“Hey, Jack,” Nick said. “11:30. Got another adviser there.” His M4 spoke twice, and he grimaced. “Fuck. Missed him.”
Bradshaw shifted to where Nick had been shooting and waited. A couple of seconds later, the white man tried to rush from one point of cover to another. Bradshaw adjusted on the fly, led the target, and fired a controlled pair. The adviser fell, and a jihadist ran over to assess him. He earned a 7.62x51mm round to the neck for his troubles.
“Boy Scout, Token,” Johnson said over the radio.
“Go,” Bradshaw responded.
“More tangos cresting the hill,” Johnson said.
Bradshaw shifted his aim to the top of the hill to see another wave of jihadists inbound. “Shit,” he said under his breath. He keyed up. “Indian Six, you seeing this?”
“Just got the Predator back in position,” Templeton said from the JOC. “Looks like at least another 40 tangos.”
“Shit,” Bradshaw said. He looked to Nick. “How you looking on ammo?”
“Two mags,” Nick said.
Bradshaw keyed up. “All points, Boy Scout. ACE.”
“Glee, Minecraft: red, green, green,” Sears said, indicating he and Anderson were almost out of ammunition, suffered no casualties, and maintained possession of all critical equipment.
“McLovin, Token: red, amber, green,” Devlin said.
“Who’s wounded?” Bradshaw asked.
“I am,” Devlin said. “Took a graze. Still in the fight.”
“Roger,” Bradshaw said. “Break. Indian Six, Boy Scout.”
“Go, Boy Scout,” Templeton said.
“What’s the ETA on QRF?”
“Still five mikes out, Boy Scout.”
“Motherfucker,” Bradshaw said off the net. He held down the transmitter. “Indian Six, we need to drop arty. We’re gonna go black on ammo and get overrun.” There was a pause. “Indian Six, did you copy my last?”
“I copy,” Templeton said quietly. “Do it.”
“Roger,” Bradshaw said. “Break. Listen up, Rangers. If you’ve got a 320, focus on the boogers up close. Long guns, hurt them and keep them on the other side of the 400 meter mark. I need time to call this fire mission. How copy?”
“McLovin and Token copy,” Johnson said.
“Minecraft and Glee copy,” Anderson acknowledged.
“On my mark,” Bradshaw said.
By this time, the illumination round had worn off, Bradshaw pulled back from the window, re-attached the SU-232 in front of his Elcan, then peered down the sight to ensure it was still on and functional. With that in order, he set his SCAR down and went to Fox’s body.
In a pouch on the back of his plate carrier was the M320 grenade launcher. Bradshaw grabbed it, as well as the four 40mm high-explosive grenades that lined the top row of his front plate. He brought those items back to the window and set them next to Nick, who was still engaging targets. Bradshaw went back to Fox’s body, grabbed the last three M4 mags from their pouches, removed the SU-232 from Fox’s carbine, and set all the items next to the M320.
“Nick,” Bradshaw said. “Put that thermal on your rifle.”
Nick killed another Taliban fighter, and his M4’s bolt locked to the rear. He ducked, dropped the spent mag, and grabbed one of the mags Bradshaw had brought over. Once his carbine was loaded, he affixed the thermal optic in front of his ACOG. Nick then set his weapon to the side and grabbed the M320. He extended the stock, lowered the foregrip, and loaded a grenade into the breach. Once the grenade launcher was shouldered, he said, “Ready.”
“Fire!” Bradshaw growled on the net.
Nick’s M320 sounded off with a hearty thump. A second later, the 40mm grenade joined two others to create a deafening roar that drowned out both friendly and enemy gunfire. Bradshaw did not stick around to observe the carnage, instead retreating further into the tower and switching his MBITR to the artillery channel.
Once he established the fire mission type, Bradshaw said, “Shift from TRP 1. Add four-zero-zero meters. Danger close, over.”
There was a pause from Honey Badger. “Confirm danger close, Boy Scout?”
“Confirmed,” Bradshaw said.
“Roger,” Honey Badger said. “Add four-zero-zero, danger close. Out.”
Bradshaw returned to the window, shouldered his SCAR, and aimed deep. The insurgent mass had sought cover behind various boulders on the hillside. The closest one was about 415 meters out. Bradshaw watched him poke his head out of cover and cranked off a round. The target pulled his head back just before the bullet arrived. Beside him, Nick reloaded his M4, then grabbed the reloaded M320, shouldered it, and fired at another cluster of Taliban. The explosion nearly drowned out Honey Badger’s message to observer.
“Boy Scout, one 155mm round, HE, target number AA1007, over.”
Bradshaw did not bother to write the target number down. He read the message to observer back to Honey Badger.
A moment later, Honey Badger announced, “Shot, over.”
“Shot, out.”
Bradshaw ticked off the seconds in his head. When he reached 20, he switched to the internal net and said, “Incoming. Take cover. I say again, take cover.” Bradshaw switched back to the artillery net just in time to hear Honey Badger key up.
“Splash, over.”
“Splash, out!” Bradshaw yelled as he and Nick hit the dirt and huddled.
The ground shook as the shockwave washed over them. Bradshaw climbed back to a knee, shouldered his SCAR, and scanned the area. There was a crater where the bulk of the enemy reaction force had been. The remainder of the fighters had started to rush back towards the hillcrest.
“Honey Badger, Boy Scout,” Bradshaw transmitted. “Add five-zero and fire for effect, over.”
“Roger,” Honey Badger said. A moment later, they said, “Shot, over!”
“Shot, out.” As he waited for the round to impact, Bradshaw kept searching for targets. One jihadist struggled to ascend the hill. He put the enemy fighter out of his misery with a single, well-placed round between the shoulder blades. Another stooped to drag his body from the battlefield, and Bradshaw drilled him through the torso. The M4 fire and grenade explosions had died down. He wondered briefly if they’d run out of targets to service.
“Splash, over,” Honey Badger announced.
“Splash, out,” Bradshaw acknowledged.
Artillery shells struck the hilltop and both slopes. Bradshaw watched, the scowl etched into his face as he pictured the enemy incinerated or suffering massive hemorrhage from explosive amputation. The thoughts did nothing to sate the fire within. He took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed the exhale out past pursed lips.
The final artillery round struck. Bradshaw scanned the area for a solid minute. All he saw were craters.
“Honey Badger, Boy Scout. Mission complete. Target destroyed. Out.”
Bradshaw didn’t wait for acknowledgement. He switched back to the internal channel. “All stations, Boy Scout. Report.”
“Got a couple wounded tangos in my sector,” Sears said.
“Nothing moving here,” Devlin said. “Near or far.”
“Roger,” Bradshaw said.
“Boy Scout, Indian Six,” Templeton said. “QRF is on-station, coming in from the northwest.”
Quick’s a bit of a misnomer, Bradshaw thought. “Copy. Let them know that five friendlies will be coming out to conduct BDA.”
“Roger,” Templeton said. “Stay frosty. Out.”
“All Romeo elements, this is Boy Scout. Collect your mags, top off on ammo, and RV at the front gate for BDA. Out.”
It had taken a total of seven minutes for the Recce Rangers to descend from the towers, link up at the team room, and load their spent magazines. The work was done in silence, each man focusing on the task ahead. It was all they could do to try and distract themselves from their fallen leader’s body in Tower 1.
Once they were loaded, Bradshaw led the others out. They marched to the front gate, which
was open and manned by a pair of Humvees. Soldiers bearing the 101st Airborne’s patch manned the gun turrets, each of which was equipped with an M2 machine gun, just in case the Taliban decided to come back for another round.
Bradshaw led them around the northwest corner. Without turning to his men, he said, “Fan out. See what you can find.”
As Sears, Devlin, Anderson, and Johnson spread out to surveil the battlefield, Bradshaw marched to the position where he had killed the pair of white men who had been hiding in the LP/OP. When he arrived at the position, there were no bodies to be found. Bradshaw flipped up his PVS-15s, removed a small white-light flashlight from his war belt, turned it on, and shone it on the ground. There were blood streaks in the dirt, which was what Bradshaw expected. Either the Taliban dragged them off the objective, or the white man’s comrades had.
A gurgling sound grabbed Bradshaw’s attention. He killed the flashlight, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked towards the source. His support hand reached to bring the NODs back over his eyes and turn them on. Once his night vision was restored, Bradshaw advanced, his rifle at the ready. He walked roughly 75 meters. As he advanced, Bradshaw remembered it was where Nick had been trying to pin down the adviser.
The kid was not only good under fire, but he paid attention to the intel side of things on the fly, Bradshaw thought. Kid should have been Force Recon or MARSOC.
Bradshaw kept his weapon raised, his thumb on the PEQ-15’s activation button as he closed in on the noise’s source. The body eventually became visible. Bradshaw assessed the it. The man had hemorrhaged badly, and would pass within the next few minutes. Even through the NODs, he could tell the left side of the man’s chest had swollen considerably, a sign of tension pneumothorax. Given how long had passed between when Bradshaw had shot the man and the BDA, he was surprised the shooter had lasted as long as he had.
He maintained standoff distance, his laser trained on the man’s head and his legs primed to bolt. It would not be the first time an enemy soldier decided to try and bring somebody with him beyond the veil with a hand grenade or a last-ditch mag dump.
“Who are you?” Bradshaw asked, loudly and clearly.
The response was incoherent, but was clearly in another tongue. Bradshaw shifted tactics. The NODs were raised, the SCAR was slung to his side, and he drew his Glock 19. Bradshaw flicked on the 600-lumen Surefire X300U and trained it on the fallen enemy’s face.
To call him a man would have been generous. At most, he was 23 or 24. Normally, that would mean nothing on the battlefield, but Bradshaw took one look at his blue eyes and could tell that this night was the boy’s first—and last—exposure to real combat. His nose was pointed, and his lips were thin. What little facial hair the boy could grow was blond and wispy. Wherever he was from, he should have been at home, studying at university or chasing skirts. Bradshaw almost felt sorry for him, but Fox’s death rendered any potential sympathy unavailable.
In a louder voice, Bradshaw asked, “Who are you?”
The boy’s response was clearer this time.
“Ya ne khochu umirat zdes…ya ne khochu umirat zdes…”
Bradshaw’s eyes widened. He had no clue what the boy was saying, but over the past decade plus, he had encountered a wide variety of nationalities on both sides of the battlefield. In the fight against ISIS and al-Qaeda, Bradshaw had captured Chechens, Serbs, Filipinos, and Indonesians. There was even a Brit he had helped snatch a couple of years back. Bradshaw had no idea what most of them were saying, but he was able to pick up on phonetic differences.
The young man before Bradshaw spoke in a tongue that he recognized solely from news clippings and documentaries.
“Son of a bitch,” Bradshaw whispered. “This motherfucker’s speaking Russian.”
“Ya…ne…khochu…”
The boy shuddered one last time, and his head drooped to the side. Bradshaw switched off the weapon light, holstered the Glock, and brought the SCAR back to the front. He stared at the dead boy, wondering who the hell he was, from where he had come, and what he was doing, providing brand-new weapons to the Taliban and leading attacks against American bases.
“Friendlies on your rear!” a voice called out.
Bradshaw turned around to find a fireteam of 101st Airborne infantrymen approaching, their PVS-14 monoculars in the down position and their M4s at the ready. He marched towards them.
“Who’s in charge of your element?” Bradshaw asked.
“I am, sarn’t,” the one at the front said. “Corporal Byers.”
“Corporal,” Bradshaw said, “I want you to post up here by these bodies and don’t let anybody tamper with them until I say otherwise. If anybody gives you shit, tell them Staff Sergeant Bradshaw told you to post and to take it up with me. Tracking?”
“Tracking, sarn’t,” Byers said.
Without another word, Bradshaw marched back towards the COP. He needed to get an OGA analyst on the Russian’s corpse and draft up his after-action review. It could turn out to be nothing, something as minor as a mercenary being hired to advise on tactics. It could also potentially send a seismic wave through pay grades and departments well above and beyond Bradshaw’s scope.
CHAPTER SIX
Fort Benning, Georgia
19 June 2017
09:00 hours Delta (13:00 hours Zulu)
Jack Bradshaw had suspected something was amiss for the past few days.
In the wake of the COP Walker attack, his first stop had been to find an OGA analyst. The redhead from the gym, Diana Fairchild, had been the first he encountered. After he gave her a rundown of events, she volunteered to accompany him. Bradshaw marched Fairchild out to the body and she took photographs and fingerprints, promising to investigate the matter.
After that, he and Johnson had climbed up to Tower 1 to retrieve Fox’s body. It was put on ice to slow decay, placed in a body bag, and was on the first chopper to Kabul. An after-action review with his men followed. They were released to get some rest while Bradshaw wrote and proofread his sworn statement that attested to everything that had conspired during the firefight. Finally, he reached the point where his eyes hurt from staring at the ruggedized laptop’s screen, and he fell asleep.
Bradshaw hadn’t slept long. He kept replaying Fox’s death in slow motion, each time waking up in a cold sweat. After an hour and a half of fitful “rest,” Bradshaw abandoned the notion, put on a pot of coffee, and was back at the sworn statement. Finally, convinced that he had caught all the grammatical errors and committed every detail to paper—including a phonetic recreation of what the dying Russian had said—Bradshaw printed and delivered two copies of his report: one for Commander Templeton, and another for Diana Fairchild.
The first indication that something ominous conspired behind the scenes came on the 15th. In short order, Bradshaw received a directive that Sears, Devlin, Anderson, and Johnson were being reassigned to Team 2-3 at Kabul. Bradshaw was given escort duty orders. He was to report to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, where Fox’s body awaited escort to the States. Bradshaw figured that the reassignment was only until he returned to country. His trepidation at seeing Fox’s corpse once more clouded his mind.
Bradshaw caught a chopper to Kabul, then boarded a flight to the commune of Mihail Kogălniceanu in Romania. From there, it was another couple of hours until he landed at Ramstein Air Base. Upon arrival, his first stop had been at the base barber shop. Thirty minutes later, Bradshaw’s beard had been shorn, his hair shortened a touch, and his sideburns trimmed to regulation.
The next stop was a dry cleaner with a 24-hour turnaround. His Army Service Uniform had been jammed in his C-Bag prior to deployment and was beyond wrinkled. All the accouterments were removed, and the uniform was turned in. Next came the escort briefing from a Public Affairs Officer. Once he was brought up to speed on the dos and don’ts, Bradshaw was released for the day.
He returned to billeting and searched the news for any developments regarding Russians and the Taliban while h
e spit-shined his jump boots. Nothing was aired. Bradshaw figured OGA had placed a media blackout on the matter while the investigation developed.
Bradshaw retrieved his uniform the next day and assembled it. The fruit salad of ribbons and badges had never meant much to him, and they meant even less with the task at hand. Once he finished, he hung the uniform in his closet. Bradshaw spent the rest of the day working out, attempting to sleep, and trying not to revisit the death of his original Ranger buddy.
The flight home was especially long. Bradshaw had reported to the terminal desk attendant and declared that he was escorting remains. The attendant upgraded Bradshaw’s seat to first class. Bradshaw was then escorted by airport security to the tarmac. Once there, he snapped to attention and rendered a hand salute as the gunmetal casket was loaded into the cargo bay.
Bradshaw had hoped that loading the casket could have been done discreetly, but given the crowd that awaited him when he returned to the concourse, he surmised that the desk attendant must have announced it over the PA. It took every ounce of patience he had not to go off on the bevy of civilians who felt the need to get their face time and thank him for his service. Some of them were probably sincere. Others merely wanted a story to relay to their friends, ammunition for the proverbial firearm that was their patriotic virtue signaling.
The one man who understood Bradshaw’s presence was an older gentleman who wore a ball cap that declared he had served with the 1st Air Cavalry during Vietnam, complete with a unit crest that read “Garry Owen.” The man met Bradshaw’s eyes and immediately knew his purpose on the flight. With a dutiful nod, the man turned back to his wife and let Bradshaw be.
Seeing the elderly veteran summoned within Bradshaw thoughts of his father, who had served with Company F, 1st of the 50th Infantry and later of the 75th Infantry Regiment. It was a different time, with fighting men returning home to an ungrateful nation. Not for the first time, Bradshaw wondered which was worse: one’s countrymen openly calling them baby killers and murderers, or those same countrymen offering platitudes out of fear of ostracization.
Fault Lines Page 6
