"How are you, Dr. Joplin?" Zinkowski inquired as she slipped a training mission in Bosnia between a couple of Iraq agent insertions.
"I'm fine:' Joplin replied. "You look busy this morning."
"We're busy every morning, Dr. Joplin," Kincaid remarked. She got up and went to the inner door, opening it to speak to someone on the other side. "Dr. Joplin is here, sir." A muffled voice sounded from within, and she turned. "Colonel Turnbull and Commander Jones are waiting to see you."
Joplin went into what was a small central meeting chamber, with Zinkowski following. The four doors inside opened up on the private offices of the staff members. Turnbull and Jones were seated at a table in the center of the room. A standalone computer sat on the table, and Zinkowski took the chair in front of it. One of the jobs she and Kincaid were tasked with was the downloading of classified disks onto the staff 's CPU. This was done while the armed couriers who brought the data to the SOLS office waited. When the job was done, the couriers took the disks back to the vault, where they were stored under both electronic and human security measures.
Joplin reacted to an invitation to make himself at home by slipping into a chair. Both Turnbull and Jones were in their shirtsleeves with ties undone. They had the looks of men who had plenty to do that day and were impatient to get back to the tasks that awaited them.
"What can we do for you, Carl?" Turnbull asked.
"I've been approached by Zaid Aburrani," Joplin replied, knowing they had left some important work to take the time for this meeting. "I believe you're familiar with him."
"I don't know him personally, but his name has passed through here now and then," Turnbull conceded.
"Afghan, isn't he?" Jones asked.
"Yes," Joplin said. "He's got a sensitive situation in his home country involving one of the warlords. The man's name is Ayyub Durtami and he's holding a couple of their voter registration agents hostage. It would be to our advantage if the prisoners were rescued."
Turnbull wondered about the importance of rescuing such hostages, but he knew if it wasn't vital then Carl Joplin, PhD, would not be involved. "Would this warlord's name be the keyword in our search-and-find mode, Carl?"
"I'm not sure, John. But it would be a start." He looked over at Zinkowski, thinking that back in the old country she would be Zinkowska. "Try Afghanistan plus Durtami. The last one is spelled D-U-R-T-A-M-I."
Zinkowski's fingers flew over the keyboard, then she pressed ENTER. "It's come up," she announced.
"Print it out, please," Commander Jones said.
Seconds later the Lexmark Optra E312 printer buzzed on a table in the corner of the room, then began printing ten pages of data. When it finished, Zinkowski went over and got the document, carrying it to Colonel Turnbull. He read it, then passed it over to Commander Jones.
Jones took the pages. "Ah! A SEAL operation. A platoon is in the area to pick up a defector." He flipped over to the last page. "They're also expected to be ready for any additional missions assigned them. They're still in-country." He shoved the report over to Joplin.
The State Department undersecretary settled back and read the official cold, almost indifferent words that described a dangerous mission to pick up an indigenous defector. He knew the operative name Ishaq from other Middle Eastern missions. Joplin was intrigued by the contingency that the mission could be expanded because of the unstable situation in the OA. He took out his pen and wrote a few lines across the top of page one, then put his signature under it and on all the other pages. He nodded to Turnbull and Jones.
"You are now authorized to put in an order that the SEAL platoon in the area is to affect a rescue of the two hostages held by the Afghanistan warlord named Ayyub Durtami. Further instructions will follow."
Turnbull glanced at Zinkowski. "Do the paperwork." "Yes, sir!"
.
WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP
16 AUGUST
0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE mortar round hit during the middle of the morning watch, detonating a hundred meters down the far side of the mountain. Since Delta Fire Team was on watch, Chief Matt Gunnarson was at the CP acting as duty petty officer. His LASH headset immediately buzzed with simultaneous transmissions from Adam Clifford and Bruno Puglisi.
"Ever'body shut up but Puglisi," he said back. "What the hell's going on?"
Another round exploded a hundred and fifty meters to the south. "There's some rat bastard moojee-hadeen shooting funny little mortars down in the valley from the base of East Ridge," Puglisi reported. "Looks like two crews. Are they coming in close up there?"
"Negative," Gunnarson replied. 'They either can't hit shit or they're not sure of our exact location."
"It's prob'ly a little of both," Puglisi opined. "They're kinda spastic with them things."
"Can you reach them with your M-203?"
"Negative, Chief," Puglisi said. "They're out of range."
"You guys stand fast and keep your heads down," Gunnarson said. He glanced over at the Skipper, who was looking at him quizzically. He made a quick report. At that moment the senior chief came up, just as two shells struck on the opposite side of the mountain.
"Get your Bravos together, Senior Chief," Brannigan ordered. "That incoming is from a couple of mortars out there in the valley. You can get the exact locations from Puglisi. Evidently they're out of range of the M-203s, so you'll have to take 'em down with your CAR-15s. And that means paying them a personal visit."
"Aye, sir," Senior Chief Dawkins said. "Although I hate to just barge in without an invitation." He gave the Skipper a salute, then turned to trot over toward the Bravo positions while another explosion, too far away to do any harm, went off. "On your feet, Bravos. There's a couple of mortars that want knocked out."
In the passing of only a few short moments he was leading Connie Concord, Gutsy Olson and Chad Murchison on a circuitous route down the side of the mountain toward the valley.
.
0635 H0URS LOCAL
THE Bravos worked their way a short distance up the side of East Ridge, and found cover and concealment within a hundred meters of the mortars. They had an excellent view of the two weapons as the mujahideen made adjustments, then dropped the small shells down the tube.
"Jesus!" Connie Concord whispered through his LASH headset. "Them little mortars don't make hardly no sound at all."
"There isn't a flash either," Chad Murchison remarked. "And they don't just drop the shell down the tube. They pull a trigger there to fire it."
"That means a cartridge of some kind is involved," Connie said, thinking out loud.
Gutsy Olson, who had been sent a bit higher to recon the mountainside, now came back. "Them dumb bastards don't have no protection on the flanks. They're out there all by themselves just having a ball."
"Okay," Dawkins said. "Me and Murchison will take the far crew. Concord and Olson take the near one. Semi-auto. Let's make this fast. On my command." Everyone took aim, and an instant later the senior chief said, "Fire!"
Four of the six men on the site were hit by the single shots pumped into their midst. The other two, with one limping badly from a wound, abandoned the position to scramble higher up into the rocks. The SEALs rushed down toward the now abandoned mortar position, and the senior chief sent Gutsy and Chad to chase after the pair of escapees.
After examining the four sprawled corpses, Connie picked up one of the mortars. "I'll be damned!"
The senior chief gave it a close inspection. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this."
"Me and Puglisi know this baby," Connie said. "We even fired it a few times when we went back to Fort Bragg for that weapons training at the Special Warfare Center." He tossed it to the senior chief. "See how light it is? Ten and a half pounds. It's nothing much more than a tube with little bitty base plate. See the carrying strap? You can sling that baby over your shoulder about as easy as a rifle."
"The damn thing is almost silent:'
"Yeah," Connie said. "It's French
. They call it the Fly-K. The ammo is fifty-one-millimeter and only weighs a couple of pounds."
Chad and Gutsy came back, and the latter made the report. "The wounded guy that was limping collapsed. I guess he bled to death. His buddy got up too high in them rocks for us to follow. He's prob'ly hauling ass over the top of the ridge by now."
"Okay," the senior chief said. "Our job is done here. Let's police up these two mortars and them ammunition pouches. How many of them is there?"
Connie counted. "Ten, Senior Chief. Each holds five rounds. That gives us fifty."
"There's a couple over here that are opened," Chad said. "One is empty and the other has three rounds in it."
"Bring it along," Dawkins ordered. "We can split up the weight between us. These sweet li'l babies could come in handy."
"Puglisi is gonna be surprised to see all this," Connie said.
"Yeah," Dawkins said. He smirked at Connie. "God! You said, 'Little bitty base plates.' You make it all sound so cutesy."
"Well, shit, Senior Chief," Connie said with a frown, "they are little bitty!"
.
BASE CAMP CP
1730 H0URS LOCAL
FRANK Gomez hurried from his commo site, across the ridge line to report to the skipper. He plopped down in front of the platoon commander and shoved a message pad page at him. "Big doings, sir!"
Brannigan took the paper and quickly perused the missive written in the radio operator's neat block printing style. "Damn!" He looked over at the small smokeless fire where Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were diligently boiling water for coffee. "Assad! Go fetch Lieutenant Cruiser and the chiefs!"
"Aye, sir!"
Mike leaped to his feet and rushed over to make a circuit of Bravo, Charlie and Delta Fire Teams. In less than a minute-and-a-half he was back with the lieutenant, Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson. He returned to his buddy Dave just in time to have a canteen cup of hot coffee handed to him.
Brannigan went straight to the subject at hand when he addressed his small staff. "Two things going down, gentlemen. When Commander Carey back in Isolation told us this mission had the potential to evolve into something a hell of a lot more complicated, he wasn't just whistling Dixie. We're getting a resupply drop at" he checked his watch" eighteen-thirty hours. That's less than an hour away."
"Great!" Cruiser commented. "I was starting to sweat the ammo and chow inventory."
"As was I," Brannigan said. "And I'm in no fucking mood to start living off the land." He scanned the message again. "Now this second bit is going to curl your toes. We are tasked with rescuing a couple of hostages being held down there in that warlord's compound."
"Our reconnaissance and the sketch map we updated will come in handy, sir," the senior chief said. "We noted they was two prisoners being held in one of them supply storage containers. They must be the hostages. We're gonna have to skirt the village and go through the vehicle park to get to it."
"Good to know," Brannigan said. "But first things first. We've got to concentrate on the resupply." He turned to Cruiser. "Figure out a good DZ up here on the ridge, and put out some panels. It'll still be light when the aircraft comes in."
"Aye, sir," Cruiser replied. "What kind of airplane is it going to be? And will they use parachutes or just dump the stuff out as they whip by?"
"Why should they give us all that information, Jim?" Brannigan said with a sardonic grin. "We're just the poor dumb bastards in the OA. If they dropped all that shit on our heads, we would be expected to be grateful just the same."
Cruiser got to his feet. "I'll get the panels."
"In the meantime, I'll use that sketch map to figure out some brilliant tactics to rescue those prisoners," Brannigan said. He nodded to the senior chief. "Stick around."
"Aye, sir."
.
1815 HOURS LOCAL
THE members of the crack AFSOC are little known by the American public. When the average citizen turns his mind to Special Forces, he thinks of SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers and Force Recon. He is unaware that there exist dedicated people in the United States Air Force who play a vital role in all SPECOPS. Those other, better known outfits would have a tough time without their courageous support. AFSOC provides infiltration and exfiltration services, resupply, fire support in combat situations and merciful MEDEVAC and rescue services at the risk of their own lives.
One of the aircraft vital in these services is the MH-53J Pave Low helicopter. This extraordinary aircraft is equipped with FUR that allows it to fly at low altitudes at night to arrive right on target. As well as having one of the most sophisticated navigation systems in the world, it can go six hundred miles without refueling. The choppers and their elite crews have proven themselves over and over, from the time of Desert Storm, where they led U. S. Army Apache helicopters in to destroy Iraqi radar positions, all the way through to the current campaigns in the Iraqi War and Afghanistan.
LIEUTENANT Bill Brannigan sat next to Frank Gonzales at the Shadowfire radio. He glanced out at the DZ that Cruiser and Chief Gunnarson had hastily organized with panels. They also had some smoke grenades handy, though no signal arrangements had been made for the use of the pyrotechnic devices. Brannigan had decided to follow the usual procedures, i. E., green smoke meant go, yellow smoke indicated go around again, and red was the signal to abort the mission.
The Shadowfire came to life with the voice of one of the Pave Low's six-man crew. "Delta Zulu, this is Chopper. We are fifteen minutes out. Supplies are on three pallets and will be pushed out the ass end at an altitude of zero-zero-low. We've been apprised of your coordinates, but we need an azimuth. Over."
Brannigan grabbed the mike. "Chopper, this is Delta Zulu. We have laid out panels indicating direction of flight. Use them as your first target. Azimuth is sweet and simple. Fly due north. Over."
"This is Chopper. Out."
.
1830 HOURS LOCAL
THE Pave Low could be seen flying south, then it made a slow turn and lined up on the crest of the ridge. Immediately it began spewing countermeasure flares that blossomed thickly and brightly around it. The pilot brought it in at such a low altitude that the aircraft appeared to be almost on the deck. Just as it passed over Cruiser's panels, the first bundled pallet slid out and hit the ground, skidding forward. Then a second and third quickly followed. With the load delivered, the power was increased and the aircraft made a rapid climb and turn as it sped back up to altitude.
The platoon members rushed out to the pallets, unbuckling the heavy nylon straps holding the bundles to the wooden platforms. The rations and ammunition issues were greatly appreciated. But the unexpected four cases of beer put there by the thoughtful Air Force crew elicited cheers of sincere gratitude.
.
2200 H0URS LOCAL
THE supplies--and beer--had been distributed among the four fire teams, and now the entire platoon was gathered in a semicircle around the CP for the briefing on the hostage rescue mission. All the extra weapons and ammo had been packed away, and the men, each with a six-pack of Michelob, were in a good mood as they waited for the skipper to begin the briefing for the upcoming operation.
Brannigan took a sip from a can of beer, then raised it high. "Here's to the magnificent guys of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command. God bless 'em!"
"God bless 'em!" came back the shouts with fifteen cans raised high in a toast to their comrades-in-arms of the flying branch.
"Now hear this!" Brannigan said. "Let's get down to business. The mission requires us to get into that warlord's compound and pull out two poor bastards he's holding there for ransom. I'll discuss the details of my OPORD following personnel assignments. Listen up!"
Both chief petty officers gave the platoon a careful look to make sure everyone was paying attention in spite of guzzling beer.
"A diversion will be created by the entire Second Squad," Brannigan continued. "Meanwhile the First Squad will move in and set up firing positions as close to the
compound wall as possible. I will take Assad and Leibowitz with me over the wall and into the compound to the storage container where the prisoners are locked up. We'll get 'em out of there and over the wall. We'll join up with the rest of the squad and move to a rendezvous area where the Second Squad will join us. From there we come back here. Any questions so far?"
Chad Murchison raised his hand. "Are the hostages going to be exfiltrated from the base camp any time soon?"
"I don't know at this point," Brannigan said. "Once we have 'em here, we'll radio into SOCOM in Bahrain. Someone will have to make a decision:' He checked his notes. "All right! Here's the execution phase of the mission."
Everyone instinctively leaned forward.
Chapter 8
OPERATIONAL AREA SECOND SQUAD
17 AUGUST
0030 HOURS LOCAL
THE entire Second Squad, under the command of Lieutenant Jim Cruiser, had spent three careful hours traveling across the barren area between East Ridge and the warlord's compound. The night vision goggles were helpful in finding their way under the cloudy night sky, and they traversed the terrain, showing green-white through the viewing devices, as rapidly as security precautions allowed. They knew the mujahideen would be nervous and angry in this volatile situation. That meant the ragheads on guard duty would be especially edgy and watchful at night. Thus, any careless sound such as an inadvertently kicked rock or one piece of equipment banging against another could bring salvos of incoming fire on the SEALs.
Seals (2005) Page 8
