcher.

  The UCAV was soaring over the treetops, gaining altitude, when something flashed from the corner of the drone’s camera, and a moment later Pepper lost all contact with the drone. He cursed and bolted to his feet. ‘Ghost Lead? RPG must’ve got the UCAV. Lost contact. Bird’s down. Need another way to take out those Penguins.’

  Just then, one of the Seahawks came slicing overhead with a tremendous roar while launching two of its missiles, which tore twin seams in the night, rocket motors burning like tiny orange suns as they sank over the treetops and, a breath later, exploded in successive bursts, the ground rumbling beneath Pepper’s boots.

  The sound of that diesel engine began to rise in the distance, the train traveling toward the area where the Marines had blown the tracks. As Pepper turned back toward it, he gasped in disbelief.

  One of the eight-finned Penguins had been fired and now streaked away from its unseen launcher, arcing high in the sky and out toward the strait, where the LCS was now moving in at top speed.

  Barely a second later, a second Penguin from about a quarter mile south punched the air, curving just behind the first, twin smoke trails filled with white-hot light.

  ‘Ghost Lead, missiles in the air!’ Pepper cried.

  ‘I know,’ replied Ross. ‘You and Kozak, fall back to my position. Damn it, Kozak, get the Warhound over here!’

  ‘He’s coming!’

  Big Pat Rugg called over the command net to tell Ross his Marines had moved up on the outpost but were now pinned down and heavily outnumbered. Hamid’s fighters maintained cover behind their Hesco walls and continued to hammer Rugg’s men with withering .50-caliber fire and an almost constant rotation of RPG fire, rockets with HEAT warheads coming every five or six seconds, the jungle around the outpost already coiled with smoke, palms shredded and set ablaze, tracers drawing fiery ribbons overhead like they’d been caught in a meteorite shower.

  Meanwhile, the command hut Ross and 30K had been observing was now shielded by two of the patrol variant APCs whose drivers had positioned their rides close to the hut doors and whose crews had remained aboard to fire from their heavily armored positions. If Ross was reading it right, Hamid and the others were waiting for the right moment to flee from the hut and into one of those carriers. They would hightail it to the north side of the island, where they’d try to escape by a boat or second helicopter they’d already called in.

  ‘Delta Dragon, this is Guardian,’ called Mitchell. He’d opted for voice-only communication now that the battle had commenced so Ross could maintain better situational awareness.

  ‘Go ahead, Guardian.’

  ‘I just put the Seahawks back on those Penguin launchers. You saw they got off two missile
s. Independence fired countermeasures, but one missile struck her bow near the 57mm gun. Wagner’s contending with the damage now. She’s taking on water, compartments closed. You’ll need to take out the APCs yourself, over.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Two more Penguin missiles thundered in the sky from behind them, and Ross craned his head in disbelief. Where the hell were those Seahawks?

  Even as he finished the thought, both choppers wheeled around, each firing pairs of Hellfires, with one pair arrowing off to the south, the other to the north, the whooshing powerful enough to make him duck –

  Just as both choppers pitched up, about to come around, as though they, like the diesel engine, were riding on rails. A flash of pale yellow light woke about twenty meters away at one of the bunkers, and Ross cursed over what he’d just seen: an SA-24 being fired into the air. The soldier who’d gotten off that shot was already on the ground, clutching the gaping chest wound inflicted upon him by the Marines as he watched his Grinch soar through the air.

  The rocket struck one of the Seahawks on its port-side, the detonation lighting up half the outpost with flickering veins of igniting fuel as the chopper’s engine sputtered, the black smoke already trailing, the pilot losing control, the bird breaking into a spin and losing altitude, revolving more swiftly and coming within five hundred feet, three hundred, the smell of fuel finally reaching Ross, and one hundred feet –

  Ross bit his lip and cursed at the sound of impact, metal twisting, fuel tanks igniting in secondary explosions, the gunfire being traded by the Marines and the FARC-Bedayat soldiers in the bunker seeming to double, the downing of the helicopter now a battle cry for the enemy.

  Ross stiffened. He felt responsible for that chopper crew who had just been killed. He and the Ghosts had allowed the SA-24s to get this far …

  But now he swore to avenge them.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  30K had the drone crawler in the air, and then, with the APC crews preoccupied with the Marines targeting them just off to the east, he set down the drone, quadrotors turning into wheels. He began rolling it beneath the APCs and toward the huts, marking targets as he did so. He realized then that the farthest hut on the east side closest to the jungle was entirely unprotected, probably no one home. If he could scale it and assume a position on its roof, he’d have an excellent supporting fires perch. He shared this news with Ross, who gave him permission to head out there and get up top, but stay under active camouflage as much as possible.