by Brad Thor
“He hasn’t even come close,” replied Campbell. “Not yet. Not by a long shot.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Elise Campbell had finished her conversation with Porter, left the White House, and was headed west on E Street, her BlackBerry pressed to her ear. “That’s exactly why I called you,” she said.
“Elise, you saw the whole file,” replied Rita Klees from her office in East Hampton. “Why would we screen a drunk driving victim to see if they had sex before they died? Especially with the budget cuts we’ve suffered. We don’t do that. Not without a reason, and in this case there was no reason.”
“So pull an inspection report out of one of your other files, or better yet, get me a blank one I can fill in myself.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“Damn it, Rita. Help me out here.”
“Elise, what you’re asking me for is—” began the detective.
“Trust me,” said Campbell. “I’ll explain later. Just get that stuff for me. Please.”
Before Klees could respond, Elise had already hung up. Though she hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to navigate the minefield she was about to enter, something in the back of her mind told her that she might have made a decent detective after all.
CHAPTER 47
NANGARHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
Bullets began slamming into the Land Cruiser before the lead vehicle that had been hit by the RPG had even come back to the ground.
Opening the driver’s-side door, Gallagher grabbed his rifle and dumped out with Harvath right on his heels. Fontaine leaped out the rear passenger door, pulling the interpreter with him.
Harvath was trying to identify the firing positions of their attackers when all of a sudden Gallagher, who had been crouched behind the tire right next to him, yelled, “Cover me,” over the din of heavy machine-gun fire and ran for the middle vehicle.
As soon as he took off, green tracer rounds began chewing up the dirt behind him. It was as if someone had a phosphorescent marker and was trying to draw a line to him.
Angry as hell at his friend, but left with no other choice, Harvath rolled out from behind the left front tire of the Land Cruiser and began firing.
Based on the tracer fire, Harvath could make out two distinct positions from which the belt-fed machine guns were being fired. When Gallagher had made it to the second vehicle, Harvath rolled back behind the tire, pulled out his NODs, and powered them up.
He could tell by where the rounds were hitting that their attackers knew they were hiding behind the tires on the opposite side of the Land Cruiser. But, because their attackers were higher up the hillside, all they could do was shoot down. They couldn’t shoot through the tires or underneath the truck. Normally, Harvath would have seen that as a good thing. The only problem was that they had taken out the lead vehicle with an RPG. Two more and they could take out the middle vehicle as well as the Land Cruiser. The men had to do something, fast.
Sliding his NODs on, Harvath looked at Fontaine, who had already done the same, and nodded. In unison, both men rolled out from behind their tires and began firing at their attackers. This time Harvath had the advantage of his night vision goggles and could see what they were up against.
In the green glow of his NODs the steep slope on the other side of the road looked like an anthill, swarming with fighters armed with Kalashnikovs. There were at least seventy of them; maybe even eighty. These had to be Massoud’s men, and Baseer’s count had been right on the money. Harvath also figured he knew who had tipped them off. If that little shitbird Usman suddenly stood up on the hillside and waved, it wouldn’t have surprised Harvath at all.
Firing the last round in his magazine, he rolled back behind his tire. They were pinned down. They needed to get away from the vehicles to a more defensible position.
Harvath glanced over at Gallagher, who was pressed up against the rear of Fayaz’s SUV with Asadoulah and the chief elder pressed up right behind him. As the two Afghans took advantage of the limited cover provided by the rear passenger tire of the SUV, Gallagher balanced his LaRue sniper rifle on the truck’s back bumper and raked the hillside. As far as Harvath could tell, none of the other people in the vehicle had survived.
“We need to get the hell away from these trucks,” Harvath yelled to Fontaine. “If they’ve got any more RPGs up there, we’re going to get smoked.”
Fontaine nodded. “What do you want to do?”
“About thirty meters down on this side of the road is an old mud hut. I saw it when we came in. It’s not perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better than this.”
“All right,” said the Canadian as he readied the interpreter to run. “I’ll stay here and provide cover fire.”
“No,” replied Harvath as he inserted a fresh magazine into his MP5. “You’re not getting paid enough to bring up the rear.”
“Then how about a raise?”
“The Afghan capitalist got the rest of my money. Now take him and get over to Gallagher’s position. I’ll cover you.”
“Roger that,” said Fontaine, who, after signaling to Gallagher what he was about to do, grabbed hold of the interpreter. “When I say go, I want you to stay low and run as fast as you can to that other truck over there. Do you understand?”
Daoud nodded.
“Okay. One. Two. Three. Go!”
As the two men took off running, Harvath rolled back out and began firing again. From Fayaz’s SUV, Gallagher did the same thing, paying special attention to the two heavy machine-gun positions.
When he had once again exhausted his ammo, he rolled back behind the tire, ejected the spent magazine, and inserted a fresh one. It didn’t take a military strategist to realize that even with very carefully placed shots, they were still going to need more ammo.
After checking to make sure Fontaine and Daoud had made it safely, Harvath moved to the Land Cruiser’s rear passenger door and flung it open. Even on this side, it was riddled with the holes of bullets that had passed straight through from the other side.
The seats were shredded, their springs visible in many spots. Harvath pulled the release and tried to flip down the seat nearest him, but it wouldn’t budge. Leaping back from the truck as another barrage of fire literally made it rock back and forth, Harvath hid behind the tire and questioned how much he was willing to risk to get that extra ammunition.
It wasn’t a tough decision. Gallagher’s truck was a bullet magnet. If he climbed in there again to reach over the seats to get what he needed, he’d be cut to ribbons.
And if the threat of another RPG hit wasn’t bad enough, Harvath had just been given another very compelling reason to get the hell away from the Land Cruiser. The gas tank had been ruptured and he could now smell gasoline.
Moving up to the front tire, Harvath motioned to Gallagher and Fontaine that he was ready to roll.
With his MP5 slung over his shoulder, he waited for their signal, and when it came, Harvath sprinted out from behind the cover of Gallagher’s SUV and ran faster than he had ever run before in his life.
Despite the cover fire being laid down for him, the dusty road exploded in a hail of enemy gunfire, throwing rock chips and clumps of dirt high into the air. As the bullets snapped and whistled around him, Harvath could almost feel the heat from the tracer rounds chasing him like a lit fuse.
As he skidded to a stop behind Fayaz’s SUV, it sounded like the world’s largest hornets’ nest had been stirred. All of the enemy gunfire was now being focused on this one rapidly deteriorating piece of cover. Though Harvath was out of breath, he knew they needed to move, now.
He looked at Fayaz, Daoud, and Asadoulah and saw that they had stripped the dead security men in the SUV of their weapons and were now all armed. Three more guns in the fight. He hoped they were good shooters. With their limited supply of ammo, now was not the time to spray and pray. They were going to have to be dead-on tack-drivers.
Looking at Gallagher, Harvath said, “You a
nd Fontaine take the Afghans and get moving for that hut.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Gallagher said.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to create a diversion,” replied Harvath as he nodded toward Gallagher’s chewed-up Land Cruiser. “I hope your insurance is all paid up.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Gallagher, pointing at his leg. “I think you’re going to have to leave me here.”
Harvath flipped up his NODs and looked down. A bullet had torn through Gallagher’s upper thigh and blood was pumping out of the wound. “I need a tourniquet!” Harvath yelled. “Now!”
“There’s no time,” said Gallagher.
“Bullshit there isn’t,” he replied. “Fontaine!”
“Right here,” replied the Canadian, as he appeared with a length of seat belt he had cut out of the SUV.
As they positioned Gallagher’s leg to get the makeshift device in position, he leaned forward and Harvath noticed that he had also taken a round through the top of his left shoulder.
Gallagher must have seen the look on Harvath’s face as he leaned him back against the truck’s rear tire. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. We need to get out of here.”
Harvath pulled out a spent magazine, slid it through the seat-belt knot, and used it to tighten down the tourniquet. The old Marine grimaced in pain, but didn’t make a sound. Within seconds the bleeding had stopped.
Harvath helped Gallagher lie down on his stomach for a superman carry. He placed Daoud between Baba G’s legs to carry them like a wheelbarrow and then motioned Asadoulah and Fontaine to each of his outstretched arms. Fontaine took Gallagher’s right arm because, as he would be required to hook his left arm under it to help carry the man, it would leave his right hand free for shooting.
Shouldering his MP5 so he could use Gallagher’s LaRue, Harvath positioned himself against the SUV’s back bumper and gave the go command.
In unison, the three men bent and picked up Gallagher, while Harvath began firing at Massoud’s men on the hillside. With Fayaz in the lead, they began running toward the mud hut.
As they did, Harvath turned his attention away from their attackers and onto the leaking Land Cruiser.
When the lucky round finally found its mark, the SUV exploded, sending a brilliant flash and a towering pillar of fire into the night.
CHAPTER 48
Whether Massoud’s soldiers knew where they were headed or not, Harvath and his team were dogged the entire way by wildly fired shots, many of which came incredibly close. Winston Churchill’s famous line notwithstanding, there was absolutely nothing exhilarating about being shot at, even if your enemy was missing.
The run-down mud brick hut the team finally took shelter in only had three pockmarked walls and was missing its roof, but it was definitely a step up in the cover it afforded. Next to a stack of water-filled jerry cans there was nothing better at blast attenuation in the middle of nowhere than a thick mud wall.
Making Gallagher as comfortable as possible, Harvath checked his wounds again. So far the tourniquet on his leg was working. It was the bullet through his shoulder he was most worried about. Gallagher’s breathing had become labored and Harvath was concerned that he had dropped a lung. Even so, he sought to reassure his friend. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.
“In that case, why don’t you get me a beer?”
“As soon as the waitress comes back with my onion rings.”
Gallagher laughed and coughed up blood, confirming Harvath’s worst fears. If the man didn’t get medical attention soon, he wasn’t going to make it.
Leaving him in the care of the Afghans, Harvath stepped over to Fontaine, who was keeping watch out of one of the crumbling windows. “They’re going to be on us any minute,” said the Canadian.
“I know,” replied Harvath. “Let’s get hold of West and have his combat controller call in some close air support.”
“How are we going to mark our position?”
“I’ve got a couple of fireflies,” said Harvath, removing an infrared marking beacon from his pocket. It was made by the same Cejay company as his fingerlight and looked like a small plastic ice cube. When snapped onto a nine-volt battery, it emitted an infrared strobe so bright it could be picked up by overhead aircraft and even certain U.S. government satellites.
Everyone in the Spec Ops community used combat ID marking beacons. It didn’t matter if you were American, Canadian, British, or whomever. The goal was to help ID your position so that you weren’t mistaken for the enemy. They also allowed downed pilots and operators caught in unfriendly territory to be more easily located and rescued. They were a great way to mark a structure you might want to come back to, you could also use them to track a vehicle, and Harvath even had a small spool of trip wire he could use to set one off if someone crept inside his perimeter. The fireflies were the Swiss Army Knife of night operations, and Harvath was glad to have snatched a couple from the Golden Conex.
Clicking the cubes onto their nine-volt batteries, Harvath placed one on top of the wall at each corner. Then he took up the watch while Fontaine turned on his radio, switched to the Canadian’s frequency, and tried to reach Captain West.
“I don’t care if it’s a glider with water balloons,” Fontaine said once he had reached the man and detailed their position and situation. “Get hold of J3 Air at Bagram and tell them to send whatever they’ve got. Tell them this is an emergency CAS mission for Roper Six Nine. We’re also going to need a medevac. I’ve got a man down, multiple GSWs.”
West put Fontaine on hold while he spoke with his combat controller and then radioed the operations and planning unit at Bagram Air Base who were responsible for air support.
Daoud walked over and stood on the other side of the window from Harvath with one of the AK-47s.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” asked Harvath.
“Yes,” replied the interpreter.
“Good. Single shots only. And choose them carefully. We could be here a long time.”
Daoud nodded.
“If you want Mr. Gallagher’s night vision goggles, go ask. He’s not going to be using them.”
The interpreter began to walk away, but then stopped. “Mr. Gallagher saved Asadoulah’s life. The bullets that hit him were meant for the boy and would have killed him if Mr. Gallagher had not acted. Fayaz too. He is a brave man; a good man. Like you.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Daoud,” said Harvath. “I’m not that brave and I’m not that good.”
The interpreter smiled. “I think you are. I also think that if we survive this, I will help you find the woman you are looking for. I don’t need any more money from you. You can give mine to Mr. Fontaine.”
“Don’t worry about Fontaine,” Harvath replied as he tightened his grip on Gallagher’s rifle. “I’ll make sure he gets taken care of. Now go get those goggles. I think I see movement out there.”
As Daoud walked back over to Baba G, Harvath began to ask Fontaine what the hold-up was, but the Canadian motioned for him to hold on.
“Roger that,” he said over the radio. “We’ve got two IR strobes on top of our position. There’s at least seventy-five Taliban along the face of the hill two hundred meters directly west of us. In between us and them are three vehicles, two of which are on fire.”
After listening to the response, Fontaine replied, “Copy that,” and turned back to Harvath. “We’ve got a Spectre gunship inbound.”
“How long until they’re on target?”
“Fifteen mikes.”
“How’d you get the call sign, Roper Six Nine?” asked Harvath.
“That’s not my call sign,” said Fontaine as he shook his head. “It belongs to someone I know on an American special operations team. He’s got high-priority access and we’ll get bumped right to the top of the list for air support.”
Co-opting someone else’s call sign was the kind of outside-the-box thinking Harvath could
appreciate. Bringing Fontaine along had absolutely been the right thing to do.
Looking back out the window, Harvath detected movement again. This time, he was certain of it. Massoud’s men were closing in. It was going to be the longest fifteen minutes of their lives.
“What about the medevac for Gallagher?” Harvath asked as he flipped up his NODs and focused his rifle on a group of Taliban creeping forward. There were only so many places he and his team could have run and Harvath wasn’t surprised at how quickly they had homed in on them.
“West has permission to disengage and roll his company to our location. They’re going to establish an LZ at the bottom of the road. A medevac bird is right behind the Spectre.”
“Let’s do this then,” said Harvath, who chose the biggest Taliban member in the approaching pack, took aim, exhaled, and squeezed his trigger.
As the man’s head exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and pink flesh, his associates hit the ground and began firing their weapons. The fight was back on.
CHAPTER 49
When Harvath finally allowed the three Afghans to start firing, he and Fontaine were running desperately low on ammo.
Enemy tracer rounds lit up the night, and the Taliban machine-gun fire had begun eating away at the little mud hut. Since they retreated to the structure, Massoud’s men had fired two RPGs at their position. One had hit the side of the structure and failed to detonate and the other had just missed, detonating against the sheer rock face behind them with a deafening blast and a shower of splintered rock.
The first of their weapons to run dry was Gallagher’s sniper rifle. Harvath was now down to half a mag for his MP5 and the AC-130 gunship had yet to arrive.
Massoud’s Taliban soldiers had moved their heavy, belt-fed machine guns down from the hillside and had set up on top of the road, not far from the burning trucks. Another contingent had split off in an attempt to flank them, but Harvath and Fontaine had immediately put down that attack.
