“Mukhtar Abu-Zar Noorzai,” Bradshaw said, before adding in Pashto, “We’ve been looking for you.”
Noorzai said nothing as he breathed heavily, his lips pursed and his chin held high in defiance. Bradshaw pushed Noorzai against the wall and patted him down, then looked to Fox when he was done.
“He’s clean.”
Fox nodded and keyed up. “All points, Grease. Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot.”
“Roger,” Burr said. “Red side rooms are clear. Headed to clear green side rooms.”
“Roger,” Fox said. “Break. McLovin, Grease. Call up jackpot to higher.”
“We’re on it,” Devlin said.
A rustling sound in the nearby closet grabbed Bradshaw’s and Fox’s attention. Bradshaw shoved Noorzai hard against the wall and held him in place. Fox lowered his M4 and drew his Glock 19 from its war belt holster. He advanced on the closet, Glock held close to his sternum. When Fox reached the closet, he threw the door open and extended the pistol in front of him, sweeping left to right. Fox froze, then slowly holstered his Glock and disappeared into the closet, which elicited a confused expression from Bradshaw. The sound of an article of clothing being ripped from a hanger echoed in the dark room.
Fox emerged from the closet, a 7-year-old boy in his arms. The boy was wrapped in the shirt that Fox had taken from the hanger. Even through the night observation device, Bradshaw could make out the shattered, empty look in the boy’s eyes. Including the current deployment, Bradshaw had served in Afghanistan nine times. He was familiar with the positive aspects of Afghan culture, such as their world-renowned hospitality and their rich history. He was also familiar with the negative aspects, to which the boy was a testament. Bradshaw’s blood boiled the longer he looked at the boy.
Before Fox could stop him, Bradshaw spun Noorzai around.
“You motherfucker,” he snarled. He cocked back and slammed his fist into Noorzai’s nose, shattering the cartilage in one go, aided by the hard knuckles of his Oakley gloves. Bradshaw readied another punch. Fox set the boy on the bed, rushed over, and grabbed Bradshaw’s arm.
“Not like this, brother,” Fox said.
Bradshaw’s eyes were wide beneath his NODs. “That’s his fucking tea boy, man!”
“And he’ll pay for that,” Fox said. “But not this way. Not here. I’m not letting you throw your career away over this piece of shit.”
Bradshaw turned back to Noorzai, who hadn’t moved. He stared defiantly, as if committing Bradshaw’s visage to memory.
“Friendlies coming in!” Burr called from the hallway.
“Come in,” Fox said, releasing Bradshaw.
Burr and Wall stepped into the room and walked to Noorzai. The former noticed the blood spilling from Noorzai’s nose. “What happened to him?”
“He bucked,” Fox said.
“Okay,” Burr said with a nod. He looked to the bed. “Who’s the kid?”
“Tea boy,” Fox said simply.
“Huh.” Burr looked to Noorzai again and said, “He looks okay to me. Bring him. Let’s grab the rest of the civilians and get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
“No arguments here,” Fox said. He gripped Noorzai by the arm with one hand and keyed up with the other. “All points, Grease. Coming out.”
CHAPTER THREE
33.4 kilometers south-by-southwest of Jalalabad, Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan
12 June 2017
06:00 hours Echo (01:00 hours Zulu)
“Hey. Wake up, fucker.”
Bradshaw slowly opened his eyes to find Fox standing over him. He was clad in a brown T-shirt, the black mid-thigh slick shorts affectionately known to members of the Regiment as “Ranger panties,” and running shoes. His M4 was slung at his side. That was a war-zone reality: one went nowhere without a weapon, even the gym.
As Bradshaw rubbed his eyes, Fox said, “You’re late for PT. C’mon, dude.”
Bradshaw glanced at the alarm clock on his diminutive bedside dresser. “Damn.” He unzipped his sleeping bag, revealing that he had slept in his informal PT uniform. He climbed out of the bag, then swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet hitting the cold floor sent an invigorating jolt through his body. “Feels like I’ve only been out a few minutes.”
“Recon man’s sleep,” Fox said. “You got your rest. Back up and at it, Ranger.”
Bradshaw grumbled something under his breath as he slipped on his socks and shoes, then reached for the freshly cleaned SCAR. He pulled the bolt back to ensure a round was chambered, double-checked the safety, then slung the rifle on his back. “Let’s roll.”
Fox led the way out of the containerized housing unit and towards the gym. As they crossed the distance, Bradshaw reflected on the events of the past 24 hours. After securing Noorzai, they had trekked two klicks to their extraction zone. A trio of HH-60H Seahawks had arrived, with one providing cover from above while the other two landed to pick up their charges. The SEALs and Noorzai had gone onto one bird, while the Rangers and the captured civilians went on the other. It was a short flight from the Helicopter Landing Zone to the combat outpost, or COP. After landing, the captives were consolidated onto one bird, and a couple of SEALs remained onboard to escort them to Kabul.
Those who dismounted at the COP had assembled in a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility for an after-action review. Everyone neglected to mention Bradshaw’s outburst on Noorzai. Once the particulars were hashed out, the men gathered in their respective team rooms and shot the breeze while cleaning their weapons. Downtime followed, and all of the Rangers opted for sleep. That had been 12 hours prior.
Bradshaw rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he glanced around the COP’s interior. The outpost had an official alpha-numeric designation that none of its residents cared to remember. It had been jokingly called “BFE” by its various tenants until 2015. An Army Special Mission Unit assault team leader was killed in action during a hostage rescue mission in Hawija, in Iraq’s Kirkuk Province. There had been a small contingent of Unit operators attached to the COP at the time, and they lobbied the two battlespace owners—OGA and DEVGRU—to rename the outpost “Walker” in honor of their fallen comrade.
From the outside, it looked no different than any number of COPs in the country. Hesco walls stood 20 feet high, with concrete guard towers at the apexes and midpoints of each wall. The front gate was in a sally port configuration, providing a limited form of defense-in-depth. Containerized Housing Units and General Purpose-Large tents constituted the majority of structures within the COP. It also possessed both a motor pool and a helipad.
That was where the similarities ended. Unlike the average COP, the assigned active-duty personnel didn’t pull base security, nor was it entrusted to local nationals or contractors from African nations. Private contractors from the Triple Canopy PMC provided the tower guards, roving patrols, and LP/OPs under an OGA contract. Most of them were prior American military, either Marine or Army light infantry, with a few former lower-tier SOF troops in the mix.
Within COP Walker was the normal configuration of amenities to which SOF was accustomed. General Order #1’s ban on alcoholic beverages in-country was not observed, and each team room had a minibar full of spirits and lagers. The gym was also state of the art, with a full complement of free weights and machines. There was also a close-quarters rifle range in the corner of the COP for both test-fires prior to missions and for training drills between missions if the op-tempo slowed.
The task force was known as Omega, and was an OGA project authorized under Title 50 of the US Code, which made it a covert operation. Many saw Omega as the second coming of the Vietnam-era Studies and Observations Group and Phoenix programs, which were both joint CIA/Special Operations ventures tasked with hunting the enemy in non-permissive areas. Omega had similar origins, initially established as a program to hunt for al-Qaeda and Taliban elements inside of Pakistan. It eventually branched to every major theater of the Global War on Terror. Omega had satellite post
s in the Horn of Africa, Libya, Syria, and Yemen, amongst other places. Its target deck had also expanded to focus on the ever-growing ISIS threat.
The arrangement was simple: OGA provided the case officers, targeting officers, and analysts necessary to develop high-end intelligence, and JSOC provided the shooters. For Omega’s Afghanistan branch, DEVGRU had provided the bulk of the shooters, as Afghanistan fell under their domain. With operations in Syria and Libya drawing down, the Army Special Mission Unit had begun rotating troops into Afghanistan to alleviate DEVGRU’s op-tempo.
The 75th Ranger Regiment also supplemented Omega in all theaters. This especially applied to the Regiment’s JSOC contribution: the Regimental Reconnaissance Company.
Bradshaw and Fox arrived at the gym, which was a large Quonset hut. TVs were mounted to the walls at various vantage points, allowing anybody on a workout to catch the news or whatever else was airing on the Armed Forces Network at that particular juncture. Fox and Bradshaw each grabbed an unmarked bottle of water from the refrigerators adjacent the front desk and navigated the area. Some of the SEALs were putting in work, as were a few of the OGA paramilitary contractors. Bradshaw spotted a full-figured pale redhead doing squats. He could not remember her name, but knew she worked in the JOC as a targeting officer. He looked at her for a moment, trying to catch her gaze, but she kept her eyes focused ahead. Bradshaw abandoned the notion and continued walking.
Fox nudged Bradshaw in the ribs. “You gonna chat her up?”
“Not in the gym,” Bradshaw said.
“Well, no fucking shit, not in the gym,” Fox said. Both men were philanderers, but both knew that the gym was a place to put in work, not to bother a lady with pick-up lines. “You gotta see her in the chow hall sometime, or elsewhere in passing.”
“Not with our current op-tempo,” Bradshaw said. “I think this is the first time all tour where we’ve had more than a half-day off.”
“Noorzai was a good catch,” Fox said. He eyed the leg press machine. “Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, no,” Bradshaw groaned, immediately reminded of the soreness in his legs from days of long walks and hiking mountainsides.
“Yep,” Fox said with a sadistic grin. “Leg day, motherfucker.”
* * *
It had been a rare easy day for the Recce Rangers. The Dam Neck guys had gone out for a hit on their own, based off of intel passed along from the local ISAF component, but there had been no taskings for the RRC detachment. Those with families back home touched base via email or telephone.
None of the men had social media. The Regiment at large frowned heavily upon the use of Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, and some Rangers had been Released For Standards—the Regimental term for being fired—as punishment for divulging unclassified work information on social media. RRC specifically forbade the use of such outlets and ordered its Rangers to delete their accounts when they were selected for the unit.
That had not been a problem for Bradshaw, who never saw the point of the phenomenon. He had tried MySpace when it was a thing back in the day, and within two weeks, he had deleted his account. It struck him as nothing more than a blend of people who’d peaked in high school chasing their glory days and a digital coliseum for people to sling insults at each other over political disagreements.
With the lack of taskings, Fox had gathered Bradshaw and the others for some drills on the range. They burned through about three hundred rounds per man before calling it good and standing down for weapons maintenance. After a light lunch and a second PT session, they were released for the day.
There was a two-beer/two-shot limit per man. Even though they technically had the night off, they were in a hostile country and needed to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice. The men didn’t need a reminder as to the limit. RRC ran their organization on big boy rules, and every man on the team was a non-commissioned officer.
In the 2-4 Team Room, which was situated between the housing CHUs and the JOC, Bradshaw worked on his second Miller High Life. His eyes were locked on the television. AFN was airing a re-run of NCIS. Bradshaw followed the show from time to time. He could tell it was an older episode, since both Michael Weatherly and Cote de Pablo were still on the show, and Mark Harmon still rocked his high and tight. He had seen some of the newer episodes, where the only OG cast members were Harmon and Sean Murray and Harmon had grown his hair out to something longish and fad-like.
The sound of the door opening drew Bradshaw’s attention away from the television. Fox entered, wearing his Crye combat pants, hiking boots, and a T-shirt that bore the emblem of the Detroit Lions. A fitted ball cap was jammed backwards on his shock of brown hair. Bradshaw was dressed similarly, except he sported no headgear and his dark blue shirt bore the stylized “A” logo of the University of Arizona.
Bradshaw returned his focus to the television and sipped his beer. “Sup, dude?”
Fox shook his head as he stopped and looked at the screen. “Whatcha watching?”
Bradshaw pointed to the TV with his beer in hand. “NCIS. Nothing doing.”
Fox grabbed himself a beer, then walked back to the table. He unslung his M4, leaned it against the table next to Bradshaw’s SCAR, and took a seat.
“We really need a DVD player in here,” Fox said as he dug a bottle opener out of his pocket. A moment later, the Coors Light top was free and beer spilled down his throat.
“Maybe for old movies,” Bradshaw conceded. “I already saw the only recent film that had my interest before deployment.”
“Which one was that?” Fox asked.
“John Wick, Chapter 2.”
Fox nodded and smiled. “That was a good movie.” He paused to take a sip of his beer. “You remember the one we saw after we graduated Ranger School?”
“Harold and Kumar Escape from Gitmo,” Bradshaw said. He laughed before he put on a faux-deep voice and said, “Fuck no! Ain’t nothin’ gay about getting your dick sucked! You’re gay for sucking my dick!”
Fox did his best impersonation of George W. Bush as he said, “Do you like giving hand jobs? No? You like getting hand jobs? Well, that makes you a fuckin’ hypocriticizer, too!”
Bradshaw nearly spit his beer out as he stifled a laugh. Once he cleared his mouth, he said, “You almost made me waste my fuckin’ beer, asshole.”
“Ha!” Fox said. “You remember how you tried your whole ‘American war hero’ bit at Hooters and tried to pass yourself off as a water purification specialist?”
Bradshaw laughed a full belly laugh that time as he sat his beer down. “Dude, I had that bitch going for a minute. ‘Water purification specialist? Doesn’t sound like a big deal.’ Well, ma’am, without me, those big, bad Navy SEALs wouldn’t make it to the fight. Stay motivated, stay hydrated, beat the heat!”
Fox roared with laughter as he slapped his knee. “Holy shit, dude…you had her going for a minute there. If she’d have gone home with you, you’d have done a solid for the pogiest of pogues Army-wide.”
Bradshaw chuckled, then sighed as he reached for his beer. “We lost Kowalski the next year,” he said quietly. The smile was gone from his face as he reached for his beer.
Fox nodded solemnly. “Lost Rodriguez and Franklin the year after that,” he said. He shook his head.
“The good die young, brother.” Bradshaw raised his bottle. “To the fallen.”
“Sua sponte,” Fox said as he clinked his bottle to Bradshaw’s. Both tapped their bottles against the table and drank. Bradshaw killed his beer, then set the empty bottle on the table and crossed his arms as he resumed half-watching NCIS.
Fox took another sip of his beer, set the bottle down, and then cleared his throat. “So, I checked AKO today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Two emails of interest. First was from Top. Said he still doesn’t have any platoon sergeant slots open. I can keep my team leader slot or return to the line until a slot does open up.”
Bradshaw glanced at Fox. “What are you thinking?”
&n
bsp; Fox studied Bradshaw for a moment and said, “You sign your re-up papers yet?”
Bradshaw raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Haven’t given them much thought, to be honest. I still have a couple of months when we get back to situate that.”
“Which way you leaning?” Fox asked.
That elicited a smirk from Bradshaw. “Of course I’m going to reenlist, man. Can you picture me in the civilian world? I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with myself.”
Fox nodded slowly. “Good. Good.”
Bradshaw adopted a quizzical expression. “What’s this all about?”
“Well, I’m thinking about the second email,” Fox said. “It was from Frank Paulsen at Bragg. He’s extending me an invitation to the Unit’s fall selection.”
That grabbed Bradshaw’s attention. Even with the War on Terror’s personnel attrition rate, the Army’s Special Mission Unit was extremely selective to whom it extended the opportunity to become an operator. For Fox to receive an offer meant that he had made an impression on somebody within the Unit.
Bradshaw spun in his chair to face Fox. “Whoa, man. Good shit. Congratulations!”
Fox waved his hand. “Nah, don’t congratulate me yet. I need to pass selection and OTC before I celebrate.”
Bradshaw nodded. The Unit’s Selection course was no joke, with its final physical event being a 40-mile ruck march in under 48 hours. Even passing Selection didn’t guarantee one a position with the Unit: after the Commander’s Board and psychological evaluation, there was still the six-month Operator Training Course, where many Selection Graduates still managed to wash out.
Fault Lines Page 3
