4: TALIBAN TALKING POINTS
ESCAPE & EVADE...EASY PEASY. That's what the drill instructor in BUD/S said and what we trained for in SQT. Maybe in the dunes of Oceanside or the foothills of the Laguna Mountains east of San Diego, but all I have for cover were rocks and more rocks. And a bunch of fanatics in man-jammies after my butt. First, I have to get said ass out from this pile of rubble.
The Spectre's 105mm guns didn't leave much in one piece. Lucky I’d fallen under this ledge overhang. I hoped the rest of the squad and Spirit got picked up. I had a feeling I was on my own. But they'll be back. Leave no man behind.
I was underway for only five minutes, picking my way through the rubble, when a dozen dirties blocked my route. They spotted me and opened fire. I waited for the opportunity to return fire, but I was pinned down. An RPG hit the boulder beside me and blew it apart—an earsplitting, heart-shaking blast. The deafening concussion sucked the air out of my lungs. Pinned down, there was nothing I could do. Rounds snapped and splintered the rocks between me and a trip in a body bag. Not a feeling I was used to, and I didn’t like it.
The shower of bullets slackened enough for me to return fire. Twenty more minutes of playing shoot-and-duck ended when my ammo ran out. I had used up seven mags for my M4—more than 200 rounds, two frags, and a smoke grenade I used to cover a failed attempt to retreat. Flash-bangs gone, too. Nothing but my SOG knife and side arm. Nowhere to go. Someone had gotten close enough to toss a flash-bang grenade. Lights out...again.
~~~
I SHIVERED from the cold penetrating my body, shook my head, trying to clear the fog from my brain. I had blacked out from the concussion of the grenade but suffered only superficial wounds, thanks to my body armor. But my armor was gone. Every stitch of clothing was gone, too.
Footsteps approached in the darkness.
“Is the infidel awake?”
I played possum but a kick in the gut spoiled that plan. I sucked in air and held it, waiting for the pain to subside. It will take more than a sandal lodged in my ribcage to show any reaction to this raghead.
“We’ll see how tough you are, Frogman. Do you know who I am?”
The sandal’s owner was, in fact, Abdul Kareef. I had turned to see my captor. My movement was greeted by the butt of an AK to the jaw. Not too hard, just enough to inflict pain and cause a little swelling. They wouldn’t want to ruin the headshot for the propaganda film.
No prob, BUD/S Hell Week and being a Newguy in SEAL Team 3 prepared me for the abuse. That and a few hundred bar fights back in San Diego.
Kareef barked an order to a fighter holding a tripod. The man quickly set up a video camera and battery pack for high intensity lighting.
I get it. I’m going to be a movie star. Bring it on, Mullah-head.
This was the Taliban's MO. Kidnap, torture and terrorize people. Murder while recording the atrocity. And sometimes they captured an American soldier and make the whole thing into a propaganda video. My turn on stage.
The Mullah pulled an American flag from a satchel and spit on it before draping it behind me as a backdrop. He must have found it folded behind the ceramic plates in my low-pro body armor.
“We will enjoy making this movie, Frogman. The propaganda will be worth a fortune. Prepare yourself for pain.”
Pain? I love pain. SEALs eat pain for breakfast and shit it in your pakul.
Warriors have one thing in common. An innate resilience and tenacious spirit that enable them to overcome extreme challenges. This was the first time I had ever been captured. Figured, because this was supposed to be my last op and final tour to this hellhole.
Two more Taliban flunkies grabbed me by the elbows. My arms were zip-tied behind my back. They hoisted me with a rope wrapped around my wrists, dislocating both shoulders in the process.
I took a deep breath and spoke calmly. “What, no make-up? I think my battle paint is smeared.”
“You joke, Frogman. Soon you will cry. A joke for the camera and your country of infidels to watch.”
I focused my mind on home and the training only SEALs endured.
Hell Week taught me that my body is ten times stronger than my mind will let it be. To endure torture I must turn off the rational thinking part of my brain and regress back to a caveman. Easy peasy.
The rope tightened and the lights switched on. Showtime.
“Why did you and your frogmen come into the Pass?”
I smiled for the camera and received a kick in the groin for it.
“We have much time to squeeze information out of you. I know that you were sent to capture me. My eyes and ears are everywhere.”
I sucked it up and controlled my breathing. Closed my eyes. Maybe a nap would be good?
“Wake up, infidel. No sleeping. The camera is waiting for you to confess.”
“Zzzzzzzzzzz.”
“Enough. Let him hang for a while. I need to take a piss.”
I opened one eye just as the Mullah lifted his man-dress and urinated on me. The others in the cave did the same. The last man defecated on the ground while I dangled with toes barely touching the stinking pile. My arms burned from the strain and rope chafed my skin. They left me in the dark to enjoy the foul odor.
I slowed my breathing, tried to sleep, conserve energy. I repeated to myself, I’m a caveman. I got this. Easy peasy.
~~~
I SNAPPED AWAKE. The pain in my shoulders had dulled a bit but my fingers were going numb.
I better take the offensive or I’m going to lose my hands. I am a SEAL. I don’t give up. I am a caveman.
Mullah and his T-men had returned.
“How was your nap, Frogman? Have you decided to cooperate?”
I whispered softly, causing the Mullah to come closer, bending down to my eye level.
I shouted, “Fuck you!” and head-butted the bastard.
A gush of blood shot from the Mullah’s nose.
“Your defiance is futile, Frogman. Soon you will scream for mercy.”
He pulled a SOG knife from his belt—my knife—and sliced shallow cuts into my buttocks. The blood flowed freely. A SEAL keeps his knife sharp.
I stared straight ahead. Suppressed the urge to scream from the pain. I will not give in. I am a caveman.
Kareef ordered a soldier to flog my ass making the blood flow faster. He rubbed a handful of salt in the wounds.
“Are you hungry, Frogman? I have some meat for you.”
I looked at the plateful of red meat on a skewer and charred black at the edges.
The Mullah took a bite, smiled, and said, “What was your war dog’s name, Frogman?”
I shuddered when I realized what this maniac was saying but remained silent.
It’s not Spirit. He’s messing with me. I will not give in.
I focused my thoughts on Spirit, when I first met her, how we trained hard to become an invincible pair. A team that would not quit.
I will find you, Spirit.
Kareef shoved the meat into my mouth. “Eat your dog, Frogman. Tastes good?”
I spit it in the enemy’s face. Another fighter entered the cave and whispered in the Mullah’s ear. The message was brief. Kareef shook his head, dismissed the messenger and turned to his bodyguards.
“ We need to leave...now. Throw the infidel in the pit. We’ll see how long it takes a Frogman to drown in shit.”
Two fighters cut me down, hogtied me and hauled me to the back of the cave.
5: LEFT FOR DEAD
HOGTIED AND KICKED a dozen times before I was thrown into a hole in the back of the cave, I could taste shit. The ten-foot hole was full of human excrement and rotting body parts. A copious amount of piss made the mixture soupy enough for me to sink. Up to my chin in the putrid stew, I struggled to breathe.
BUD/S drown-proofing time. I guess the movie career is out.
I sucked in the foul air, dipped below the surface and forced myself to relax. The technique allowed my body to float upward in time to grab another breath. I lo
st count of the number of times I performed this maneuver. It had been at least an hour since they dumped me.
I surfaced and strained to see if there were guards. It was pitch black. I inched my way to the side of the hole and found purchase on a rock jutting from the wall. Pushing with an elbow, I rolled onto my back.
Footsteps shuffled on the ground above me. A T-man carrying a lantern stopped at the edge of the latrine. He set the light down and lifted his man-dress. A groan and a sigh followed by a stream of hot urine in my face forced me to slip off the rock and submerge into the muck again. The urinator didn’t notice.
Four minutes holding my breath. Just like BUD/S.
I found the elbow support again and slowly lifted myself toward the surface. I rolled back to my stomach and continued my drown-proofing exercise, mentally drifting off to someplace else. Some place clean, dry and safe.
I’m not dead yet, Hawk. Leave no man behind.
6: UNAUTHORIZED ABSENCE
THIS IS TOTAL BULLSHIT.” Veins bulged from Hawk's temples as he fumed about the APC's order to stand down.
Trad looked up from cleaning his Squad Automatic Weapon. “What did the Commander have to say about it?”
“The Head Shed is in Kabul. Some top-secret meeting with Afghani officials. Ass-wipe Anderson said Charley is considered KIA and we can't risk going back for body parts.” He spat Copenhagen juice in the dirt and said, “I don't buy it.”
“We can't just leave him there.”
Hawk nodded. “And we're not going to.”
“Where's Jake and Ollie?”
“Went for ammo and frags.”
“When they get back, we have some serious planning to do.”
“We going UA?”
“Damn straight. CJ's counting on us.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
~~~
AKBAR SLINKED away from the SEAL's staging tent. He had heard enough. His cover as an Afghan National Army Commando enabled him to get close to their movements within the base camp. He scurried back to his hide-hole where a crude radio set was stashed and relayed to his Taliban handler what the rogue squad of SEALs planned. Just like the last time.
~~~
O-DARK-HUNDRED, two days since CJ went missing, Hawk, Jake, Trad, Ollie and Spirit fast-roped from the Black Hawk. Déjà vu. Same insertion point, same stealth. A reduced squad but still swift, silent and deadly. Back to recover a brother.
More heavily armed this time, adding two Squad Automatic Weapons and an 84mm Carl Gustav recoilless rifle. The Gustav was a cross between a bazooka and an artillery gun, with HE shells that can blow apart a building or a tank-sized boulder. The squad carried a dozen rounds sharing the hundred-pound load among four men. No do-not-engage order. The Team guys were hunting without restraint. Payback for Scope's death and hopefully CJ's recovery, dead or alive.
Before leaving the FOB, Hawk had checked Spirit's status and found her chomping at the bit to get back out. Fast healer. It was like she sensed CJ's plight and knew time was running against his survival. The Doc, a veteran of a dozen deployments from Desert Storm to this un-winnable war with religious fanatics, okayed her release for combat.
Retracing their path, Hawk followed Spirit on-leash without hesitation. Time was running out.
Hawk thought, We’re coming, bro. What the fuck happened? Got to be a Taliban informer inside FOB. They knew we were coming.
7: INVINCIBLE WARRIOR
Six months previously...
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE CORONADO, my home between deployments was not too shabby for military quarters. We were back stateside, in an extended stand down phase. Normally, stand down is a period when we spend most of our time with family. I was unattached and my only family, my sister, lived on the east coast so I had mucho time on my hands. I planned to visit all the bars in San Diego. Maybe I’ll write a tour book.
Not going to happen. The Team Commander wanted to add a war dog to our platoon, and I was tagged to become our combat canine handler. I love dogs but didn’t think they were a good fit in the mountains of Afghanistan. Until I met Spirit.
For the next few months Spirit and I were inseparable. She was already patrol and IED detection certified with a thousand hours of training at the Texas facility and had completed fifteen missions in live fire situations.
I entered the canine kennel on base to meet and greet my future partner. Her trainer, Hal Baker, opened her pen and motioned with his head. Lightning-quick, she glided out, muscles rippling, tail wagging but still on high alert. I squatted to place my face at her eye level. For a moment she froze, eyes locked on mine, sniffing my scent.
“Hooyah, Spirit. We're going to be close friends, aren't we?”
A quick glance at Hal for approval, she relaxed her posture, leaned toward me, and waited for me to make the next move.
Belgian Malinois dogs are disciplined warriors, trained to approach or attack only on direct command from their handler. Hal gave her a nod and she pressed against my leg, looking for a belly rub. The handoff had begun.
~~~
I TOOK SPIRIT for a trip off base. The training schedule allowed a few hours’ downtime and I needed some space. It was off-season, Pacific Beach offered a place to run along the edge of the surf zone, get my feet wet, breathe some clean air. Soon enough, Spirit and I will be deployed to Afghanistan. My last tour.
Spirit was off leash, charging through the sand. I followed close at her heels.
“Spirit, halt. I need a break.”
The Malinois stopped in her tracks, turned toward me, a big grin on her face. She loved the beach.
I dropped to the sand and wrestled her down next to me. A war dog maybe, but she had a playful side and I knew how to draw it out.
“Hey, no dogs allowed on the beach, man.”
I looked up at the group of five surfer dudes gathering around us. Spirit tensed but remained in a crouch position.
“We're not hurting anyone. What's the problem?”
One of the dudes moved too close. Spirit arched her back and issued a low growl.
“Watch your dog, man. He'll get kicked if he tries to bite.”
“The dog is female and you're about to lose some blood if you don't back off.”
The beach patrol jeep sped up to the group. A uniformed officer stepped out and sent the surfers on their way. He turned to me and said, “Hey, CJ. Any problem here?”
“You know there would have been, Jim. Good that you happened along. I didn't want to release Spirit, but they needed an attitude adjustment.”
“Best you head back to base, Frogman.”
“In a little bit, Jim. We're redeploying in a few days.”
“Sure thing. Stay safe.”
~~~
ONLY THREE DAYS LEFT to our workup before re-deployment. The squad went on one last bar tour before packing it in for the AC-130 flight back to Sandland. Six of us, Jake, Trad, Ollie, Scope, Hawk and me, left base at 1900. Spirit hit the sack early. She doesn't drink beer or hard liquor.
The Aero Club was the fourth bar of the tour. Noted for the pink neon sign that looks like a rocket glowing in the distance when landing at Lindbergh Field. Right off the freeway in Mission Hills. They have 800 brands of whiskey. Too many shots for one visit but, hey, who knows? I'm kinda thirsty.
We spent an hour sampling whiskey and only tasted three dozen. It’s going to be a long night. The six of us were definitely plastered. But the thirst for more continued. SEALs can hold their liquor. Plus, I think it was Mark Twain that said, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much whiskey is barely enough.”
I shouted to the bartender. “Set up a line of single malts.”
The Team guys all cheered. The shouts suddenly stopped when ten gangbangers streamed into the bar, wielding baseball bats. One guy had a sidearm on his belt.
“Hey, Frogmen. You think you’re tough?”
“You know it, bro.”
“That's not what we heard.”
&nbs
p; Hawk stood up. “What's your problem, man?”
“Have a seat, Hawk, I got this.” I stepped unsteadily in front of my friend.
The dude with the pistol pulled it from his belt.
Like we've trained, everyone moved at once to disarm the idiot, but I was in front.
He raised the weapon and fired.
I don't remember Hawk yanking on my belt but that's what landed me next to him on the floor, unscathed, except for powder burns on my hair.
Jake, Trad and Ollie dispatched four of the gangbangers in short order, including Pistol Pete. The rest scattered out to the street and didn't return.
I reached for a helping hand from Hawk. “Thanks, bro.”
He looked at me real serious and said, “What's wrong with you, CJ, the alcohol cloud your brain? I guess you get greedy, a little reckless when you feel invincible. An attitude that will get your thirty-two-year-old not-so-invincible ass killed in combat.”
“I'll try to remember that, Hawk. Thanks for saving my hide. I've passed my limit of alcohol. Let's go home.”
Hawk smirked and said, “Affirmative, CJ. You need a shower. Your ass is safe but your burnt hair smells like shit.”
8: FUBAR
THE SQUAD met no resistance through the entire route we followed on the last sortie. Too quiet. Without CJ, it was up to me to handle Spirit.
Jake comm’d, “Keep that dog on-leash till we reach the cave, Hawk.”
Spirit tensed her hind legs and flicked the tip of her tail. She had locked onto an odor. I let her go off leash. “Reviere.”
She stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the Mullah's camp. No sentries at the cave.
We started our peel; the first two hundred meters were uneventful. One hundred meters out, we crossed a deep trench. A muzzle flash announced a welcoming party.
Charley Manner series Box Set Page 2
