The Donetsk Liberation: Short Fiction

by Thomas Aaron

  The Donetsk Liberation

  By Thomas Aaron

  BY THOMAS AARON

  SHORT FICTION

  The Zafir Warning

  The President stood behind his desk in the Oval Office, deep in thought. Staring out of the large south facing window across the lawn, his gaze focused on nothing in particular. In front of the desk stood the Director of Central Intelligence along with the Chief of Staff. Both men had just finished giving the President the latest intelligence picture. Action had to be taken.

  American aid workers were in imminent danger. He had made up his mind. ‘How long will it take to get boots in the dirt?’

  The director of central intelligence looked the President squarely in the eyes. ‘I’ve got a team in the air right now.’

  ‘I want their air defence systems taken out; get the team on the ground. Make it happen.’

  The C-17 Aircraft sliced through the night sky, the noise of the engines was deafening and the smell of fuel nauseating. The eight-man team began their final checks under the red glow of the cargo bay. Dressed in camouflage fatigues devoid of insignia with the latest ballistic body armour, each man carefully checked their equipment. They had just received their ten-minute warning from the loadmaster as the rear door lowered.

  Ice cold air rushed in as the black Ukraine sky was revealed before them. The aircraft remained steady while the men lined up just short of the ramp. The loadmaster conducted his personal checks of the team, double checking their equipment. He stopped and looked towards the cockpit as he received radio instructions. Looking up, he held his hand to signify five minutes. Weapons were strapped firm; buckles were checked and re-checked; he was happy.

  At an altitude of thirty thousand feet, west of Donetsk, the team were preparing to HAHO (High Altitude High Open) across into pro Russian militia controlled Ukraine. Once the loadmaster was satisfied, he gave the command ‘ACTION STATIONS.’

  They all shuffled forward in single file, their left hands on one another’s shoulders. The loadmaster took a firm grip of the point man; the last man squeezed the shoulder of the man in front to signify he was ready. The signal was reciprocated forward all the way to the front. The point man leaned towards the loadmaster and shouted above the rushing air and engines ‘STICK OK.’

  They waited; the men were calm and relaxed, their faces showed no emotion as they prepared to deploy onto the battlefield. A red bulb sparked into life, then a moment later a green; the go signal from the Captain. Without hesitation the loadmaster slapped the point man on the shoulder and stood aside as the deniable operators jumped into the night sky.

  Black clouds filled the sky as the parachute assault force swept into their drop zone. Within sight of each other they de rigged their parachutes before quickly moving south a few hundred meters to their pre designated rendezvous point. They formed up in all round defence using a small depression in the ground next to a stone wall.

  Each man took a knee, Heckler & Koch 416 carbine rifles pointed in all directions. Their eyes scanned the darkness with their four-tube night vision that affixed to their helmets; searching for threats.

  For weeks the pro-Russian militia had kept moving the captured American aid workers, never keeping them in one place. Finally intelligence discovered their location. This coincided with the militia issuing a chilling warning; Ukrainian security forces in and around Donetsk were to extract at once. Otherwise the prisoners would be executed. America, which had taken a back seat, stepped in. The President had sent in the Pariah Cell.

  On the ground, Dan Conrad led the operation. His large build and rough dark features were stereotypical of his Special Forces background. He now formed part of the Pariah Cell, a deniable unit of the American Central Intelligence Agency. Attached to him were seven tier one Navy SEALs, all with various skill sets and experience. Conrad checked his map and global positioning system; he spoke softly into his radio, briefing the men on their location, direction they were taking and how far they would travel. It took a few moments before they moved off towards their target; a small isolated farm fifteen kilometres east of Donetsk.

  The team moved swiftly and confidently across the war torn countryside. Destroyed tanks and previous artillery positions littered their route. A kilometre from the farm, the team went firm just as rain began falling. Silently they moved into all round defence, each individual found a piece of cover on the ground and waited patiently. On the radio, Conrad called forward two of the operators, one of which carried an M40 7.62mm bolt-action sniper rifle.

  Conrad pointed on the map. ‘You guys happy where we are?’

  One of the snipers arched his neck to look. ‘Check.’

  ‘Ok you’ve got the grid for your position. Any problems give me a shout. When you’re all set up we’ll move to our entry position.’

  The two snipers moved off. Their primary role would be neutralising enemy sentries and providing precision fire support to the team.

  Covertly and alone, the two snipers moved with haste, once they had established the correct copse of trees surrounding the target they moved in, conscious of any noise that they made.

  They crawled the last few meters towards their final fire position. Without a word they carefully checked one another’s camouflage and ghillie suits which made them indistinguishable from their surroundings.

  Relentless wind and rain battered the wood block that they crawled through. Foliage and mud whipped up by the wind stuck to their arms and legs as they continued towards their position. Snipers were not often employed on the battlefield for long periods; their flexibility and strike capability affected their endurance, yet commanders saw them as a vital strike asset.

  The two snipers set up ten meters back from the edge of the tree line. The suppressor and scopes were camouflaged with foliage, as were their head and shoulders. Jack Bewley, the more experienced of the two was the spotter while Stephen Harris was the shooter.

  Bewley got on the radio as soon as they were set up. ‘We’re in position, seven hundred yards southwest of the target.’

  ‘Roger,’ Conrad replied. ‘Have you got eyes on the sentries?’

  ‘Affirmative, two sentries stood by a fence post.’

  ‘Confirmed, wait for my signal.’

  ‘Roger.’ Bewley took his finger from the radio. ‘They’re moving in now.’ He whispered.

  Harris lay in the prone position; Bewley lay immediately to his right. Their elevated position to the farm gave them fields of fire across the west and south aspects of the whole area. A worn mud track approached the detached stone farmhouse from the southeast. Surrounding the target building, small out houses of brick and stone along with a barn made up the rest of the aged farm complex.

  The snipers had to take into account the range to the target, the wind speed and it’s direction. At longer distances they would take into account relative humidity, altitude and air density. At just over seven hundred yards they were confident of their skills.

  Through the laser range finder, Bewley retrieved the distance and gave Harris the information he required to take the shot. ‘Range seven hundred and twenty yards.’

  Without breaking his position, Harris reached up and adjusted the elevation drum on top of his scope. ‘Indication, two sentries stood by the gate entrance.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Deflection, quarter value, three right. Aiming point centre mass.’

  ‘Check, read back. Range seven twenty, two sentries by the gate. Deflection three right. Centre mass.’

  ‘Roger, hold there.’ Bewley leaned over onto his right slightly to give himself better access to his radio. ‘Sniper team, all set.’

  Two audible clic
ks of the radio could be heard. Conrad was in close proximity of the enemy. A few minutes later, another two audible clicks sounded. ‘Standby,’ Bewley said.

  Harris having never taken his eye off the two sentries focused his sight picture even more as he let out a long slow deliberate breath. The targets blurred in contrast to the cross hairs that were sharp in his sight picture. The two interlocking lines slowly rose and fell with each breath. ’Hold…’ Bewley said, waiting for the gusting wind to die.

  A few more moments past and the weather settled. ‘Fire.’

  Harris squeezed the trigger releasing the firing pin, which in turn struck the percussion cap of the round. Propellant ignited causing searing heat to squeeze the round down the barrel on its way to the target. ‘Hit.’

  Harris didn't even flinch as he re racked the bolt and engaged the second target in quick succession. ‘Hit.’

  Deep within the foundations of the CIA headquarters at Langley Virginia, an operations officer and team of intelligence analysts watched the operation live via the latest upgraded Predator UAV platform. Its crystal clear imagery and weapons system made the latest generation of UAV the envy of governments around the world.

  The operations room, devoid of natural sunlight was illuminated by strip lighting. The room consisted of state of the art computer systems and equipment. The team had been working throughout the day, which was apparent from the heavy aroma of coffee that the room possessed.

  At the back stood Mike Altman the director of operations, the man who headed up the cell on a day to day basis and answered only to the Director. His tie and top button were undone and the recessions under his eyes clearly showed his exhaustion. He nursed a fresh cup of coffee in his hands as he watched six of the operators crawl along a ditch parallel with the track.

  He stood in silence while the operations officer paced up and down at the front of the room. He too looked fatigued; his shirt sleeves were rolled around his forearms as he relayed the communications. A hands free device in his right ear linked him to the assault force’s radio operator. Every now and again he rubbed his temples to help himself concentrate as his eyes pierced the screen. He too watched as a series of small dark shapes moved towards the farm complex. As they closed, two small dark figures dropped from the impact of the sniper fire.

  ‘Sentries down.’

  Conrad watched the first body drop into the mud, closely followed by the second. The two sentries had been stood in close proximity, trying to shelter themselves from the weather. The orange glow of the gates security light illuminated the dead bodies. As soon as the second body had dropped, two SEALs grabbed the motionless bodies and dragged them into the darkness of the ditch.

  The team made the hundred-yard dash to the corner of the farmhouse still with the element of surprise. Their weapons covered all angles; Conrad’s aimed at the front door.

  The team stacked against the gable wall, the last man faced the opposite direction to cover the rear. Conrad still had his weapon up on aim; the others had theirs elevated, their left hands on the shoulder of the man in front.

  Conrad felt the squeeze on his shoulder and moved forward, followed by the others. He breached the corner and edged close to the window, careful to stay away from the glow emitting from within. The window looked into a dilapidated kitchen; inside a single enemy soldier guarded four American aid workers.

  As quietly as they could, the team moved under the window, the wind and rain cloaked any sound they made. Conrad stood at the entrance, the door handle immediately in front of him. The door looked just as old and worn as the rest of the building, it wouldn't take a great effort to breach through it.

  He and three others rolled across the entrance, their weapons covering the doorframe as they did so should it suddenly open. Now four men stood to the left and two to the right, the end men of both sides covered opposite directions.

  The SEAL on the right held the door handle and looked directly at Conrad and then the man immediately to his rear. The SEAL behind Conrad extended his arm over his shoulder and produced a flash grenade. Conrad nodded his head with exaggeration and on the third nod the door swung open.

  After the initial explosion Conrad breached, moving immediately to the doorway on the right of the small reception area. The lone pro-Russian separatist was caught in surprise and confusion as Conrad pumped round and round into him. His silenced H&K 416 assault rifle made a spitting sound with every shot.

  The SEAL behind Conrad followed, covering the rest of the kitchen. The third and fourth SEALs moved through the front door and breached the doorway on the left. The house was symmetrical in design and was separated by a staircase that the two remaining SEALs covered.

  ‘GET DOWN, GET DOWN.’ Conrad shouted to the hostages as he and the other SEAL cleared the rest of the room. The sound of silenced rifles could be heard in the other room. Pro-Russian separatists who had been sleeping in the living room had been neutralised with no resistance.

  ‘Secure the hostages.’

  The SEAL with Conrad moved over to the hostages, his weapon still on aim should it be a trap. Once he had established who they were he gave the word to Conrad.

  ‘Room clear.’ Conrad called out.

  ‘Room clear.’ Came the reply.

  ‘Ground floor clear, stack on the stairs.’ Conrad said, reloading a fresh magazine.

  The team converged on the stairs, their rifles pointing up into the darkness. Conrad once again found himself on point, immediately followed by the rest of the team. His night vision pierced the darkest shadows as he moved up the staircase. Without warning, automatic fire ripped down from above.

  Bewley and Harris shivered from the cold as they scanned the entire complex with their thermal optics. ‘I think I’ve got something.’ Bewley said.

  ‘Read it out.’

  ‘By the north west corner of the barn, I swear there was a figure.’

  Harris focussed his sight onto the indicated target. ‘Roger I got him.’

  He re adjusted the weapon and his position and waited. ‘Range is the same as is deflection.’ Bewley said.

  Harris slowed his breathing cycle and focused on the corner of the barn, ready to fire if the target re appeared, all the while Harris continued to scan and search the farm complex.

  Without warning, Harris squeezed the trigger and fired at the target. Bewley watched through his thermal sight as a body stumbled from the wall and fell motionless to the ground, a Klashnikov rifle spilled from his arms.

  The force of the shots impacting with the kevlar plates in Conrad’s body armour knocked him to the floor. The SEAL behind Conrad immediately returned fire and rushed up the stairs, scrambling and climbing over Conrad as he did so. Two more SEALs followed in quick succession.

  The SEALs at the back of the stack grabbed Conrad’s body armour and dragged him into cover of the kitchen. ‘I’m ok, I’m ok.’ Conrad said, more to reassure himself rather than the SEALs.

  ‘First floor clear.’ came the shouts from above.

  ‘Building clear.’ Everyone called out in unison.

  Conrad took a moment to compose himself then got on the radio to the snipers in over watch. ‘We’ve secured the building, anything at your end?’

  ‘One guy down from behind the house.’

  ‘Roger, get ready to collapse your position.’

  He turned to the aid workers. ‘Are you all ok?’

  They looked worn and haggard, relief washed over their faces. Of the four hostages, three were women and one male. Two of the women were crying uncontrollably, the man spoke, his voice raspy and broken. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘It’s ok, just sight tight sir, were taking you home. How many guards have you seen?’

  ‘I never saw more than nine or ten.’ He said, his head bowed looking at the floor.

  Conrad walked into the small reception area and raised his voice to the SEALs who had taken up positions around the house to cover the windows and doors. ‘Ok time to call this in, Mille
r on me.’

  The operations officer turned to Altman, a smile creased his lips, ‘Building secure.’

  Altman kept his gaze firmly fixed on the screen and the predator footage. ‘Don’t count your chickens yet, have the air defence systems been dealt with?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Lets get the extraction team in now.’

  The operations officer turned to one of the analysis and gave him the thumbs up. The analysis that had communications with the extraction team called forward the Chinook and Apache attack helicopters that skirted the landscape. Their headings on a bearing direct to the farm. ‘Sir.’

  Altman turned to the analysis that had spoken up, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir we’ve got three military style vehicles heading north towards the farm complex.’

  The predator image on the screen zoomed out, located the vehicle convoy and zoomed in. ‘Ok tell the team and get the extraction team to haul ass, how far out are they?’

  ‘Six minutes sir.’

  ‘And the convoy?’

  ‘Three kilometres, confirmed the vehicles have heavy machine guns loaded.’

  ‘Ok, this is going to be tight, put a Hellfire in the deck right in front of them.’ Altman said, leaning forward on the desk.

  The radio operator turned to Conrad. ‘We’ve got a convoy of three vehicles heading our way, they’re gonna be on our ass in figures few.’

  ‘Load up, we’re out of here.’

  One of the operators in the team shouted out, ‘I’ve got some mapping here, looks like they’ve marked them up.’

  ‘Bag and tag it, we’ll get eyes on shortly, we need to evac.’

  As the team made their way out of the farmhouse, Chief Petty Officer Miller, Conrad’s best friend in the teams gave him a wink that Dan returned with a smile.

  Conrad gave them a quick set of orders over the radio; they already knew the location of the emergency rendezvous. That detail had come out in orders before deploying on the operation.