by Jack Terral
"Negative," Gunnarson replied. 'They either can't hit shit or they're not sure of our exact location."
"It's prob'ly a little of both," Puglisi opined. "They're kinda spastic with them things."
"Can you reach them with your M-203?"
"Negative, Chief," Puglisi said. "They're out of range."
"You guys stand fast and keep your heads down," Gunnarson said. He glanced over at the Skipper, who was looking at him quizzically. He made a quick report. At that moment the senior chief came up, just as two shells struck on the opposite side of the mountain.
"Get your Bravos together, Senior Chief," Brannigan ordered. "That incoming is from a couple of mortars out there in the valley. You can get the exact locations from Puglisi. Evidently they're out of range of the M-203s, so you'll have to take 'em down with your CAR-15s. And that means paying them a personal visit."
"Aye, sir," Senior Chief Dawkins said. "Although I hate to just barge in without an invitation." He gave the Skipper a salute, then turned to trot over toward the Bravo positions while another explosion, too far away to do any harm, went off. "On your feet, Bravos. There's a couple of mortars that want knocked out."
In the passing of only a few short moments he was leading Connie Concord, Gutsy Olson and Chad Murchison on a circuitous route down the side of the mountain toward the valley.
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0635 H0URS LOCAL
THE Bravos worked their way a short distance up the side of East Ridge, and found cover and concealment within a hundred meters of the mortars. They had an excellent view of the two weapons as the mujahideen made adjustments, then dropped the small shells down the tube.
"Jesus!" Connie Concord whispered through his LASH headset. "Them little mortars don't make hardly no sound at all."
"There isn't a flash either," Chad Murchison remarked. "And they don't just drop the shell down the tube. They pull a trigger there to fire it."
"That means a cartridge of some kind is involved," Connie said, thinking out loud.
Gutsy Olson, who had been sent a bit higher to recon the mountainside, now came back. "Them dumb bastards don't have no protection on the flanks. They're out there all by themselves just having a ball."
"Okay," Dawkins said. "Me and Murchison will take the far crew. Concord and Olson take the near one. Semi-auto. Let's make this fast. On my command." Everyone took aim, and an instant later the senior chief said, "Fire!"
Four of the six men on the site were hit by the single shots pumped into their midst. The other two, with one limping badly from a wound, abandoned the position to scramble higher up into the rocks. The SEALs rushed down toward the now abandoned mortar position, and the senior chief sent Gutsy and Chad to chase after the pair of escapees.
After examining the four sprawled corpses, Connie picked up one of the mortars. "I'll be damned!"
The senior chief gave it a close inspection. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this."
"Me and Puglisi know this baby," Connie said. "We even fired it a few times when we went back to Fort Bragg for that weapons training at the Special Warfare Center." He tossed it to the senior chief. "See how light it is? Ten and a half pounds. It's nothing much more than a tube with little bitty base plate. See the carrying strap? You can sling that baby over your shoulder about as easy as a rifle."
"The damn thing is almost silent:'
"Yeah," Connie said. "It's French. They call it the Fly-K. The ammo is fifty-one-millimeter and only weighs a couple of pounds."
Chad and Gutsy came back, and the latter made the report. "The wounded guy that was limping collapsed. I guess he bled to death. His buddy got up too high in them rocks for us to follow. He's prob'ly hauling ass over the top of the ridge by now."
"Okay," the senior chief said. "Our job is done here. Let's police up these two mortars and them ammunition pouches. How many of them is there?"
Connie counted. "Ten, Senior Chief. Each holds five rounds. That gives us fifty."
"There's a couple over here that are opened," Chad said. "One is empty and the other has three rounds in it."
"Bring it along," Dawkins ordered. "We can split up the weight between us. These sweet li'l babies could come in handy."
"Puglisi is gonna be surprised to see all this," Connie said.
"Yeah," Dawkins said. He smirked at Connie. "God! You said, 'Little bitty base plates.' You make it all sound so cutesy."
"Well, shit, Senior Chief," Connie said with a frown, "they are little bitty!"
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BASE CAMP CP
1730 H0URS LOCAL
FRANK Gomez hurried from his commo site, across the ridge line to report to the skipper. He plopped down in front of the platoon commander and shoved a message pad page at him. "Big doings, sir!"
Brannigan took the paper and quickly perused the missive written in the radio operator's neat block printing style. "Damn!" He looked over at the small smokeless fire where Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were diligently boiling water for coffee. "Assad! Go fetch Lieutenant Cruiser and the chiefs!"
"Aye, sir!"
Mike leaped to his feet and rushed over to make a circuit of Bravo, Charlie and Delta Fire Teams. In less than a minute-and-a-half he was back with the lieutenant, Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson. He returned to his buddy Dave just in time to have a canteen cup of hot coffee handed to him.
Brannigan went straight to the subject at hand when he addressed his small staff. "Two things going down, gentlemen. When Commander Carey back in Isolation told us this mission had the potential to evolve into something a hell of a lot more complicated, he wasn't just whistling Dixie. We're getting a resupply drop at" he checked his watch" eighteen-thirty hours. That's less than an hour away."
"Great!" Cruiser commented. "I was starting to sweat the ammo and chow inventory."
"As was I," Brannigan said. "And I'm in no fucking mood to start living off the land." He scanned the message again. "Now this second bit is going to curl your toes. We are tasked with rescuing a couple of hostages being held down there in that warlord's compound."
"Our reconnaissance and the sketch map we updated will come in handy, sir," the senior chief said. "We noted they was two prisoners being held in one of them supply storage containers. They must be the hostages. We're gonna have to skirt the village and go through the vehicle park to get to it."
"Good to know," Brannigan said. "But first things first. We've got to concentrate on the resupply." He turned to Cruiser. "Figure out a good DZ up here on the ridge, and put out some panels. It'll still be light when the aircraft comes in."
"Aye, sir," Cruiser replied. "What kind of airplane is it going to be? And will they use parachutes or just dump the stuff out as they whip by?"
"Why should they give us all that information, Jim?" Brannigan said with a sardonic grin. "We're just the poor dumb bastards in the OA. If they dropped all that shit on our heads, we would be expected to be grateful just the same."
Cruiser got to his feet. "I'll get the panels."
"In the meantime, I'll use that sketch map to figure out some brilliant tactics to rescue those prisoners," Brannigan said. He nodded to the senior chief. "Stick around."
"Aye, sir."
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1815 HOURS LOCAL
THE members of the crack AFSOC are little known by the American public. When the average citizen turns his mind to Special Forces, he thinks of SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers and Force Recon. He is unaware that there exist dedicated people in the United States Air Force who play a vital role in all SPECOPS. Those other, better known outfits would have a tough time without their courageous support. AFSOC provides infiltration and exfiltration services, resupply, fire support in combat situations and merciful MEDEVAC and rescue services at the risk of their own lives.
One of the aircraft vital in these services is the MH-53J Pave Low helicopter. This extraordinary aircraft is equipped with FUR that allows it to fly at low altitudes at night to arrive right on target. As well as havi
ng one of the most sophisticated navigation systems in the world, it can go six hundred miles without refueling. The choppers and their elite crews have proven themselves over and over, from the time of Desert Storm, where they led U. S. Army Apache helicopters in to destroy Iraqi radar positions, all the way through to the current campaigns in the Iraqi War and Afghanistan.
LIEUTENANT Bill Brannigan sat next to Frank Gonzales at the Shadowfire radio. He glanced out at the DZ that Cruiser and Chief Gunnarson had hastily organized with panels. They also had some smoke grenades handy, though no signal arrangements had been made for the use of the pyrotechnic devices. Brannigan had decided to follow the usual procedures, i. E., green smoke meant go, yellow smoke indicated go around again, and red was the signal to abort the mission.
The Shadowfire came to life with the voice of one of the Pave Low's six-man crew. "Delta Zulu, this is Chopper. We are fifteen minutes out. Supplies are on three pallets and will be pushed out the ass end at an altitude of zero-zero-low. We've been apprised of your coordinates, but we need an azimuth. Over."
Brannigan grabbed the mike. "Chopper, this is Delta Zulu. We have laid out panels indicating direction of flight. Use them as your first target. Azimuth is sweet and simple. Fly due north. Over."
"This is Chopper. Out."
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1830 HOURS LOCAL
THE Pave Low could be seen flying south, then it made a slow turn and lined up on the crest of the ridge. Immediately it began spewing countermeasure flares that blossomed thickly and brightly around it. The pilot brought it in at such a low altitude that the aircraft appeared to be almost on the deck. Just as it passed over Cruiser's panels, the first bundled pallet slid out and hit the ground, skidding forward. Then a second and third quickly followed. With the load delivered, the power was increased and the aircraft made a rapid climb and turn as it sped back up to altitude.
The platoon members rushed out to the pallets, unbuckling the heavy nylon straps holding the bundles to the wooden platforms. The rations and ammunition issues were greatly appreciated. But the unexpected four cases of beer put there by the thoughtful Air Force crew elicited cheers of sincere gratitude.
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2200 H0URS LOCAL
THE supplies--and beer--had been distributed among the four fire teams, and now the entire platoon was gathered in a semicircle around the CP for the briefing on the hostage rescue mission. All the extra weapons and ammo had been packed away, and the men, each with a six-pack of Michelob, were in a good mood as they waited for the skipper to begin the briefing for the upcoming operation.
Brannigan took a sip from a can of beer, then raised it high. "Here's to the magnificent guys of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command. God bless 'em!"
"God bless 'em!" came back the shouts with fifteen cans raised high in a toast to their comrades-in-arms of the flying branch.
"Now hear this!" Brannigan said. "Let's get down to business. The mission requires us to get into that warlord's compound and pull out two poor bastards he's holding there for ransom. I'll discuss the details of my OPORD following personnel assignments. Listen up!"
Both chief petty officers gave the platoon a careful look to make sure everyone was paying attention in spite of guzzling beer.
"A diversion will be created by the entire Second Squad," Brannigan continued. "Meanwhile the First Squad will move in and set up firing positions as close to the compound wall as possible. I will take Assad and Leibowitz with me over the wall and into the compound to the storage container where the prisoners are locked up. We'll get 'em out of there and over the wall. We'll join up with the rest of the squad and move to a rendezvous area where the Second Squad will join us. From there we come back here. Any questions so far?"
Chad Murchison raised his hand. "Are the hostages going to be exfiltrated from the base camp any time soon?"
"I don't know at this point," Brannigan said. "Once we have 'em here, we'll radio into SOCOM in Bahrain. Someone will have to make a decision:' He checked his notes. "All right! Here's the execution phase of the mission."
Everyone instinctively leaned forward.
Chapter 8
OPERATIONAL AREA SECOND SQUAD
17 AUGUST
0030 HOURS LOCAL
THE entire Second Squad, under the command of Lieutenant Jim Cruiser, had spent three careful hours traveling across the barren area between East Ridge and the warlord's compound. The night vision goggles were helpful in finding their way under the cloudy night sky, and they traversed the terrain, showing green-white through the viewing devices, as rapidly as security precautions allowed. They knew the mujahideen would be nervous and angry in this volatile situation. That meant the ragheads on guard duty would be especially edgy and watchful at night. Thus, any careless sound such as an inadvertently kicked rock or one piece of equipment banging against another could bring salvos of incoming fire on the SEALs.
Now, sweat-soaked from the dangerous trek, the Second Squad was two hundred meters from the southeast portion of the walls around the warlord's compound. This put them in a position exactly opposite of where the First Squad would be located during the hostage rescue portion of the mission. Bruno Puglisi had one of the French mortars slung over his muscular left shoulder while his M-16/M-203 hung on the right. Joe Miskoski had been chosen to be his assistant gunner, and he had rigged haversacks from a couple of the ammo packs for use in carrying the shells. They both breathed the proverbial sighs of relief when the squad reached its objective and they could drop the extra weaponry to set up a mortar emplacement.
Cruiser, in his usual micromanagement style, personally selected firing positions for each man and the mortar. After the emplacements were scooped out of the ground with entrenching tools, the SEALs gathered brush to use as concealment around the fighting holes. Noise discipline was a must in those hours of darkness, when even the softest of sounds was amplified. It took extra effort to do the work in silence.
A half hour later, as soon as each man was ready, the lieutenant went to his own position and readied himself for the battle ahead. He checked his watch, observing the luminescent second hand work its way up to the 12. After one more glance around, he spoke in an excited whisper over the LASH headset to his mortar team.
"Fire!"
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FIRST SQUAD
0145 HOURS LOCAL
THE firing of the first mortar rounds was a welcome sound to the First Squad. The Bravo Fire Team under Senior Chief Buford Dawkins was set up similarly to the Second Squad on the other side of the compound. However, the Bravos were charged with fire support only and were under strict orders not to shoot unless absolutely necessary. Brannigan wanted the mujahideen to think there was only one attack and it was coming from the southeast side. If this ploy failed, then the mission of the First Squad would deteriorate into a fighting withdrawal. In that disastrous event, Connie Concord was standing by with his M-16/M-203 ready to arc HE grenades at any potential attackers. Since he would have no time to employ one of the more effective French mini-mortars, the second of these recently acquired weapons had been left back on West Ridge.
"Let's go," Brannigan whispered, and he moved out toward the northwest portion of the compound wall. The rest of Alpha Fire Team--Mike Assad, Frank Gomez and Dave Leibowitz--followed after him. When they reached the mud fortress, Mike knelt down while Dave stood in front of him. Brannigan stepped on Mike's back and went up on Dave's shoulders then stepped up on the wall and slipped over, dropping to the ground. Frank did the same, but stayed on top of the wall to reach down and pull Mike and Dave up. In less than forty-five seconds they were all inside the compound.
The people of the village were already noisily reacting to the firing off to the southeast, and the men had sleepily stumbled outside, carrying their weapons. Their leaders shouted at them in the Pashto language, gesturing for them to hurry toward the sound of the fighting.
The Alphas skirted the outlying huts of the village and swung around to the v
ehicle park. They concealed themselves behind a Ford van and waited for a good opportunity to get over to the storage containers. The firing from the Second Squad had built up to a steady crescendo, and the loud detonations of mortar shells punctuated the rolling thunder of the fusillades. Jim Cruiser and his two fire teams were rocking and rolling with a vengeance.
Meanwhile, the women were out in front of their huts, obviously frightened out of their wits. They clung to their children, screeching at the boys who wanted to go join their dads and older brothers in the fighting. These were people who had endured attacks before, yet they could still panic into spasms of irrationality, to wander around where stray bullets could quickly end a life or cause grievous wounds.
But they did have the presence of mind to turn out all the lanterns in their quarters.
The Alphas waited a few minutes to be sure the villagers' collective attention was wrapped up in the developing battle. Then Brannigan whispered, "Let's have a jailbreak!"
He led his trio of men off to the shadows at the side of the vehicle park and over to an area where two large storage containers were situated in a row. The four SEALs came to a sudden stop when they heard excited male voices a few meters ahead. After determining that the speakers were stationary, they eased forward in the shadows to check the mujahideen's exact position.
The two fighters, obviously standing guard in the area where the hostages were held, stood looking toward the sound of the fighting. They seemed to be discussing whether to remain at their assigned sentry post or go join their brother mujahideen doing battle with the attackers. Brannigan pulled his K-Bar, pointed to himself and then to the man on the right. Next he pointed to Mike and the man on the left. Now Mike pulled his knife as Dave and Frank took the CAR-15s from him and the Skipper to hold while the owners tended to the bloody task ahead.
The two moved slowly toward their quarry, appreciative of the noise from all the shooting some hundred meters away. They stopped a scant two paces from the guards, then Brannigan nodded to order the attack. Both SEALs struck simultaneously with the viciousness of cobras, driving the blades of their weapons under the back of rib cages and up into the vital areas where organs and arteries were located. The knives were violently twisted to enlarge the wounds. Brannigan and Mike kept their hands over the victims' mouths, working the knives until the mujahideen went limp. At that point the dead men were lowered gently to the ground to avoid unnecessary noise.
