Battleline (2007) s-5

by Jack Terral

  THE nine SEALs--Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, Ensign Orlando Taylor, the two Hit Men and the five Sneaky Petes--had been unexpectedly ordered from their base camp to fly back to Shelor Field the night before. They carried some melancholy cargo with them on the helicopter flight: Two body bags containing Petty Officers Paul Schreiber and Paulo Garcia lay on the deck between the rows of seats.

  The most puzzling aspect of the unexpected summons was that they had been instructed to come looking for a fight. Each had his personal weapon and some bandoliers of ammo in addition to Bruno Puglisi packing a SAW and Joe Miskoski an M-203 grenade launcher.

  Now the SEALs were back in their old hangar, lounging around the Headquarters cubicle, wondering what the hell was going on. They had enjoyed a good meal at the base mess hall, and were sharing some thermoses of hot coffee the mess sergeant had furnished them after they had finished off a couple of dozen eggs, piles of hash brown potatoes, biscuits, pancakes, sausages, bacon, and a large cheese Danish that Ensign Taylor had gotten for himself. Puglisi belched and stretched. "I wonder what the poor people had for breakfast this morning."

  Matty Matsuno grinned. "I don't think there was anything left over for them."

  "Man!" Dave Leibowitz said. "When I'm in the field, I think more about food than I do sex."

  "Most guys do," Brannigan said, pouring coffee into his plastic cup. "But as soon as that craving for a fully belly is satiated, we turn our wandering thoughts to the delights offered by the opposite sex."

  "Oh, yeah!" Connie Concord said. "Females. Say! Is that what them Air Force personnel with soft, round butts are that we keep seeing around here? The ones that seem to need haircuts."

  Mike Assad laughed. "Most of 'em. I'm not so sure about a couple I saw."

  Further conversation was interrupted by the roar of a motor as Randy Tooley sped into the hangar in his purloined DPV. When Brannigan noticed the man in the passenger seat, he jumped up. "Tinch-hut!"

  Brigadier General Greg Leroux stepped out of the vehicle, turning to the little Air Force guy. "Thanks for the ride, Randy." He took another look at the conveyance. "Where the hell did you get hold of this DPV, anyhow? I didn't think it was on any Air Force TOA."

  "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Randy said with a grin as he mashed the gearshift into reverse and gunned the engine for a quick exit.

  Leroux laughed aloud. "I never bother a go-getter. The American Armed Forces run on guys like you." He turned to the SEALs. "At ease, men! Sit down and finish your coffee. I need to have a little chat with you."

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "Guys, this is General Leroux from the SFOB aboard the Combs. He's pretty much running our operation."

  "Well, I get some shitty input from Station Bravo from time to time that I have to pass on," Leroux allowed. "But if you're pissed off about anything, I'm pretty much the guy to put the blame on."

  "In that case, sir," Brannigan said, "we need some fifties to replace the M-sixties we have in the OA. Those seven-point-six-twos just don't have the punch we need."

  "I've already seen to it, Brannigan," Leroux said. "I read the AAR about that little fiasco with them suicidal ragheads. It seemed to me your support folks could have traded a little more fire with the bad guys if they'd been using M-twos." He walked over, grabbed an unused cup, and filled it with coffee. "Okay, let's get down to business. I got to get back to that fucking sardine can of a boat they stuck me on. I called you guys back here for a HALO insertion."

  "Christ!" Brannigan said. "Where?"

  "Behind that mountain where the bad guys are holing up," Leroux said. "I've already worked out the OPORD so we won't have a briefback on this thing. The gist of the operation is to land on their LZ in the dark, then sneak around and make an attack on their south end and roll up that flank. Shoot the hell out of the place and make great big fucking nuisances out of yourselves."

  "That's kind of risky, ain't it, sir?" Puglisi said.

  "You'll have the advantage because you'll be firing down their line of defense," Leroux explained. "They'll be caught flat-footed with a very narrow front of resistance to throw up at you. That means the bastards won't be able to mount a counterattack for a while. You're gonna have to judge when they're ready to hit back, then pull out and make a run back to the LZ for exfiltration. You'll be using AFSOC for that. There's nobody better'n the Air Force for that kind of a hairy to-do."

  The ever outspoken Bruno Puglisi was still not about to be quiet and withdrawn. "What the hell's this all about, sir?"

  "Those Zaheya bastards think they shook you up with that suicide bomber attack," Leroux said. "It seems to me their morale is a bit higher than it should be, since they're feeling smug. Something like this will put the fear of God into 'em."

  "The fear of God, hell!" Garth Redhawk said. "It'll be the fear of the United States Navy SEALs."

  "I can't argue with you, son," Leroux said. "Now, if one of you would be kind enough to fetch that packet I put in the lower desk drawer there, we'll get into this briefing."

  Garth and Matty walked over and secured the documents, handing them to the general. Leroux ripped the sealed envelope open. "We have some detailed maps here made from the latest satellite photos of the OA. These will be real handy as we discuss the ways and means of our operation." He tossed the charts over to Joe Miskoski. "Pass these around, son."

  "Aye, sir!"

  "God!" Leroux moaned. "I hate that Navy talk!"

  .

  WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  AUGUST 1400 HOURS

  WHEN Owen Peckham stepped into the press room, he exhibited a very obvious bounce in his step. He grinned as he stepped up to the podium and sat his notes down. "Good afternoon, everybody! How are we doing this bright summer day?"

  "Well!" Joyce Bennington of the Boston World Journal said. "You're in a chipper mood, Owen."

  "Why, Joyce, I'm always in a chipper mood," Peckham said. He beamed at his audience. "As usual I will open things up with announcements, or as is the case today, a single announcement." He looked around. "Where is Dirk Wallenger? I don't see him here anyplace. Is there anyone else from Global News Broadcasting present? No? Oh, gee, I'll have to go on without them." He paused and cleared his throat. "Ahem! In regard to the information about a wounded enemy prisoner being executed in Afghanistan, we have received an update on that. It seems that the prisoner in question lost his life during an escape attempt."

  "Oh, sure!" Brian Mackenzie of the Ontario People's Advocate crowed. "Now there's an old story, hey? Shot while attempting to escape. Good God! It's almost a cliche."

  "The Pentagon clearly admits the man lost his life during an escape try," Peckham said gleefully. He had received permission to reveal a newer version of the story only an hour before, when the President decided it was best to tell about the snake bite, albeit in a special way. "However, he was not shot." He waited a couple of beats for effect, then announced, "He was bitten by a poisonous snake. A cobra, to be exact. The deadly serpent was in a stand of rocks into which the unfortunate terrorist entered to conceal himself. Cobras are among the deadliest of snakes, and the man died quickly before he could be evacuated to proper medical treatment."

  The Canadian Mackenzie wasn't going to give up his argument. "Why didn't the Americans troops treat him for the bite and stabilize him until transportation could arrive?"

  "Our troops are not issued any antivenom serum in their medical kits," Peckham explained. "And even if they had any, it would take a doctor to administer it properly. A cobra's bite is fatal in an exceedingly short period of time."

  Mackenzie snuffed a bit and scribbled in his notebook.

  Peckham gazed fondly at the other journalists. "Well! Let's get down to business. Are there any questions out there?"

  A dozen hands were raised.

  .

  EXECUTIVE OFFICES,

  GLOBAL NEWS BROADCASTING

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  6 AUGUST 0830 HOU
RS

  DON Allen, the CEO of GNB, sat at the conference table in his office, sharing the large piece of furniture with only one other person: Frank Brice, attorney-at-law, who was on retainer by the broadcasting service. Brice, who styled his hair in a ponytail and sported an earring, was more conventional in the rest of his attire. He wore a skillfully tailored business suit, complete with shirt and tie, and he was shod in an expensive pair of Italian shoes.

  When the lawyer spoke, his voice was deep and authoritative. "We do not want to go on trial regarding this issue."

  Allen wasn't in agreement. "Aren't we dealing with the First Amendment here? If there ever was an incident involving freedom of the press, this is it."

  "It's a little more complicated than that, Don," Brice said. "GNB issued a news bulletin stating that American troops had murdered a wounded prisoner during combat action in Afghanistan. That turned out to be false in the worst sense, or a mistake in the best. And the best here isn't very good."

  "Wait!" Allen protested. "It was the fucking Pentagon that said it was false. The sons of bitches are covering their asses with an out-and-out falsehood."

  "I don't think they're lying," Brice said. "They've been upfront about atrocities before, so there's no real reason to think they would fudge on this one. So we have to accept what they say as gospel. But we do have some choices here. The best is to blame it on the source."

  "That's easy enough."

  "But then there would be a demand--not only from the government but also from the public--for you to name that source."

  "It's our policy not to reveal sources under any circumstances," Allen said. "We'd rather go to jail."

  "Alright," Brice said. "But it's going to make you look like you're dispensing terrorist propaganda. Let's face it, Don. GNB is noted for its leftist leanings. And this isn't like protesting the war. If the public is convinced you're aiding and abetting the terrorists, they'll turn away from you in droves. That also means that the local independent TV stations you depend on will drop GNB like a hot rock. That could be the end of having your voice heard by millions of people." He shook his head. "I hate to say it, but it could be the end of your organization."

  Allen was clearly disgusted. "Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?"

  "Have Dirk Wallenger issue an apology and announce that he had been victimized by false documentation," Brice said. "He can say he trusted a person or persons who had proven totally reliable in the past. But they let him down on this one occasion."

  "Mmm," Allen mused. "Dirk could say he made an honest mistake and is sorry as hell about it. He can also announce he will check his facts with much more care in the future. That will soothe any hard feelings in the White House or the Pentagon."

  "Sure," Brice said. "It's just a little incident, anyway." He chuckled. "When you get right down to it, who gives a shit? Right?"

  "Yeah," Allen said. "Just a minor happening that means absolutely nothing."

  CHAPTER 15

  TEN THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE OA

  7 AUGUST 0320 HOURS

  LIEUTENANT Bill Brannigan was stabilized and steady as he streaked earthward at 120 miles per hour. Eight other SEALs similarly occupied in the HALO insert checked the ground thousands of feet below through their NVGs. In spite of the long plunge, they had no sensation of falling. As far as their physical sensations were concerned, they lay motionless on a cushion of air that held them aloft with a bit of buffeting. When the jumpers glanced at each other, they all seemed to be hanging motionless in the night sky; however, the spinning needles on their wrist altimeters gave ample evidence of the controlled plummeting.

  As soon as Brannigan noted he was thirty-five hundred feet AGL, he pulled the rip cord. The pilot chute of his rig leaped free, instantly filling with air. The device hauled out the deployment bag and suspensions lines in the blink of an eye, and the canopy cells inflated. This happened at almost the same moment to the other Brigands, and there they were--hanging beneath the deployed parachutes in gentle glides to earth, all relieved that there had been no malfunctions of their equipment.

  They didn't want to get too far away from the mountains out in the desert, so they pulled down on the toggles to brake their rate of travel. When they were within a dozen feet of the ground, everyone went into a full brake position until the parachute stalled and their feet gently hit the ground. The one exception was Ensign Lamar Taylor, who wasn't as practiced as the others. This was actually his first HALO jump since finishing the course, and he stalled a bit too soon and tried to recover. This resulted in his striking the ground hard enough to drop him to his knees. He was embarrassed as hell, but he saw the others didn't seem to think he'd done so badly. He quickly got out of his equipment, picking up his M-16 and bandoliers. The used parachute that had brought him safely down from the C-130 would be left abandoned to the elements. This type of mission did not provide enough time for the proper recovery or concealment of jump gear.

  Everyone gathered around the Skipper as per the SOP, and it was with mutual relief that nobody seemed to be hurt. Sprains and fractures are only too common during jumps, and in combat situations even a minor twist of ankle or knee can mean disaster for the mission. The only carrying equipment they had was their combat vests, which were attached to pistol belts. This was second-line equipment that provides what's needed to fight effectively and efficiently. These carried a two-quart canteen, battle dressing, and medical kit in the back pouches. Additionally, they individually carried six thirty-round magazines of 5.56-millimeter ammo, with two bandoliers of twelve more slung across their shoulders. Counting the one magazine in their M-16s, this gave each SEAL a grand total of 570 rounds, adding about 36 pounds to their carrying load.

  Since Puglisi toted a SAW, he would be lugging four extra bandoliers, providing him with 1,260 rounds. If he fired those as fast as he could, it would take him about a hundred seconds to shoot it all up at the normal rate. Needless to say, the SEAL would be employing short bursts. Brannigan would have liked to have brought along three times that amount for support fire, but Colonel Leroux had limited them to toting only what they could manage as individual jumpers. He also reminded Brannigan that when he returned to his base camp, the newly issued .50 heavy machine guns would be there to provide future support fire. These replacement weapons would soon be under the tender care of CPO Matt Gunnarson and his three crews on the SEAL side of no-man's-land.

  On that night's operation Puglisi would be turning loose his full firepower when they made a break for the helicopter during exfiltration. The only other times he was to fire would be during unexpected emergencies. Joe Miskoski with an M-203 on his M-16 was also humping extra poundage because of the grenades. Brannigan teamed him up with Puglisi to give the SAW gunner some added protection so he wouldn't be forced into expending too much ammunition if he ended up in a hairy situation. The Skipper had wanted to leave the SAW behind and have Puglisi lug along a grenade launcher, but Leroux felt the one SAW would be needed.

  Out on the DZ, after putting on the LASH headsets and the AN/PRC-126 radios for interteam commo, the small strike force formed up as had been determined back at Shelor Field. Redhawk and Matsuno went on point, followed by Ensign Taylor and Connie Concord. The middle of the formation was made up of the Skipper, Puglisi, and Miskoski. The Odd Couple-Assad and Leibowitz--brought up the rear.

  When everybody and everything were in readiness at 0335 hours, the Skipper spoke calmly but significantly over his LASH.

  "Move out."

  .

  0350 HOURS

  THE rear of the mountain housing the Zaheya loomed large and menacingly in the darkness. The NVGs gave the point men, Redhawk and Matsuno, a revealing view of the steep terrain's features as they drew closer.

  "Objective in sight," Redhawk said. "Two hundred meters ahead."

  "Roger," Brannigan said in acknowledgment. "You two move on for a recon. Taylor, you and Concord move forward fifty meters for security, then hold up. Odd Couple, cover the r
ear."

  While the others situated themselves, the two scouts went forward at a slow pace, being careful to stay in the scrub while following dips in the terrain. Although the enemy had no reason to expect an attack from the rear, there was always the chance that some raghead or two with night vision capabilities had been posted at an OP. The SEAL duo walked carefully, avoiding rocks that might be accidentally kicked loose to clatter down into a ravine. As they drew closer to the objective, they slowed even more, this time for studied observations of possible hiding places inhabited by alert sentries. All the Brigands were now very much aware of the professionalism of the enemy they faced, and were aware that any slips in caution could bring fatal results.

  The two scions of Native American and samurai warrior traditions barely breathed as they continued their fluid, silent travel upward into the reaches of the mountains. They were fully aware that just on the other side of the valley, the rest of their buddies stood on watch, keeping wary eyes on the Zaheya positions opposite them.

  "Wait!" Matsuno hissed into the LASH.

  Redhawk immediately dropped to one knee. "What's up?"

  "Look just to the right of that cut in the side of the mountain."

  Redhawk's eyes went in the direction and found the spot. He pulled out his NVBs and gazed intently. "Yeah! A guard standing by a trail."

  "That's where we're supposed to enter their positions," Matsuno said. "They probably stuck the guy there in the off-chance somebody might be going through that area."

  "Well now, that was an excellent guess on their part, wasn't it?" Redhawk said. He spoke into the LASH to get the Skipper's attention. "There's a sentry at the entry point. He'll have to be taken out."

  "Roger," came back the Skipper's acquiescence. "Do it."

  "Here," Redhawk said, handing his M-16 to Matsuno. Now free of the rifle, he pulled his K-Bar knife from its scabbard. As the senior ranking man between the two of them, this was the Oklahoman's choice. The Japanese-American trailed silently after his buddy as they eased forward toward the Zaheya soldier.