by Tom Clancy
A verse from the Qur’an was forever on the tip of Samad’s tongue: Muster against them all the men and cavalry at your disposal so that you can strike terror into the enemies of Allah …
And no group of people more accurately represented the enemies of Allah than Americans, those spoiled, spineless, godless consumers of garbage. Land of the fornicators and home of the obese. They were a threat to all people of the world.
Samad led his men closer to the farmhouse, then called to the farmer to come outside. The man, who lived alone after his wife had died and his two sons had moved to Islamabad, finally wobbled past his front door, balancing himself on a cane and squinting at Samad.
“I don’t want you here,” he said.
“I know,” Samad answered, moving up to the man. He nodded once more and thrust a long, curved blade directly into the man’s heart. As the farmer fell back, Samad caught him, even as Talwar and Niazi helped seize and carry him into the house. They lay him on the dirt floor, and he just stared at them as he continued bleeding to death.
“After he dies, we need to hide his body,” said Niazi.
“Of course,” Samad answered.
“He’ll be missed,” Talwar pointed out.
“We’ll say he left to visit his sons in the city. But that’s only if the tribesmen ask. If the Americans or the Army come, then this is our farm. Do you understand? Fleeing now will only draw more suspicion.”
They nodded.
Out near one of the goat pens they found a hole the farmer had been using to pile up the dung. They threw him in there and buried him with more dung. Samad grinned. No soldier would want to go digging through dung to find the body of some worthless farmer. Samad donned some of the old man’s clothes; then they sat back in some squeaky chairs, prepared some tea, and waited for nightfall.
Moore and his young recruit Rana had observed three men near a stand of trees on the hilltop, but these men were too low and too far away to see their faces, even with binoculars. Rana assumed that they were Taliban fighters, sentries on the perimeter, and Moore agreed. He and Rana hiked back across the foothills, down into a ravine, then up to high ground, from where Moore made a call with his Iridium satellite phone. The mountainous terrain interfered with reception if he got too deep into the cuts and ravines, but he usually picked up a clean signal from the mountaintops, where, of course, he was more vulnerable to detection. He reached the detachment commander of an ODA (Operational Detachment Alpha) team, one of the Army’s elite Special Forces groups. As a SEAL, Moore had worked alongside these boys in Afghanistan, and he had a deep respect for them, even though barbs were traded regarding which group had the most effective and deadly warriors. The rivalry was both healthy and amusing.
“Ozzy, this is Blackbeard,” said Moore, using his CIA call sign. “What’s up, brother?”
The voice on the other end belonged to Captain Dale Osbourne, a painfully young but exceedingly bright operator who’d worked with Moore on several night raids that had yielded two High-Value Targets in Afghanistan.
“Going for the hat trick tonight.”
Ozzy snorted. “You got actionable intel or just the usual bullshit?”
“Usual bullshit.”
“So you didn’t see them.”
“They’re here. We got three already.”
“Why do you assholes always do this to me?”
Moore chuckled. “’Cause you suckers like to play in the dirt. I’ve uploaded the names and pics. I want these guys.”
“What else is new?”
“Look, if it helps, we’ve picked up shell casings all over the place. Definitely a recent training ground here. Sloppy bastards didn’t clean up their mess. I need you in here tonight for the surprise party.”
“You sure Obi-Wan’s not lying his ass off?”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
“Well, holy shit, then, you got a deal. Look for us at zero dark thirty, baby. See you then.”
“Roger that. And don’t forget your gloves. You don’t want to ruin your manicure.”
“Yeah, right.”
Moore grinned and thumbed off the phone.
“What happens now?” asked Rana.
“We find a little cave, set up camp, then you’ll hear a helicopter coming.”
“Won’t that scare them off?”
Moore shook his head. “They know we’ve got satellites and Predators up there. They’ll just dig in. You watch.”
“I’m a little frightened,” Rana confessed.
“Are you kidding me? Relax. We’ll be fine.”
Moore gestured to the AK-47 slung over his shoulder and patted the old Soviet-made Makarov holstered at his side. Rana was also carrying a Makarov, and Moore had taught him how to fire and reload the sidearm.
They found a shallow cave along one of the hillsides and half buried the entrance with some larger rocks and shrubs. They remained there as night fell, and Moore began to slowly doze off. He caught himself twice falling asleep and asked Rana to remain awake and keep watch. The kid was tense anyway, and was happy to keep an eye out.
The energy bar he’d eaten earlier wasn’t agreeing with him, and it brought on some vivid dreams. He was floating on an ink-black sea, crucified against an endless expanse of darkness, and suddenly he reached out a hand and screamed, “DON’T LEAVE ME! DON’T LEAVE ME!”
He shuddered awake as something pushed over his mouth. Where the hell was he? He didn’t feel wet. He was panting, couldn’t catch his breath, realized that was because his mouth was in fact being covered by a hand.
Through the grainy darkness came Rana’s wide eyes, and he stage-whispered, “Why are you yelling? I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving. But you can’t yell.”
Moore nodded vigorously, and Rana slowly removed his hand. Moore bit his lip and tried to recover his breathing. “Whoa, sorry, bad dreams.”
“You thought I was going to leave.”
“I don’t know. Wait. What time is it?”
“It’s after midnight. Almost zero dark thirty.”
Moore sat up and switched on his satellite phone. A voice mail was waiting: “Hey, Blackbeard, you worthless sack of flesh. We’re mounting up. ETA your backyard, twenty minutes.”
He switched off the phone. “Listen. You hear that?”
Samad was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and for a second or two he lost his bearings; then he remembered they were inside the farmer’s house. He sat up on the small wooden bed. “There’s a helicopter coming,” said Talwar.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Are you certain?”
“Go back to sleep. When they come, we’ll be annoyed that they woke us up.”
Samad went over to a small table and tied a rag across his face, suggesting that he’d lost an eye — not an uncommon sight in this war-torn part of the country. It was a simple disguise, and he’d learned during his days as a bomb-maker that the more simple the bomb, the idea, the plan, the greater the chance for success it had. He’d proven that theory to himself time and again. A rag. A war wound. A bitter farmer pulled from his sleep by foolish Americans. That’s all he was.
Allahu Akbar!
God was great!
The twelve-man ODA team fast-roped down from the hovering chopper as a translator addressed a few of the tribesmen who’d stumbled half-asleep from their houses to stare up and shield their eyes from the rotor wash. The translator spoke loudly via the Black Hawk’s booming public address system: “We’re here to find two men, and that is all. No one will be harmed. No shots will be fired. Please help us to find two men.” The translator repeated the message at least three times as Ozzy’s team hit the deck, one after another, then fanned out in pairs, rifles at the ready.
The drop zone was a clearing near a row of homes about two hundred meters away from the walls of the chief’s fortress, and Moore met the young Special Forces captain and his chief warrant officer in an alley between houses. They waited a few seconds until the Black Hawk ban
ked hard and thumped away into the darkness, navigation lights flashing as its pilot steered back for the secure landing zone a few kilometers away, where they’d wait for Ozzy’s call to extract them. Landing the chopper in the village and having it remain there while the team went to work was simply too dangerous.
“You remember my sidekick, Robin?” Moore asked, directing his penlight at Rana.
Ozzy grinned. “How you doing, buddy?”
Rana frowned. “My name’s Rana, not Robin.”
“It’s a joke,” said Moore. He faced the chief warrant officer, a guy named Bobby Olsen, aka Bob-O, who took one look at Moore and pretended to scowl. “Are you the CIA puke?”
Bob-O wore the same look and asked the same question every time they got together. For some reason he took evil delight in ribbing Moore every chance he got. Moore raised his index finger and jabbed it into Bob-O’s face, about to launch his retort.
“Okay, you knuckleheads, we can stow that,” said Ozzy. He raised his brows at Moore. “It’s your party, Blackbeard. I hope you’re right.”
Ozzy’s team had been well trained in the art and science of negotiating with the tribesmen, and their fieldwork had allowed them to put classroom theory and mock scenarios into practice. They’d learned the language, had studied the customs, and even had small all-weather cheat sheets folded and stored in their breast pockets in case they were caught off guard in a social situation. They were, in their humble opinion, ambassadors of democracy, and while some might consider that notion silly or cheesy, they were the only contact with the Western world many of the tribesmen would ever have.
Moore, Rana, Ozzy, and Bob-O were about to cross a rutted dirt road lying parallel to the mud-brick homes when two salvos of automatic-weapons fire echoed off the mountains. The gunfire struck Moore breathless. Bob-O cursed.
“Raceman, who fired those shots?” Ozzy barked into the boom mike at his lips as Moore and Rana crouched beside the house.
Bob-O was on his radio at the same time, yapping at the other teams, demanding information.
More gunfire resounded, the cadence and pitch notably different. Yes, that fire belonged to Ozzy’s people, their Special Forces Combat Assault Rifles (SCARs) sending 5.56- or 7.63-millimeter responses to the enemy’s ambush. Two more volleys followed. Then a third. Then five, six, maybe seven, AK-47s answered, the gun battle about a half-dozen houses away.
Moore pricked up his ears. To fire an AK-47 you loaded your magazine, moved the selector lever off the safety, pulled back and released the charging handle, took aim, and fired — quite a few moves to fire a single shot. But if you moved the selector to the middle position, you had full auto and could lean on the trigger until you emptied the magazine. Basic gun operation, but the point was this: During any gun battle, Moore first listened for the enemy’s location and then tried to determine if the enemy was trying to conserve ammo. He heard it every time — either full auto, which often meant that each combatant had multiple magazines at his disposal, or single shot, which suggested that the enemy was trying to make every round count. Sure, this wasn’t a foolproof assessment, but more times than not his assumptions had been correct.
When a group of Taliban unleashed full automatic-weapons fire, you’d best assume the worst: They were well stocked with ammo.
Moore faced Rana and said, “Don’t do anything. Just hold tight here.”
Rana’s eyes lit up the alley. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neo and Big Dan, you get up into the hills on the south side. Raceman’s got fire over there,” Ozzy was saying as he peered around the corner, then gestured for Moore and Rana to follow him. Moore edged up beside the captain. “How’s it looking?”
“We got about eight, maybe ten, Tangos so far. I’m calling in for an Apache to give these suckers some pause.”
Ozzy was referring to the AH-64D Apache Longbow, the Army’s premier attack helicopter armed with an M230 chain gun, Hydra 70 air-to-ground rockets, and AGM-114 Hellfire or FIM-92 Stinger missiles. The mere silhouette of that helicopter summoned up horrific death in the imaginations of the Taliban who’d seen their fellow warriors shredded under its unceasing fire.
Ozzy got back on his radio and talked to the chopper pilot, requesting that he come to the village immediately and put his chain gun to work on the insurgents.
“We’ll get you back to the landing zone right now,” said Ozzy.
“You hear that?” Moore asked Rana. “We’re heading back. We’ll be okay.”
Rana clutched his Makarov to his chest. “I don’t like this.”
“I’m with you, Rana,” Moore said. “You’ll be fine.”
As the words left Moore’s lips, he flicked his gaze up toward the opposite end of the house, where a figure had just rounded the corner, and the figure’s rifle appeared in the moonlight.
Moore raised his AK-47, set to full auto, and squeezed off a four-round burst that drummed into the man’s chest, sending him thrashing and falling into the sand.
Even as that guy fell, Ozzy and Bob-O came under a hailstorm of fire from the other side of the house — at least three Taliban fighters opening up on them and driving them away from the corner. Bob-O stepped in front of Rana to protect the kid while Moore stole one more look back, then spun around and went charging up beside Ozzy.
Two houses lay on the other side of the street, and Moore noted the muzzle flashes before he hit the deck. One guy was on the flat roof, exploiting the calf-high parapet running along three sides. He fired and tucked himself back behind the stone. Another was at the back of the house, where a knee wall afforded him good cover.
And the last one stood inside the house on the left, shifting into the open window to fire, then rolling back. All three knew that the mud bricks would protect them from the enemy’s rounds.
“Rana, stay with them,” Moore told the kid. Then he crawled two more meters to get close to Ozzy. “Keep them busy. I’m circling around. I’ll start with the guy on the roof.”
“Dude, are you nuts?” asked Ozzy. “Let me frag ’em.”
Moore shook his head vigorously. “I want one alive. Give me a couple of zipper cuffs.”
Ozzy snickered in disbelief but handed over the cuffs.
Moore winked. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, Money,” called Rana nervously.
But Moore was already racing out of the alley. Dressed like a tribesman himself and armed with their weapons, if he were spotted, there might be a moment of pause that he’d fully exploit. He charged around two more houses, crossed the dirt road, then reached the back of the house atop which one of the Taliban fighters had carefully positioned himself. The guy had used a rickety wooden ladder, and it was during the next round of gunfire that Moore rushed up that ladder, allowing the racket to conceal his advance.
He came over the ledge and spotted the guy, kneeling down and popping up like a target in a black turban, laying down fire, then snapping back behind the parapet. Bob-O and Ozzy sent their own suppressing fire into the stone, drilling up debris and dust that rose in small clouds along the parapet.
With the Taliban’s attention fully directed ahead, he neither saw nor heard Moore’s approach. Moore took the Makarov in his hand, clutching the barrel so that the grip extended from the bottom of his fist, forming an L-shape.
Then, after taking a deep breath, Moore broke into a running leap, arcing high above his opponent, shifting into an off-beat combination of Krav Maga and his own improvisation. As the guy turned his head, catching a flash from the corner of his eye, Moore came down on him like some taloned predator, driving his knee into the man’s back and forcing the grip end of the pistol into the man’s neck, below and slightly in front of the ear. A sharp blow to the side of the neck would cause unconsciousness by shocking the carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve.
The guy fell back across the roof, and Moore withdrew the zipper cuffs from his back pocket and bound the man’s hands behind his back. The
n he zipped up the guy’s feet and left him there. When he woke up, they’d have some tea and a nice conversation. For now, though, Moore descended the ladder, as once more Ozzy and Bob-O got off some suppressing fire on the other two Taliban.
Moore brushed his shoulder along the wall as he headed back around the next house, reaching the corner where, to his left and about ten meters ahead, the second Taliban fighter was hunkered down at the knee wall. He was armed with a rifle but also had a pistol holstered at his side and wore a heavy pack that Moore assumed was loaded with more magazines. Moore shuddered over the decision: The guy seemed too far away to catch silently from behind. And if Moore ran forward at the wrong angle, he could be caught by Ozzy’s or Bob-O’s fire. Getting taken out by doing something bold was one thing; doing something reckless and getting shot by his own people was to reach a level of stupidity usually reserved for adulterous politicians.
Since Moore was carrying an AK-47, if he did fire, then the third Taliban might assume that his buddy was responsible for those rounds. But then came an even better diversion: The Apache Longbow and its thundering rotors swooped down, banked hard right, then began to wheel over them. The wind and roar stole the Taliban fighter’s attention, as did the powerful spotlight that panned across the alley.
Moore raised his rifle, got off three rounds, punching the guy in the back, blood spraying. Then he whirled and took off along the wall of the next house, within which stood the last guy. Moore got down on his hands and knees and crawled beneath the side window, then came around the front of the house. Bob-O and Ozzy ceased fire, and Moore was able to position himself beneath the open window through which the last guy was firing.
