Seals (2005) s-1

by Jack Terral

  At least the senior chief could be precise about his jump-master inspection. He formed the men up in two rows of seven, and he and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson made careful examinations of the men's equipment, parachutes and everything that was strapped and buckled onto their bodies.

  The first items of attention were the weapons. The slings had to be routed over the left shoulder, under the main lift webbing and to the outside of the chest strap. The SEALs also had to inspect the weapons' tie-downs, making sure they were between the belly band extension and the jumper. From there the two chiefs' attention was directed to the way the harnesses fit, the seating of rip cords, no twists in risers and a few dozen other things that, if ignored, had the very real potential of changing a routine jump into a situation where injuries or even death were more probable than possible. When the two chiefs finished with the platoon, they checked out each other with just as much thoroughness.

  "Okay, guys," Dawkins said when Gunnarson had finished with him. "We are now deeply imbedded into the domain of Mr. Murphy and his law."

  "That's right," Gunnarson said in his gloomy style. "And that law says that if anything can go wrong, it prob'ly will, just as sure as shit stinks."

  "But don't worry," Dawkins added. "If you clobber into the DZ in the morning, you still get paid for all day."

  Brannigan stepped forward. "And with those cheerful statements ringing in your ears, I'll lead you out to the aircraft."

  .

  ON THE RUNWAY

  1500 H0URS LOCAL

  THE engines were wide open, trying hard to pull the aircraft through the pressure of the brakes that held the flying machine in check. When the correct amount of RPM was reached, the pilot released the mechanical, electrical and hydraulic restraints, and the massive C-130 leaped like an eager racehorse charging out of the starting gate. The sound was deafening and the fuselage shook like it would fly apart, until the sudden smoothness of the forward motion showed it was now airborne. The banging and squeaking of the landing gear being raised sounded next, as the airplane climbed upward into the dark sky.

  The senior chief was the jumpmaster, and as such he was in charge of the back of the aircraft. Even Lieutenants Brannigan and Cruiser were required to obey his orders during the flight. Before takeoff, Dawkins ordered everyone to don helmets and strap them down. The wearing of this protective headgear was mandatory before the airplane left the ground. This was one of the riskiest parts of any flight, and in case the C-130 suddenly lost power and crashed into the earth, any unstrapped helmets would be like projectiles flying around the interior of the fuselage, inflicting injury and even death on anyone they slammed into.

  When Dawkins figured the aircraft was climbing safely, he gave the word that everyone could remove his helmet and unfasten his seat belt. Most of the men simply undid the helmet straps and remained belted in. This was a good time to doze a bit. Psychologists explained this strange habit as being the subconscious mind's way of dealing with pre jump jitters by retreating from reality into peaceful slumber.

  The psychologists were 100 percent correct.

  .

  OVER AFGHANISTAN

  1825 HOURS LOCAL

  THE loadmaster came down from the cockpit to give the twenty-minute warning to the jumpmaster. Dawkins got up out of his web seat and went from man to man to make sure they were all awake. He also issued orders to put on helmets and strap them down. Now was the time for the jumpers to begin hooking their gear onto the parachute webbing. They worked in teams, helping each other through the process. After dozens of jumps, they were quick and efficient. When the job was done, they knelt down on the gear. This was a lot easier than trying to sit back down on the seats with rucksacks strapped to their asses.

  .

  1835 HOURS LOCAL

  WHEN the ten-minute warning was issued, Dawkins went aft, then turned and held up both hands with his fingers spread to indicate the number ten. Then he checked the red jump and/or caution light to make sure it was functioning properly. The doors in the rear slowly opened as the load-master manipulated the controls.

  .

  OVER THE OA

  1842 HOURS LOCAL

  BUFORD raised his right arm up from his side to signal the command STAND UP. The men struggled to get to their feet. The next gesture the senior chief displayed was to take his right arm and touch his helmet, to let the jumpers know it was time to move to the rear and join him. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan took the lead, walking to the opened tail area with the others following. This was a platoon custom established during their first jumps as a unit; the skipper would always be the first out of the aircraft. He glanced down twelve thousand feet to the bare terrain of rural Afghanistan in the fading light of early evening.

  .

  1845 HOURS LOCAL

  SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins crossed his right arm over his chest and pointed out the aircraft to order Go! Brannigan went off the ramp and out into the dull illumination of twilight. He quickly stabilized and glanced downward, noting that he was facing off to the west side of the valley as he plummeted toward terra firma below. The skipper quickly pushed his right arm straight down to execute a turn. When he was lined up from south to north on the DZ, he went back to a stable position with his chin up and back arched.

  Slightly above him and thinly spread out, the rest of the platoon watched their leader, also noting the terrain thousands of feet beneath them. At that point they had the sensation of lying motionless on a cushion of air. Brannigan checked the altimeter strapped to his wrist. At an altitude of thirty-five hundred feet AGL, he activated the rip cord.

  The pilot chute immediately inflated, pulling out the deployment bag and suspension lines, and a second later the canopy cells inflated. Brannigan looked around, happily noting that there were a total of fifteen deployed parachutes above him. Now he turned his attention to the ground. He wanted to stay close to where he was descending without going farther up the valley, so he put on half brakes by pulling the toggles down to chest level. When he was some two hundred feet AGL he raised them for full flight. The next action was something that took a lot of practice. As soon as he was about ten feet above the ground, he gently eased into a full brake position. At just the right instant, the parachute stalled, and the skipper's boots gently hit the ground.

  The rest of platoon was also in contact with DZ terrain within the next three to four seconds. Everyone dropped the harnesses and began rolling up the canopies, using the belly bands to hold them together. There was no time for burying the parachutes, and they were carried over to a rocky outcrop for concealment. They would be retrieved when the aircraft came to pick up the platoon and defector for exfiltration.

  With that done, the platoon assembled into a column formation with each squad taking up one side. Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz went to their customary point positions, and led the outfit toward West Ridge, where they planned on setting up the base camp.

  .

  2200 HOURS LOCAL

  THE trek from the DZ up the rock-strewn side of the mountain was arduous even for the superbly conditioned SEALs. The route was so steep in some cases that it was necessary to push up against the rucksack of the man in front, to aid him in the demanding climb. James Bradley was the Tail-End Charlie with no one behind him. Between his personal, gear and the medical kit, he had a hard row to hoe in the ascent. Bruno Puglisi helped him when he could, by turning and taking his hand to give a helping tug.

  When Assad and Leibowitz reached the summit, they moved forward to the other side, which looked down the mountain. Both were pleased that the area for the camp was an excellent defensive position. There was plenty of cover in the rocks, and the visibility on both sides of the mountain couldn't have been better. A small stream fed by a spring guaranteed plenty of water. This unexpected boon didn't mean all that much on a mission as short as this one, but it was a blessing nevertheless.

  As the fire teams picked out their positions and fields of fire, Frank G
omez warmed up the Shadowfire radio. His shoulders ached from the extra twenty pounds of commo gear he had carried up the mountain. After the commo check, he spoke the code words. "Green Valley. Green Valley. Green Valley. Out."

  Now SOCOM back at Station Bravo knew they were on the ground and ready to rock and roll.

  .

  WARLORD DURTAMI'S COMPOUND

  8 AUGUST

  0715 HOURS LOCAL

  BASHAR Abzai led the ambush party up to the front gate of the compound. They had spent the night sitting in the ruins of the bombed-out village waiting to see if the infidels wishing to contact the now dead Omar Kariska would show up. It had been a boring, useless attempt, and he had trouble keeping his men alert. He was a senior mujahideen and was put in charge of small patrols from time to time.

  The men broke off to go to their homes while Abzai continued over to Warlord Ayyub Durtami's residence. He nodded to the guards at the door, who looked at him inquisitively. "I am here to report to the warlord about last night's ambush."

  The guards' eyes opened wide. "Was there a battle last night?"

  "Nothing happened," Abzai said. "There was nobody to shoot at."

  "Not much to report to the warlord," one remarked.

  His buddy went inside and reappeared moments later, nodding his head to indicate the mujahideen had permission to enter. Abzai walked into the building apprehensively. He hoped the fierce warlord would not consider the mission a failure. The least a mujahideen could expect in that case was a brutal caning. He found Durtami in conference with his chief lieutenant, Ahmet Kharani.

  Abzai bowed and spoke in a tone of deep reverence. "Asalaam aleikum, Amir."

  "Pakhair--welcome," Durtami said. "You seem disappointed, Brother Abzai. Did no one appear at your ambush?"

  "Alas no:' Abzai replied. "We waited in great alertness all through the night, but not one stranger appeared at the old village."

  "You must be patient," Kharani said, not wanting to let him know there was a chance that the effort might be only a waste of time. The fighters had to feel that everything they did was important, in order to keep up their ardor for battle.

  "Au!" Durtami agreed. "When we apprehend the infidel dogs who twisted Kariska away from Islam, your hours of futility will be forgotten."

  "Yes, Amir," Abzai said. "Meanwhile I have discovered the village to be very defendable. I have also had the men construct some strong positions from some of the rubble that was scattered about."

  "Excellent:' Durtami said. "You are doing a fine job, Brother Abzai. I am now promoting you to the rank of jak bresh--sergeant."

  Abzai's features broke into a wide grin. "Sukhria--thank you, Amin"

  "You are dismissed," Durtami said. After the new sergeant left the room, the warlord turned to his chief lieutenant to resume their interrupted conversation. "Are you sure about the news of a government team coming to register the village of Herandbe for future elections?"

  "Absolutely, Amir," Kharani said.

  "May Allah curse them into Hades!" Durtami said. He took a deep, calming breath. "I think this will be a chance to get some hostages. A million afghanis will prove very beneficial to our activities."

  "Of course, Amir."

  "Very well! You know what to do," Durtami said. "I will attend to it immediately, Amir."

  "Show no mercy!"

  "I shall obey, Amir," Kharani said. "Your wrath is my wrath."

  Chapter 4

  OPERATIONAL AREA 8 AUGUST

  2200 HOURS LOCAL

  THE Odd Couple Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz moved silently across the firm ground of the valley, staying alert with the pessimistic apprehension that keeps professional combat troops vigilant and alive. A thick layer of clouds blocked the moon, but the darkness did not affect the two SEALs using AN/PVS-21 night vision system goggles. They had taken forty-minutes to travel a little more than a kilometer and a half, stopping every fifty meters to squat, look and listen during the move through the alien environment that held such a strong potential for danger.

  They had left the remainder of the platoon in a defensive position at the base of East Ridge. The two-man patrol's mission was pure reconnaissance, and they were to avoid contact with the enemy.

  "Hold it!" Dave whispered over the LASH headset. "Whatcha see?"

  "I think that's the village over there at about eleven o'clock."

  Mike looked in the indicated direction. "Yeah. Let's do a little observing before we move any closer."

  The Odd Couple loosened the headsets and pulled them back to free their ears to listen for any sounds as they carefully scrutinized the rubble of the village and the area around it. A kicked rock, a voice, a cough, belch or fart would be a sure sign somebody was in the vicinity. After a couple of minutes they were positive nobody else was around. The two replaced the LASH headsets, then stood up and cautiously moved forward, holding their CAR-15s ready.

  When they reached the ruins, it was obvious the place had been wrecked by rocketing from helicopter gunships. No mortar or artillery damage was apparent. "This prob'ly happened when the Russkis were fighting here," Dave opined.

  "I hope the women and kids got away," Mike said. "But I doubt it."

  "Guerrilla warfare is nasty on civilians, man."

  "The Afghan War happened in the 1970s and 1980s," Mike said. "That means this place was blown up between twenty and thirty-five years ago. And since nobody came back to live here again, it means they were all killed."

  "Yeah," Dave said. "Shit happens. C'mon! The skipper wants us to watch this place for at least a half hour."

  They left the ruins, and went out to a spot in some scrub brush twenty meters away to settle down for a further period of observation.

  .

  2310 HOURS LOCAL

  CHAD Murchison knelt beside the rocks peering out into the darkness that was molded into a green and white visibility by his night vision device. He was with his mates of Bravo Fire Team, anxiously scanning the countryside to the direct front of their defensive position. Assad and Leibowitz were out there someplace in that wilderness scoping out the location where the defector was to show up.

  This was Chad's fourth mission and his first as a Brigand, yet he still could not believe he was a SEAL. He was from a wealthy Boston family replete with old money, an ancestry that could be traced back to the Pilgrims, and money-making generations in banking, stockbroking and other financial professions. Chad, who had grown up as a privileged preppy, was skinny and awkward as a kid. In all his years at the exclusive Starkweather Academy in New Hampshire, he never made an athletic team or even participated in intramural sports between dormitories. Nobody wanted the kid with two left feet on his team. This lack of physical prowess and strength left him with a serious inferiority complex in spite of his brilliant academic record. He dropped out of his freshman year at Yale to enlist in the Navy after his girlfriend dumped him for a jock. An indoctrination lecture about the SEALs during boot camp made him decide to try for masculine glory one more time. He volunteered for the elite unit, ignoring the discouragement given him by his commanding officer. Chad reported to Coronado with a determination he had never felt before. He swore he would kill himself if he didn't make this cut.

  Despite his resoluteness, Chad barely made it through the training, as he struggled more with his natural clumsiness than with a lack of zeal or courage. In the end it was his stubborn, bulldog attitude that finally won over the instructors. Here was a guy who wouldn't quit; who would keep fighting and busting his balls until there wasn't a breath left in his body.

  Now he was seriously considering disregarding family traditions by not returning home to finish school and begin a banking career in the family firm. At this time in his life, the idea of not being a SEAL or one of Brannigan's Brigands was beneath consideration as far as Petty Officer Third Class Chadwick Murchison was concerned. He scorned everything in his past life, including Penny Brubaker, the girl who dumped him. It was like the guys in the platoon always sa
id, "Turn the broads upside down and they all look alike."

  A movement to the front caught Chad's attention, and he instantly recognized the figures of Dave Leibowitz and Mike Assad approaching the position. He could tell by their actions they were in an easy mood, and he stood up so the Odd Couple could see him. He nodded to them as they walked up. "Anything interesting out there?"

  Mike shook his head. "Just a village like they told us in Isolation."

  "The fucking terrain out there looks like the high desert in California," Dave added. "Remember that training operation at Trona south of the China Lake Weapons Center? Same thing exactly."

  They went back to the area where Bill Brannigan had set up his command post with Senior Chief Dawkins. Both squatted down in front of the honchos while Dave gave the report. "Nothing there, sir. I'd hate to have to attack the place though. There's dozens of places in those knocked down buildings for cover and concealment."

  Dawkins took a bite of his PowerBar. "Did it look like anybody had been there lately?"

  "It's hard to pick up tracks on the hard ground," Dave said. "But nobody's obviously lived there for a hell of a long time."

  "Deserted," Mike pronounced.

  "Well, I hope that defector shows up sometime tonight," Brannigan said. "Okay, guys. Take a break. Send Lieutenant Cruiser, Chief Gunnarson and Puglisi over here."

  "Aye, sir," Dave said.

  A couple of minutes later the three SEALs responded to the firm invitation and joined the skipper and senior chief in the bucolic headquarters. Brannigan shifted his seat on the rocks he had been warming with his buttocks. "Assad and Leibowitz say there's nothing at the site. I want you three to go over there and see if somebody shows up for a meet. Take off at oh-two-hundred and wait until oh-five-hundred. If nothing happens by then, we'll have to try again tomorrow night."

  "What if more than one guy shows up?" Jim Cruiser asked.

  "Don't make contact in that case," Brannigan said. "We'll try again. If there're two of 'em, the next time we'll take a chance. But not now."