by Rafael Hines
Damn it, he thought.
Okay pal, you asked for it. Nobody spits at this uniform.
Make it quick, but whatever you do… don’t kill him.
I’ll try my best.
John ended his private conversation and eased up off the bench. His cellmates quickly formed a wide circle so they could all see the action. The spitter edged forward with fists cocked, eager to fight. John stood casually, waiting for his opponent to come in range when Felix jumped in front of him. He should have known that his cousin wouldn’t be waiting around for some nut to throw the first punch.
Felix closed the gap in two short steps then fanned his left hand in front of the spitter’s face. The quick simple hand feint created an involuntary blink reflex and in the split second the eyes were closed Felix followed through with a devastating straight right that echoed like a gunshot in the cell. His rock hard knuckles flattened the big beak nose and sent blood spraying from both nostrils. The spitter’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went down and out.
“Damn!”
“Yo, you see that shit?”
“Sweet dreams mothafucka!”
Felix barely heard his shouting cellmates. Looking down on the unconscious man he stepped back to get more leverage in his kick and was about to inflict some permanent damage when John wrapped his arms around him and pulled him away.
Felix struggled to get free. “This bitch-ass punk spit at you, cuz! I ain’t even close to done!”
“Easy Cat, easy. We wanna get outta here tonight. You already put his ass to sleep. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
Felix was losing it and fought to get free. His eyes blazing and muscles popping as John held him close.
“Cat, Cat. Be cool, be cool. You did your work, and we’re never going to see this Jihad motherfucker again,” John said into his ear.
Felix eased off and then turned to the group of youngsters standing close by.
“Pick up that piece of shit and throw his ass under the toilet.”
Eager to please, they picked him up and roughly threw him in the corner with his bloody face pressed up against the steel bowl.
Felix turned to address the room. Taking his time, he looked every man sharing the cell directly in the eye.
“Anyone asks, he slipped and fell when he was trying to take a drink. He ain’t from this country and thought the toilet was a water fountain. We clear?”
Every head nodded in full agreement. When his eyes met the Investment Banker’s, Tucker’s bladder involuntarily let loose. Felix shook his head as he watched urine drip out of the man’s six thousand dollar suit and onto the floor.
Fletcher walked over to the unconscious body.
“Leave him be Fletch,” Felix said.
Ignoring him, Fletcher took a tiny pin out of the waist band of his shiny green shorts. Pulling up the spitter’s right pant leg, he carefully inserted the pin into his Achilles tendon and walked back to John and Felix.
“He won’t even notice it when he wakes up, but within a week that tendon’s gonna pop. Fuckin’ asshole,” Fletcher said.
Felix was laughing now. He put him in a head lock and then gave him a big bear hug.
“Nice job Fletch. Wish I could be there to see that thing bust,” said Felix.
“Me too, but like I said, we’ll never see that piece a shit again,” John replied.
Chapter 6
Team Razor
Khost Province, Eastern Afghanistan
Special Forces sergeants Bobby Floyd and Able Diaz were that typical size and shape of American front line combat soldiers. Bobby at five-ten, a hundred-eighty-five pounds and Able at five-nine, one-seventy. Tough strong and lean, they were guys that never quit, guys that can take on anything and get the job done.
Bobby came from western Kentucky. He grew up hunting in the mountains and was considered by most to be the best tracker in Special Forces. People called him Tick, short for Bluetick Coonhound, some of the finest hunting dogs ever bred. Modern technology had nothing on Bobby “Tick” Floyd. He could read the land and find the enemy. Bobby was a man hunter.
Able “The Mexican” Diaz was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. His parents were from El Salvador and got factory jobs in the auto industry after becoming U.S. citizens. He grew up in a poor all-black neighborhood where fighting was a way of life. Always small and lightweight, he learned early on that he had to fight or be victimized by the bigger guys. Then he had to fight because he was different. After a while he just fought because he liked it. Able was street smart and street tough. That, combined with Special Ops training, made “Mex” one bad-ass soldier.
Able and Bobby had been fighting side by side for five years, and they moved as one, each a mirror of the other. Best friends, they considered themselves true brothers and went everywhere together both on and off the battlefield.
The two Special Forces sergeants were standing in the central square of the tiny Afghan village. The rough road was made of dirt and tiny rocks. The houses were all mud and stone. There was no electricity, and the only well was a quarter mile away along a treacherous footpath farther up the mountain. The village had been there for a thousand years, sitting high on a plateau to help defend itself against neighboring tribes.
“No wonder these people are hard as nails. Man, there’s nothing soft in this land,” Bobby said, looking around at the harsh lunar landscape.
“Roger that. Even the goats look ready to throw down,” Able said.
“And the women.”
“Shit, they look meaner than the men.”
“Uglier too.”
“We need to thank Allah they cover themselves up.”
“They really want to win this war, all they’ve gotta do is take the veils off.”
“Game over,” Able said.
“I know I’d surrender,” added Bobby.
“Okay, you two, knock it off,” said Chief Warrant Officer Bear Bernstein as he ambled over with Sergeant Mace Hendricks.
Each twelve-man Special Forces A team was made up of ten sergeants, one captain who was the commanding officer, and a chief warrant officer (CWO), who was the second in command. Bear was aptly named at six-four, two-thirty. He grew up outside of Chicago, his parents both surgeons. Bear was following in their footsteps when he quit school to join the Army twenty years ago. They never forgave him for “throwing his life away,” but Bear had never looked back or second-guessed his decision. He was a happy man and loved Special Forces.
“We’re just getting warmed up, Chief,” Able said.
“Warm? I’m not even moist,” said Bobby.
“What comes before foreplay?” Able asked.
“Enough. You comedians start mingling and winning some hearts and minds,” Bear said while looking around the square at the cold faces and hard stares they were getting from the men of the village.
“Those guys appear very progressive. ‘Animal House’ probably just opened here,” Bobby said.
“Can we dance with yo dates? is my opener,” Able said.
Bear and Mace were trying their best not to laugh, but Tick and Mex were good. After serving together for five years they had their routine down pat, and they prided themselves on always having fresh material.
“C’mon guys,” said Bear.
“Chief, you know handing out Snickers bars to these dudes ain’t gonna help our cause here. We need to help these people get a new water supply so they can grow bigger rocks,” Bobby said as he reached down and picked up some pebbles from the road.
Mace smacked his pants leg, raising a cloud of moon dust. “We’ll need to fly in a few million metric tons of top soil before we can even discuss farming,” he said.
Sergeant Maceo “Mace” Hendricks was a musical prodigy. He was born in Washington DC, and by age three he could play any instrument placed in front of him. An accomplished Jazz composer and performer by his early teens, everyone expected him to have a long and successful career. It all ended at nineteen. He never told anyone the reason why, bu
t he stopped playing and stopped writing. A few months later he joined the Army, six-one, chubby and out of shape. He quickly worked off the fat and excelled at everything the Army threw at him. Within a year he was offered a shot at Special Forces and had excelled there, too. His new instruments were weapons of war and once again he had mastered them all.
“Seriously guys, we’re Green Berets. The fuckin’ A Team. We’re not called Team Razor for your sharp wit. You know the four of us standing here have more knowledge of these people and a better understanding of their culture than the entire Army, Navy, and Marine Corp combined,” Bear said.
“Agreed,” said Able. “But with all our knowledge these guys are still looking at us like we just came from outer space.”
“Suggestions, Chief?” Bobby asked.
“Let’s mosey over and get some conversations going. Maybe we can gain some intel. Find out if they’re really pissed off at us or someone else. Major Burke’s meeting with their head honcho, and when he’s done we can give him some feedback from the man in the street. Worst case we’ll get some close ups and maybe recognize some of these guys next time they shoot at us,” Bear said.
“That’s why you’re in charge, Bear,” Bobby said.
“Just don’t stand too close to me, Chief. If they pick up on your Zionist roots we’re gonna have to fight our way out of here,” Able said.
“I’ll gladly keep my distance, Sergeant Diaz. You skip the personal hygiene class back in basic? Man, you stink.”
“His last bath was when he swam the Rio Grande, sneaking into America,” Bobby said.
“Fuck all a’ you. My people are from El Salvador.”
“So you’re southern Mexican?” Mace asked.
“I was born in the States, dipshit, and I don’t stink.” Able lifted his arm up over his head and sniffed his armpit. “Do I?”
Mace, Bobby, and Bear looked at each other and smiled and then they all turned towards Able shaking their heads in pity.
“Let’s go,” Bear said.
“Lead on,” said Bobby, always wanting the last word as they walked toward a group of men who were smoking and drinking strong coffee in the dusty afternoon sun.
All four Green Berets wore tee shirts and flak jackets with khaki cargo pants over their mountain boots. Each carried an M-4 semi-automatic rifle in his hands and had a pistol strapped across his chest. With their thick beards and sun glasses they looked like bikers, but their confident strides, headsets, and fire power identified them as elite fighting men.
They were, in fact the best of the best. Along with the rest of Team Razor they were trained in hand-to-hand combat, explosives, weaponry, communications, counter-insurgency tactics, and intelligence gathering. Between them they knew several local languages, and they had all studied the history and culture of the region, which is mandatory for Special Forces Operatives.
What really made these guys, like all Green Berets, so unique was that they worked in autonomous twelve-man Operational Detachment Alpha Teams (ODA’s) or A Teams. Acting independently, with little or no oversight, they lived among the locals on the front lines.
Mace, Bobby, Able, and Bear were part of ODA 851, also known as Team Razor. They worked closely with ODA 834, Team Saber, and together had won the trust and respect of the Afghanis within their Area of Operation (AO). The team had traveled from its Combat Outpost (COP) twenty miles away to this small village near the border with Pakistan to try and win their trust as well.
Afghanistan is a tough country, but Khost is an especially brutal region made up of high barren mountains and shallow valleys that isolate the area from government control. For years it’s been a safe haven and training ground for terrorist fighters who launch attacks from across the border in the frontier region of Pakistan.
While trying to increase local support on the Afghan side, U.S. forces were also trying to coordinate their actions with the Pakistani military. Together they shared information and targeted enemy bases, but even with this new joint effort the insurgent forces continued to gain strength.
Afghanistan’s border with Pakistan, three miles east of the village
The five Afghans sat on rugs laid over the dirt floor of a tiny one-story rock-and-mortar hut that had been at the base of the treeless mountain for over two hundred years. All were heavily armed, with AK-47’s across their laps and pistols stuck in their gun belts. Several Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers (RPG’s) leaned against the wall. The road had been heavily mined above and below the meeting place, and there were over fifty fighters spread out nearby to protect these men against a surprise attack.
Usually communicating by encrypted messages delivered by courier or through coded websites they rarely saw each other face-to-face. Today was different. They were being hurt by the joint U.S.-Pakistani efforts in the region, and over the last two months had suffered heavy losses with more than three hundred men killed, wounded, or captured.
Aziz Khan had dark deep-set eyes that drilled into a man with an intensity that made even the bravest falter and turn away. Dressed in black from his turban to his boots while casually stroking his long full beard, he was the undisputed leader and the others waited for him to begin. He took his time.
Aziz had been at war his entire life and one of the many lessons of war was patience. Another was never to show mercy to his enemies. Aziz never did. He had a heart of stone, hardened when he began fighting the Russians as a young man, and hardened further when he watched his entire family slaughtered by the Soviet invaders. After sending them home in defeat he fought other warlords for power and control of his country. Then came the Americans. Now there were also the Pakistanis.
Aziz believed in war. Whether from outside his country or from within, there was always an enemy that needed killing. He didn’t hope for peace as peace only made his people weak and unfocused, while war kept his men strong and determined.
“This new push by the Americans… it is a coincidence? They cannot know of our plans?” he asked.
The question was posed to the group, but it was Salman Hamidi, his Oxford-educated senior intelligence officer who answered.
“No Aziz, mission security is intact. Your nephew in New York has personally seen to everything, and he’s done an excellent job. If there were any leaks or a breach by U.S. Intelligence our friends would have alerted us by now. We are ready to begin operations, praise be to God,” he said.
“Salman, you speak kindly of my nephew, but he wears his anger on his face for all to see. He devised the plan, and I gave him command. It remains to be seen if he can control his temper. This mission requires discipline and patience for it to succeed, and he is not known to possess either of these virtues,” Aziz said.
The next to speak was Tariq Hassan. His family home was hit by an aerial bomb when he was a baby and he was badly burned. A scar covered most of his face and only allowed his beard to grow in irregular patches. The youngest of Aziz’s commanders, Tariq was in charge of military operations in Khost and in the neighboring Peshawar Valley of Pakistan.
“The Americans are attacking us in our country, in our homes. We will continue the fight here, but we must bring the war back to American soil! Their women and children will know suffering as ours do. They have not bled since 9/11. Now they will bleed again. Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar!” was repeated by all.
“Yes Tariq, they will bleed. The Americans are fighting here and against our brothers in Iraq and Syria while the U.S. economy is weak. This mission can be the fatal blow, praise be to Allah,” Aziz said.
Aziz then spread out a large map of the region. “Now let us turn our attention to operations here and discuss this new threat from the Pakistanis.”
As they surveyed the map and discussed strategies they had no idea that they were being monitored. Two weeks prior to this meeting a Special Forces Operator had placed a voice activated digital recorder in the ceiling when the shack had been identified as a potential location where high value intel co
uld be gathered. In addition to the recorder inside, there was also a camera with a live satellite uplink positioned on the front door. The audio from the recorder would have to be retrieved manually at a later date, but the camera shots were available immediately.
Still photos of all five terrorists were downloaded from the satellite and sent to the NSA, CIA, Homeland Security, FBI, and Special Operations Command (SOCOM). The pictures were then entered into databases with facial recognition software. Members of the Most Wanted List of international terrorists produced a red flashing light when one was identified by the system and it was a senior analyst at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia who was the first to see the “hit” on his computer screen.
“Bingo,” he said when he saw Aziz Khan’s name flashing. The “bingo” was soon followed by “holy shit” when Tariq Hassan and Salman Hamidi’s names also blinked bright red. He quickly sent an urgent e-mail to all the department heads and the Director of Middle East Operations just as two more names from the world’s top one hundred bad guy’s list popped up. He ran down the hall shouting, “High Value Targets! High Value Targets!”
The news quickly moved up the chain of command and finally reached Colonel Paul Edwards, the local U.S. commander with “boots on the ground.” All five names were already on his High Priority Kill or Capture List and as soon as he determined that they were together in a fixed location within his AO he immediately sent three Black Hawk helicopter gunships and twin A-10 Thunderbolt ground-attack jet fighters streaking towards the target. Surveying the map he saw that Team Razor was only three miles away.
“Get Major Burke on the horn, pronto,” he ordered.
The meeting with the tribal leaders, the local elders, and the Imams had just ended when Major Burke was given his orders. After he ended the transmission with Colonel Edwards, Burke gathered the team to fill them in.
“Okay Razor, we have five HVT’s less than two clicks from us. These guys are all senior management. Birds and fast movers are on the way, but we’re going in first to see if we can grab some of these guys alive. Let’s assume they’ve got a security force so if we’re outgunned we’ll fall back and wait for the flyboys to take them out. Questions?”
