Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  Bradshaw was impressed that Nick knew better than to ask to take the point man. While the target was well within the 5.56mm round’s maximum effective range, the 7.62x51mm round was more likely to have enough energy at that distance to definitively take the target out of the fight. Once Nick backed away from the open window, Bradshaw scooted a pace to his left, keeping his reticle locked on his target the whole time. A moment later, Nick was to his right, carbine in his shoulder.

  “I’ll take the one on the right,” Nick said.

  Fox slowly reached for his transmitter. “All stations, Grease. Tower 1 has the lead element. Initiate on our shots. I say again, initiate on our shots. Acknowledge.”

  “This is Minecraft, roger,” Anderson said.

  “Token copies,” Johnson said.

  “Roger,” Fox said. He let go of the transmitter. Without breaking eye contact with the glass, he said, “Jack, it’s on you.”

  Bradshaw’s breathing had reached optimal slowness. His heartbeat had dropped beneath 40 beats per minute. He slowly tuned everything else out, leaving only himself and his unwitting target.

  Some would view such killing as voyeuristic or cowardly, as a sniper’s target lacked an opportunity to fight back if said sniper did his job correctly.

  Bradshaw’s take was different: most people could kill if their lives were threatened. Not all could live with it, but most could do it. To employ preemptive lethal force upon another, on the other hand, required a stone coldness that few possessed.

  His finger slipped inside the trigger well. He took a deep breath, then his finger began taking up slack on the trigger as he exhaled.

  Once Bradshaw reached the bottom of his exhale, the trigger broke, and a shrill crack filled the tower, filtered from reaching his ears by the Peltor headset.

  The M118LR round took just over a half-second to traverse the 435-meter distance between the tip of Bradshaw’s muzzle and its point of impact. The round slammed into the point man between his collarbone and sternum, shattered his breastplate, and tore through his aorta and spine before tearing an exit wound between his shoulder blades. The point man was dead before he hit the ground as a result of the massive internal hemorrhaging. His comrades joined him in the dirt almost simultaneously, killed by similar gunshot wounds.

  The enemy response was immediate and furious. Hundreds of 7.62x39mm rounds peppered the Hesco walls as the enemy attempted to lay down a base of fire. Bradshaw settled into a routine. Once his reticle settled on a jet-black figure, he squeezed the trigger, confirmed they had started to fall, and shifted to the next. He did his best to tune out the sound of Fox’s suppressed rifle to his left and Nick’s unsuppressed weapon to his right.

  A figure sprinted down the hill, one hand held high and the other held at shoulder-height. Bradshaw recognized the posture: RPG. That target received an additional three rounds to center mass to keep him from employing his rocket-propelled grenade. Once the RPG gunner fell, Bradshaw resumed scanning the battlefield and servicing targets. When his point of aim returned to the hilltop, he spotted additional figures sprinting down the hill.

  “Hey, Logan?” Bradshaw said as he opened fire.

  “Yeah?” Fox called.

  “I think that’s more than 70 tangos,’” he said.

  Through his ACOG, Fox peered at the hill. “Have I mentioned how much I hate it when you’re right?”

  The distinctive, laser-like shriek of an RPG stopped Bradshaw’s heart in its tracks. He braced for impact, but heard the projectile race over the guard tower. Bradshaw forced himself to regulate his breathing as he searched for the origin. On the side of a hill, he caught the motion of an oblong object being hefted onto a man’s shoulder.

  There! Bradshaw fired a trio of rounds at the RPG gunner. The third round struck the target as the grenade was fired, drastically altering the trajectory to where, like his first, it flew harmlessly over the outpost.

  The howl of incoming artillery caught Bradshaw’s attention. He shouted, “Incoming!” then hit the ground, with Fox and Nick joining him a split-second later. The round detonated in the middle of the outpost. The three returned to the window and returned fire at the attackers.

  Bradshaw noticed in his peripheral that his SCAR’s bolt had locked to the rear. He dropped the spent magazine from the rifle as he fished a fresh one from his plate carrier. Once the magazine was seated, he thumbed the bolt release, then got back on target. His reticle fell on another RPG gunner, stationary and kneeling. Bradshaw cut him down, then reached for his transmitter with his support hand.

  “All stations, Boy Scout. Keep your eyes open for RPGs. They’re coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Roger,” Devlin answered on the net. “Wish they’d do something about those mortars, yeah?”

  “This is Indian Six,” Templeton broke in. “We’re working on it, son. Hold the line.”

  “Wilco, Indian Six,” Devlin said tersely, a suppressed rifle report sounding off just as he ended the transmission.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  33.4 kilometers south-by-southwest of Jalalabad, Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan

  12 June 2017

  22:41 hours Echo (17:41 hours Zulu)

  “We’ve got them!” Diana Fairchild shouted.

  Commander Templeton marched across the JOC to where Fairchild stood, monitoring the UAV feed. “That’s the mortar crew?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Fairchild said. “Had the drone circle wide. Definitely a light mortar and not a howitzer.”

  “Far enough away that we won’t hit the OPs,” Templeton said. “Write down that grid.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fairchild said.

  Templeton grabbed the nearest SINCGARS hand mic, then turned the channel knob until it reached Channel 4. Once it was done, he held the hand mic to his ear and keyed up.

  “Honey Badger, Indian Six. Adjust fire, over.”

  The artillery battery RTO answered. “Indian Six, this is Honey Badger. Adjust fire, out.”

  Templeton turned to find Fairchild bringing him a piece of paper ripped from a small notebook. He read her hastily scrawled handwriting before he transmitted, “Grid is as follows: 42S XC 566 840, how copy?” He spoke phonetically and enunciated each character slowly. A single digit or letter misheard could mean the difference between rounds on target and dead friendlies.

  “Roger,” Honey Badger said. “I copy grid 42S XC 566 840, out.”

  Templeton’s eyes fell to the drone footage on the big screen. “Infantry mortar squad in the open, over.”

  “Infantry mortar squad in the open. Out.”

  While he waited, Templeton cradled the SINCGARS headset against his shoulder as he broke out his pocket notebook and pen in anticipation of the next step. Honey Badger came back on the net seconds later, a testament to their efficiency and readiness.

  “Indian Six, one round, 155mm, HE, Target Number AA1005, over.”

  Templeton scrawled the information on his notepad and said, “Roger, Honey Badger. One round, HE, Target Number AA1005, out.” The artillery battery’s standard operating procedure was to fire one High Explosive round at a time until the forward observer confirmed the rounds were hitting the target.

  Templeton looked to Fairchild and said, “Pull that Predator back and keep eyes on from a distance.” As she did that, Templeton pointed to a petty officer and said, “Let the towers know that I’m dropping arty on that fucking mortar crew.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” the petty officer said.

  “Shot, over!” Honey Badger said over the radio, announcing the round had been fired.

  “Shot, out,” Templeton replied. He turned to face the screen, his pulse pounding in his ears. If he correctly recalled the position of the battery outpost and the velocity of the mortar round, it would take roughly a half-minute for the round to reach the target, and it would be stretching its effective range.

  At exactly the 30-second mark, Honey Badger called, “Splash, over,” announcing the round would imminently make impac
t.

  “Splash, out,” Templeton replied.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, the mortar round struck just to the west of the mortar crew. Templeton watched white-hot figures start to move in a panic, but one figure marched around determinedly, forcing them to man their stations and keep mortar rounds going towards the outpost.

  “Determined little fuckers,” Templeton said. He depressed the transmitter. “Honey Badger, right five-zero and fire for effect, over.”

  “Roger,” Honey Badger said. “Right five-zero and fire for effect, out.” That would adjust their aim 50 meters to the right of the original calculation. The “fire for effect” order meant that all guns in the battery would fire at once, saturating the target space.

  A second later, Honey Badger transmitted, “Shot, over.”

  “Shot, out.”

  Once the rounds were three seconds out, Honey Badger again called, “Splash, over.”

  “Splash, out.”

  This time, a quartet of 155mm high explosive rounds landed right on top of the mortar crew. The Predator’s feed was whited out. Templeton looked to Fairchild and said, “Did you move the Predator out of the kill zone?”

  “We did,” Fairchild said. “We still have signal. The optics are just taking a moment to reset.”

  The picture slowly came back into focus. Both the bodies and the mortar tube had been incinerated. A deep crater that appeared to be several meters in diameter had been formed where the team and their security element had been seconds earlier. Small fires had started at points on the edge of the crater.

  “Chew on that, cocksucker,” Templeton growled through clenched teeth. He keyed up. “Honey Badger, this is Indian Six. End of mission. Target destroyed. Estimated six to eight enemy KIA, over.”

  “Roger that,” Honey Badger said. “Standing by for further missions.”

  “Roger,” Templeton said. “Indian Six, out.”

  “Grease, Indian Six.”

  Fox fired another round, then keyed his transmitter. “Go for Grease.”

  “Mortar has been destroyed,” Templeton said. “I say again, mortar has been destroyed.”

  “Roger, Six,” Fox said. “Solid copy.”

  “Hell yeah!” Nick Farmer whooped, complete with a victorious fist pump.

  “Stay on target,” Bradshaw admonished. He caught an enemy fighter picking up an RPG. As he traversed, set his reticle on the target, and squeezed the trigger, the target opened fire. The 84mm rocket narrowly missed the top of the tower.

  “Holy shit, that was close!” Fox rasped.

  “Somebody’s directing these RPG teams,” Bradshaw said. “I can’t see who. It’s fucking Whack-a-Mole right now.”

  “Well, we could change that,” Fox said. “Get on the horn with Honey Badger. Have them shoot some lume our way.”

  “Wilco,” Bradshaw said. “Nick, cover.”

  As Bradshaw pulled away from the window, Nick and Fox picked up their rate of fire. Bradshaw sat against the wall, switched his MBITR to the designated artillery channel, and said, “Honey Badger, this is Boy Scout. Adjust fire, over.”

  “Roger,” the Honey Badger fire direction center said. “Adjust fire, out.”

  “Shift from TRP 1,” Bradshaw said. “Add three-zero-zero meters, up one-five-zero meters, illumination round, over.”

  Honey Badger read the method of target location, the location itself, and the method of engagement back to Bradshaw. After a 10-second pause, Honey Badger was back on the net. “Boy Scout, this is Honey Badger. One 155mm round, illumination, target number AA1006, over.”

  Bradshaw had flipped down his PVS-15s, turned them on, and adjusted the magnification until he could see what he wrote on his notepad. “Say again on target number, Honey Badger?”

  Honey Badger patiently said, “Target number AA1006, over.”

  Bradshaw scribbled the details on the pad and read them back for confirmation. Honey Badger reaffirmed the information, and a second later announced, “Shot, over.”

  “Shot, out,” Bradshaw said. He stuffed the notepad in his cargo pocket, scrambled back to the window, and utilized the quick-detach lever to remove the SU-232 thermal optic from his rifle. Fox saw this and did likewise, then keyed up.

  “All points, Grease. Remove your thermals. Lume is inbound. I say again, lume is inbound.”

  Bradshaw was behind his rifle again, his finger on the trigger. He scanned the perimeter, taking note of where the moving figures and muzzle flashes were.

  Fox came up on the net again. “We’ll have about two minutes of lume. Make it count, boys.”

  The radio crackled in Bradshaw’s Peltor headset as Honey Badger said, “Splash, over.”

  “Splash, out,” Bradshaw said.

  A second later, a bright streak rocketed upward in the distance. Once it reached maximum height, the entire battlefield was blanketed in light. Bradshaw’s Elcan reticle fell on the nearest target, a man dressed in a shalwar kameez and a black turban. Taliban, Bradshaw mused.

  The target toted a Kalashnikov. What gave Bradshaw a moment’s pause was that the rifle was not a beat-up weapon with a wooden heat shield or buttstock, which was the usual armament of jihadists in the region. The fighter’s Kalashnikov sported black synthetic furniture and looked as if it had just had the Cosmoline cleaned from its guts.

  Bradshaw put a round through that man’s chest. After he fell, the search continued for the enemy forward observer. Bradshaw saw another fighter with a black AK sprinting laterally towards the site of a fallen RPG gunner. He ranged the shot at about 275 meters, led the fighter a notch, and squeezed the trigger. The fighter walked right into the bullet that tore through his ribs, lungs, and heart, felling him instantly.

  “Logan, you seeing this?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Yeah, Jack,” Fox said. “Those AKs are brand new.”

  That fact was filed for later review. “You see the scout?”

  “Negative,” Fox said.

  A grenade was launched from Tower 7, presumably from a stand-alone M320 that Breck Anderson loved to carry. It landed in a cluster of four jihadists, severing limbs and sending them flying outward. Movement just beyond the explosion caught Bradshaw’s eye. He watched as what appeared to be a sector of earth moved, and two men emerged. The hide site was impressive, but was quickly forgotten as Bradshaw made a few rapid observations.

  The men in the hide site wore kameez and pakols, but their pants were clearly olive-drab fatigue-type trousers. They appeared to wear combat boots, something that most jihadists in the region were not prone to doing. Their weapons were also polymer-furniture Kalashnikovs, though both of their weapons appeared to run red-dot optics.

  Those were all noteworthy observations, but it was the final item of note that stunned Bradshaw. The men were close enough that he could see their facial features. Both had scraggly, brown beards and harsh, angular faces. One man had brown eyes, while the other’s were a grayish blue.

  Both men were of pale complexion.

  “Logan,” Bradshaw said quietly. “Check 11 o’clock, about 150 meters out.”

  Fox trained his weapon in that direction. “Holy shit…” he said. “Those dudes are white.”

  “Yeah,” Bradshaw said. “Somebody’s advising the Taliban.”

  The pair of white men paused and turned to face the tower. Bradshaw centered his reticle on the blue-eyed man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. His target fell backwards and remained still. He made a note to head straight to that point during the battle damage assessment to see if he could find any intel as to who the white man was.

  Before Bradshaw could search for another target, he felt spatter hit the left side of his face in conjunction with a juicy thwock echoing inside the tower. He instinctively grabbed Farmer’s shoulder and pulled him beneath the windowsill. Once they were behind cover, Bradshaw’s eyes traversed to the left, then widened as his blood ran cold.

  Fox lay sprawled on the tower floor, his right leg cocked unnaturally and h
is left leg straight out, arms extended outward, his M4 having skidded out of reach when he fell. His eyes and mouth were locked open, and a neat hole had been drilled in the center of his forehead, just beneath the lip of his helmet. Blood and gray matter expanded outward from beneath his head.

  “No!” Bradshaw roared. His hands gripped his rifle with white knuckles. Shock slowly built into rage, and a feral scowl formed on his face. The rage engulfed him enough that when Nick tapped him on the shoulder, he spun around, ready to attack, which compelled the young former Marine to back into a corner with his hands in front of him.

  “Take it easy, brother,” Nick said quietly. “It’s Nick Farmer. I’m a good guy. Same side, man.”

  It was only then that Bradshaw heard the frantic near-shouting in his Peltor headset.

  “Any station, this is McLovin,” Devlin said. “What the hell is going on over in Tower 1?”

  Bradshaw’s hand crept to his transmitter. When he keyed it up and spoke, his voice was barely audible.

  “Grease is down. I say again, Grease is KIA. I have command.”

  Without warning, he launched himself into a kneeling position, shouldered the SCAR, and immediately got back on glass. His reticle found a jihadist. Bradshaw cut him down, then traversed left and found another target. The rifle bucked, and another target fell. He shifted his body left, and a split second later, a round whizzed through the space where his head had been moments ago and made impact with the back-right corner of the tower’s ceiling. Bradshaw scanned the area where he surmised the shot had been fired.

  There! Bradshaw found where he had shot the first white man and found the second on a knee beside him, a scoped rifle held up to his shoulder. The moment his reticle floated over the sniper, his finger twitched. His first round ripped through the target’s abdomen, tearing through muscle, intestine, and spine. The second was a few inches above that. Bradshaw honed in on the sniper’s sternum and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. A howl leapt from his throat as he perforated the sniper, his body dancing as the rounds made impact.

  The sniper finally fell to the earth, and the SCAR’s bolt locked to the rear. Bradshaw reloaded the rifle, then got back on glass. He almost failed to notice that Nick had returned to the window to continue servicing targets. That cut through Bradshaw’s rage haze. The young man was well over his head, even with his previous experience, yet he managed to rise to the occasion.