Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  “You, too, November Romeo.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  0115L January 19, 2003 White Mountains Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan

  Night Rider relayed targeting data to the four SEAL Team Six snipers, first from the FLIR systems’ nine-inch ball and TALON IR laser designator, then audio.

  “I see three bogeys moving your way. I’m painting the lead dog now. Laser hot!” The Night Rider sensor operator lased the leader with the LD.

  Through the 5X60 night-vision scope on the heavily silenced TCI Model 89 Sniper Rifle, the bright-green dot marked the spot. The sniper quickly acquired the target, and his laser rangefinder flashed, 620 yards. The 7.62mm hollow-point left the silenced rifle and hit the lead Taliban right above the heart, passing through his body to strike the number two Taliban below the sternum. Both men went down instantly.

  Night Rider lased Taliban number three, as he tried to reverse course and seek shelter, but Sniper Team Two had already acquired the target. In two seconds, he, too, was down. The bullet tore his spine in two, pulverizing vertebrae and spinal cord. He was dead before his head hit the ground.

  Before Night Rider could say, “Three down,” the sensor operator was surprised to find two new heat sources directly below and to the left of where the Taliban went down.

  “Hold your position. Two new bogeys popped out of a hole. They know something happened to their buddies and are afraid to come out and see.”

  “Can you paint him?”

  “Painting now.”

  Through the NV scope, the target was barely visible, but Night Rider placed the LD dot on the Taliban’s forehead. He was zooming in the FLIR for a better view when the Taliban’s head exploded in the FLIR’s scope display.

  “Nice shot. That reminds me of Whack a Mole. I don’t see any other activity, but I’m calling in a JDAM to plug that hole.”

  “OK. We’re out of here. Thanks for the help.”

  Night Rider remained on station, as the sniper teams advanced farther into Tora Bora.

  Seventeen minutes later, an Air Force F-16 at 35,000 feet released the first pair of Laser Joint Direct Attack Munitions, L-JDAMS, onto the well-hidden Taliban cave. Riding the beam from the Night Rider, the laser seekers on the converted 500-pound guided ordnance hit their target perfectly just as another Talban cautiously tried to take a peek without getting his head blown off like his brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  2100 January 27, 2003

  Al-Azzam Islamic Center Boston, Massachusetts

  Marwa Kamal was proving to be an interesting Muslima, thought the imam. Educated as a lawyer in the US three years earlier, Marwa Kamal was once active in a youth group at Yale that fought discrimination against Muslims. Born into a wealthy family in Jordan, she attended the best schools in Britain and then law school in the US before being summoned home after 9/11. Her father was furious about her extracurricular activities—joining a pro-Muslim support group that challenged the stereotypes that often associated Muslims with violence and terror. She should be seen and not heard. She brought shame and discredit to her family.

  Her father quickly arranged her marriage to a man who promised not to beat her if they married. Of course, he did. She grew discontent, rebelled, and planned her escape. Knowing her husband would sit with his fat friends smoking shisha at the hookah lounge, she left her husband’s apartment in a royal-blue cashmere abaya with a button-down front. After applying eye makeup, she ensured the buttons were undone.

  She took one look at the room, picked up a small bag, and walked down Shara Street to Prince Faisal bin al-Hussein Square, which US, British, and Australian embassy personnel and tourists frequented, and where the open-air hookah lounge was situated.

  Women wearing headscarves were common in the square, but women in abayas were rare. When she approached the hookah and saw her husband chatting with two women without headscarves, she stopped and shouted, “Waleed!”

  The stuporous man removed the pipe from his mouth and stared as the woman in the abaya grasped the flaps, ripped opened the fabric, and flashed her large naked breasts for everyone in the lounge.

  Two US Embassy Marines and a group of Australian tourists were passing when Marwa told her husband he’d never see those breasts again.

  “That’s something you don’t see every day in Jordan,” one Marine told the other.

  All who saw Marwa were stunned by the incongruity of the scene. A young woman unable to show her face but exposing her beautiful breasts, curvaceous body, and white ruffled bloomers with coils of chastity knots off her hip…right across the street from a McDonald’s.

  Several photographers nearly missed the event, but one amazing picture was soon uploaded to the Internet. Marwa covered her body, turned, and walked to the cab stand.

  He had hit her and bruised her face, which spurred Marwa to change her life and go where life would be infinitely better. Her student visa was still good for multiple entries, so she took the first jet bound for America out of Amman.

  After landing at Boston Logan, she migrated to the other women working at the airport concessions. Soon, she worked in one of the concourses at a grab-and-go restaurant that didn’t serve pork. Several men working as screeners, running the X-ray machines at the security gate, began courting her. All heads turned when she walked by.

  Mild pandemonium erupted, as word spread quickly, as she approached the checkpoint coming to work or leaving the concourse for home. Many tried to get to know her, but she showed no interest.

  Nizar Mohammad was more successful than others to get her to acknowledge him. He was a screener at Boston Logan after 9/11. He eventually passed a background check and was hired by the Transportation Security Administration. He became a supervisor at one of the concourses.

  When Nizar Mohammad was away from the airport, he served Allah and provided his imam with information about the comings and goings of the traveling public, as well as how poor airport security remained even after being federalized when ten al-Qaeda terrorists passed through the checkpoint on their way to destiny.

  Nizar leaked information to the imam of the stunning woman’s beauty and American education, adding he wished to pursue her.

  Imam Abdul asked, “What do you know of this woman? Where did she come from? Why does she refuse to wear the hajib?”

  “She says she’s from Kuwait, but she sounds British and looks more like an Iranian.”

  “Find out more. Can you get picture? I want picture of her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  2145L January 29, 2003

  JSOC Command Post Khost, Afghanistan

  “Killing the enemy is the easy part,” the JSOC commander told the Night Rider crew. “Finding them is the hard part. You guys are doing the Lord’s work in finding the enemy.”

  Unspoken was the lack of USAF Predator support. Thequality of Night Rider’s intelligence was timely, on target, and actionable, while the high-flying Predator feeds lacked the level of granularity necessary to keep the nation’s finest warriors up-to- date with on-scene details, like whether the images were children or men.

  During two missions, Night Rider not only found the enemy and positively identified them as bad guys, but they helped kill them with pinpoint, steady, laser-designator accuracy. Forward air controllers wished they could be as effective.

  The CIA men, Ben and Jerry, the pilot, and sensor operator did more to help SEALs and JSOC find the enemy, especially at night, than any other available resource. The JSOC commander didn’t know how the Schweizer came to be part of his Task Force, but he was damn glad they were there. The next time he saw the DCI, he’d personally thank him and let him know that his little airplane allowed his SEALs to live up to the sniper motto, “One shot, one kill.”

  When he uttered the motto to himself, the JSOC commander had a flashback. For three seconds, he thought of his mother, a beautiful lady with jet-black hair. Her no-BS personality raised three very competitive boys and kept his dad in line, too
.

  He recalled the time he and his father went on their first deer-hunting trip in the Colorado Rockies. Their destination was Meeker. Since his father recently retired and returned from tours in Germany and Vietnam, he and his father didn’t have any rifles or the other necessary hunting equipment for the trip.

  It was a big deal for a family with a limited income to go to the downtown Gart Brothers store in Denver, where Dad bought an elegant Winchester Model 70A 300 Magnum, while he got a generic sporterized 30.06 with four-power scopes, sleeping bags, a tent, and a couple boxes of ammunition for each gun.

  After driving up to Meeker on Friday night, the future JSOC commander and his father bagged two huge four-point bucks within thirty minutes of opening day of deer season—one shot, one kill. They raced home to show the family, feeling like hunters, not gatherers.

  Mom wasn’t impressed. “We spent almost a thousand dollars for rifles and hunting equipment, and both of you took one shot to kill one deer. That’s the most-expensive venison in America. We could’ve bought two Angus heifers.” She shook her head and walked away.

  The thought faded, and the JSOC commander found himself smiling and unconsciously shaking his head at the thought of his mother poking at her hunting men about one shot, one kill. He now extolled the same virtues of his hunter-killers.

  Still smiling, he looked at the SCIF to find everyone looking at him. He took a deep breath and said, “God bless the mothers of warriors.”

  A couple of “Hooyahs!” reverberated through the room, then he returned to his SEAL and Night Rider missions.

  As the Night Rider crew left for their aircraft, the JSOC turned to his Air Operations commander. “If their rate of success keeps up, there may be room for more of those quiet aircraft in theater. So far, those things are a gold mine.”

  *

  The Night Rider men took off east to support a significant SEAL surveillance party with two snipers. Intelligence reported a large Taliban meeting would take place in the little village of Pomma. The SEALs wanted to snatch a couple of the leaders, which would mean mission success. If a snatch-and-grab was out of the question, the goal was to ensure the Taliban didn’t live to fight another day.

  The mountains were curiously free of Taliban and al-Qaeda on the run to the target. Off to the south, an IR strobe flashed twice, twice, and three times.

  “Apache, tally on your position.” Two clicks sounded.

  “Tally-ho on the compound. Several kids marching are around, not looking too happy.”

  The Taliban leaders woke the hamlet’s children and paraded them around the walled compound as insurance. USAF Predators wouldn’t knowingly drop a Hellfire when children were visible.

  After four full turns in the air, they saw movement in the compound. A head stuck out the door and looked around. The children jumped and walked faster around the building. Seconds later, a steady stream of men of relatively the same height poured from the building and quickly entered five Toyota Hilux pickups and a Landcruiser parked nearby.

  “Those are Hiluxes,” Jerry said. “Since when do the Taliban drive Hiluxes?”

  “Al-Qaeda lieutenants drive them. Osama’s main ride is a Landcruiser. Doesn’t Omar like a Suburban? Let them know those are Hiluxes and a Landcruiser. Please tell me one of those turds is over six feet.”

  “Apache, I have six rides coming your way, Hiluxes and a Landcruiser. Certain they’re AQ. No tall cowboys in the posse.”

  Two clicks came in return.

  At the sound of the vehicles starting and driving from the compound, Night Rider noticed several heat sources popping up along the valley walls. Two were below the SEALs' outpost, and three popped up above the SEALs. The area must have been a warren of caves that hid security forces from IR eyes.

  “Shit! Apache, there are tens of AQ pouring out of caves and moving toward the vehicles’ line of departure. I think you need to get out of there. Now!”

  “Standby.”

  “Negative standby. Apache, you have a squad of four twenty-five meters to your south, heading your way. I don’t think they know you’re there. There’s another squad of five above you, about forty meters to your west, also moving your way.”

  “We need to stop those vehicles. Paint the lead, please. Then targets of opportunity.”

  “Those fuckers are crazy,” Jerry said softly to Ben.

  Night Rider quickly refocused the laser designator on the vehicles. “Painting now.”

  The lead vehicle moved slowly, as Jerry placed the LD dot on the driver’s door. Four seconds later, Night Rider confirmed the impact and targeted the second vehicle. Jerry swore momentarily when he saw the bullet slam into the driver’s back. In the FLIR, something obviously happened to the lead Hilux, as it began to slow.

  Night Rider was unaware of two SEALs moving to intercept the two AQ fire teams moving their way. With the butt plate lodged firmly in their shoulders and eyes focused in NV scopes, they easily found the enemy within fifty feet—point-blank kinetic action range. Each SEAL thumbed the selector level to single on his silenced M-4 and popped off single rounds into the heads of the fighters moving toward them. Most were killed with one shot. Pop Stop squashed the reports.

  One AQ with two shots to the head fell backward with his finger trapped in the trigger guard of his AK-47. When he hit the ground, his twisted finger pulled the trigger, sending a burst of rounds into the air and alerting everyone in the valley. Simultaneously, as the second vehicle in the convoy rolled to a stop, the other vehicles dispersed.

  “Paint the Landcruiser,” Apache ordered.

  Night Rider acquired the racing Landcruiser, heading for the valley outlet. As long as the Toyota moved linearly, at that altitude, he easily lased the vehicle’s driver door.

  “Painting now.”

  Two SEAL snipers pumped four shots into the Landcruiser. Two seconds passed before the vehicle went ballistic and caromed into a medium-sized boulder and stopped.

  “Check my status?” Apache asked coolly.

  Night Rider slewed the FLIR turret to the IR strobe to locate the SEAL team. “I have several dozen bogeys heading your way.”

  Jerry looked up to the RMI to determine their heading and did some quick mental math. “Most moving in from the north. I think it’s time to get out of there.”

  “Can you give Spooky a call and give them a vector? I’m going to be busy.”

  “Ten-four, Apache. Keep your head down. We’ll work on getting the cavalry here ASAP.”

  Ben immediately called the AC-130H gunship, passing on the request and Apache’s frequency, and coordinated their location to be opposite of the angle of fire.

  At twelve miles away, the AC-130 crew firewalled the throttles of the four Allison T56 turboprops and closed the gap in less than two minutes.

  The FLIR operator quickly located the SEAL teams. “Tally-ho on your beacons. Take cover. Incoming.”

  Apache’s radio operator and the rest of the SEAL team hunkered down behind the biggest rock they could find and rolled themselves into balls to protect themselves against ricochets from the two 20mm M61 Vulcan cannons that raked the Taliban and al-Qaeda. They heard rounds strike the ground and crack off rocks, then the low growl of the rotary cannon at high altitude.

  The four-second burst from the M61s spat 5,000 rounds and decimated the enemy, setting two of the vehicles afire. “Shit,” Jerry muttered in the Night Rider.

  The M61s lit the sky, silhouetting the big Hercules momentarily from hot rounds and tracers leaving the barrels.

  Ten seconds passed.

  “I think our work here is done,” Specter transmitted. “We’re outta here unless you have something else for us.”

  “Thanks, Spooky,” Apache said. “Nice work. I’ll buy the beer when I see you. Out.”

  JSOC’s SEALs and the AC-130 killed so many enemy forces that the dead bodies of the Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters were carted off the field the next day by the truckload.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE<
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  0715 February 7, 2003

  Henry E. Eccles Library Navy War College

  McGee nearly collided with Hunter going into the library. “Good morning, Sir.”

  “SCIF.” It was a command.

  “After you, Sir.” Hunter followed the SEAL on a mission.

  Once inside the SCIF in Eccles, McGee led the way to their table. “I just got some feedback. Lynche's old place has been flying support for my guys, and the results have been fantastic.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “JSOC and SOCOM want more quiet airplanes in the AOR.”

  “OK.”

  “I thought we could do something from here.” “Like what?”

  “You’re the one with the big brain.”

  “What are you trying to accomplish with quiet aircraft? Sounds like you have an idea.”

  “It might be a bad idea.”

  “Nothing is as toxic as a really bad idea. I doubt you have a bad idea, Sir.”

  “Maybe we could do something like working on integrating quiet aircraft for DEVGRU. Maybe something unmanned.”

  Hunter smiled, reached down, and placed his black Zero Halliburton briefcase on the table. Opening it, he handed a folder to McGee. “This is my unclassified research proposal for doing just such a project. I hope the Office of Naval Intelligence will approve it. I have another proposal for developing quiet UAVs. These will be classified research, and we need to get the War College President to approve them. Want to team on one or the other or both?”

  “Hell, yes!” He lifted his eyes from the inch-thick proposals. “You’re amazing. Can I read these?”

  “Yes, Sir. Take your time.”

  “Meet you in the café after class?”

  “Sir, I think we have an all-hands lecture in Connelly at 1000.”

  “That’s right. See you there.”

  “Roger.”