by Scott McEwen
“Eat me, Shannon! She’s no doxy.” Steelyard took a step back, self-consciously hitching up his trousers. “And you’re the only fucker who’s ever even seen her picture.”
“Hey,” said Crosswhite. “You still haven’t told us about Fell Swoop. What the hell is that, and how’d you find out about it?”
“The second answer is obvious,” Steelyard said. “Pope told him about it when he agreed to supply the plane. So what is it, Gilligan? Does General Couture finally have clearance to attack the Panjshir?”
Gil bummed a match to light the cigar. “Hasn’t your buddy Metcalf said anything?”
“I told you already,” Steelyard said. “Metcalf only sticks his neck out so far. He didn’t make captain by taking stupid risks. That’s something you should keep in mind, by the way . . . if you ever expect to make Command Master Chief.”
The three of them exchanged looks before laughing out loud at the very absurdity of such a remark.
“Come on back to my place,” Gil said. “Brux’s crew will be here soon. They’re all going AWOL to get here, so we’ll have to figure out a secure place to hide them until kickoff.”
42
AFGHANISTAN,
Kabul, Central Command
General Couture stood before a large map of the Panjshir Valley hanging on the wall. The map was festooned with large red arrows indicating the directions of the planned American troop movements into the valley. Captain Metcalf and a number of other officers sat in rows of chairs watching on as Couture prepared to share the particulars of Operation Fell Swoop.
“We’ll start with some background on the Panjshir Valley for those unfamiliar with this infamous piece of real estate,” he began. “It’s one hundred kilometers in length with the Panjshir River running right through the middle of it. It is of significant strategic military importance, and for this reason remained a Mujahideen stronghold throughout the Russian war—back when our old ally Ahmad Shah Massoud was still their leader. The Soviets launched six different offensives against the Panjshir, and got throttled all six times. The valley remains littered with knocked-out Soviet armor to this day. The reason for the Panjshir’s strategic importance is that Panjshir Highway leads directly to both the Khawak and Anjoman mountain passes. These passes are absolutely essential to any army wanting to move large numbers of men and materiel over the Hindu Kush. Even Alexander the Great passed through the Panjshir.
“As you know, Al Qaeda assassinated Massoud with a camera bomb back in 2001, but the valley has not been greatly contested since our arrival in Afghanistan—not until now. As a result of the scheduled drawdown of our forces here in the ATO, the Panjshir has not been occupied or even patrolled by US forces for the past six months. At the moment, the valley holds no real strategic value to us, but we don’t particularly want it in HIK hands, either. As you know, these Hezbis have occupied the valley for the past four months now, and all of my requests for permission to drive them out have been refused. Karzai doesn’t want them making a concerted effort to force him from office, so he’s been making certain concessions. Allowing them the Panjshir was one such concession, and our president has seen fit to keep us out of it . . . until now.
“For those of you who have not heard, the HIK is holding Warrant Office Sandra Brux in the village in Bazarak, using her as a kind of human shield to further curb any attempt at our reoccupation of the valley. UAV reconnaissance indicates they are dug deep into the mountains surrounding the valley. They have filled every position with RPGs and heavy machine guns. Despite the fact they possesses limited artillery, they’ve taken a page right out of the old Mujahideen-Massoud playbook, employing the same tactics that were used to thrash the Soviets. It’s become more and more obvious to me over the passing weeks that the HIK’s overarching, long-term objective is to draw our forces into that valley in the hope of killing off hundreds of our troops, knocking out our armor, and forcing us to wrap up our involvement here in Afghanistan in the face of a final humiliating defeat—much like the Soviets were forced to do.
“We are not, obviously, going to fall into that trap, but the mathematical truth of the matter is undeniable: if we wait much longer to move in there and take Warrant Officer Brux away from these people, it’s going to end up costing us a lot of men and materiel. The truth is that none of our intelligence people believes there is a realistic chance that this Hezbi cleric—Aasif Kohistani—is ever going to release Sandra alive, so it’s been decided we’re going in there to get her.”
At this point, Metcalf realized that Sandra was being used as a pretext to go against Karzai’s wishes and rid the Panjshir Valley of the HIK once and for all.
“The name of the operation is Fell Swoop,” Couture continued. “It is tailor-made for the Rangers of the First Air Cavalry Division, and the Joint Chiefs believe it’s the best way of both securing Warrant Officer Brux and eliminating large numbers of the HIK at the same time. The mission will begin with shock and awe. Air Force will pummel their mountain strongpoints ringing the valley in order to reduce the RPG threat to our Black Hawks and Apaches. Directly thereafter—before the smoke has cleared—the helos of the First Air Cav will swoop in and deploy two full companies of Rangers at either end of Bazarak Village.
“The Rangers to the south will establish blocking positions to prevent the enemy’s escape. Rangers to the north will sweep down through the village, clearing each building along the way in search of Warrant Officer Brux. All of our people will be wearing infrared strobes, of course, so the Apaches flying top cover will be able to differentiate friend from foe. Meanwhile, Air Force will continue to hammer the mountain strongpoints to prevent the mountain fighters from reinforcing the village. Our troops on the ground will be outnumbered, but our superior air power will neutralize the enemy’s numerical advantage.”
Couture took a look around the room. “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “Up against our night vision, our superior weapons, and our training, the enemy’s resistance within the village itself should quickly degrade into pockets of panicked gunmen just hoping to survive the night. We’ve mapped every inch of the village into the global positioning system, so our people on the ground will be able to call for tactical Apache strikes against any pockets of resistance they cannot quickly reduce themselves. The name of the game here is speed. After Sandra is secured, our troops will be pulled out of the valley, and Air Force will finish the job. We do not intend to reoccupy the valley, only to eliminate great numbers of the HIK.”
Couture paused again to look around the room. “Any questions?”
Captain Metcalf cleared his throat. “I have one question, General.”
“By all means, Captain.”
“Well, sir, I’m wondering if we’re giving enough consideration to securing Warrant Officer Brux. SOG remains ready and eager to participate in this operation.”
Couture nodded gravely. “I share your concern, Captain, and I understand that our people in Special Forces remain ready. However, it’s been decided that conventional shock and awe is our best means of bringing Warrant Officer Brux out of there alive, especially since we still have no idea which building she’s being held in. The size and shape of the village itself is very problematic. Bazarak is too big and too heavily occupied at present for a special ops team to go in there alone with any chance of survival, and it’s just too damned small for a joint operation. We can’t have Rangers and SEALs running around in there at the same time. The simple truth is that they operate differently, and the heads back in DC have decided to keep this a conventional fight.”
Metcalf appreciated the elaborate explanation, but he recognized it as so much bullshit. It was obvious to him that the Special Forces community was being punished for Bank Heist. Even in these modern times, there existed elements within the United States Army that hated Special Forces—even their own Green Berets—elements who would seize any opportunity to make Special Forces look unnecessary or overhyped in order to brush them aside and keep them out
of the fight. There were many egos to feed, and too few operations to satisfy their voracious appetites for glory, recognition, and ever-important funding.
Warrant Officer Elicia Skelton with CID, seated in the back row, put up her hand.
Couture wondered briefly what she was doing there, then remembered that CID would be needed to begin an immediate investigation in the event Sandra Brux was found dead in Bazarak. He recalled that Elicia’s immediate supervisor, Brent Silverwood, was the man suspected of leaking the DNA evidence that had led to the execution of Bank Heist. “What is it, Skelton?”
If Elicia felt self-conscious with all of the brass turning to look at her, it didn’t show. “Sir, I’m curious how much consideration has been given to the fact that the vast majority of people living in the Panjshir aren’t Pashtun. They’re mostly Tajik and therefore largely sympathetic to the West. I believe it’s possible we may end up killing a large number of our allies, sir.”
Couture’s brow went up, but he immediately regained his composure. “This is presently a hostile village, Skelton. While it may be predominantly Tajik under normal circumstances, you may rest assured there are hundreds of Pashtuns living there now.” He took his eyes from her and addressed the entire room. “Remember, people, this is first and foremost a rescue operation. Our primary goal is to recover Warrant Officer Brux, but this is also an excellent opportunity for us to eliminate a large number of HIK fighters . . . all in one fell swoop.”
43
AFGHANISTAN,
in the mountains above the Panjshir Valley
Gil and Forogh were dropped off well south of the Panjshir Valley by a British Special Air Service helicopter shortly before dawn, both of them wearing the robes of Tajik goat herders. The significant difference between them, of course, was that Gil wore a combat harness loaded with ammo, grenades, and incidentals beneath his disguise. He carried a .308 Remington Modular Sniper Rifle with a folding stock and Schmidt & Bender optics, rail-mounted behind a PS-22 Night Vision Scope with infrared illuminator. The rest of his loadout consisted of an M4 carbine, a Kimber Desert Warrior model 1911 pistol, and his father’s Ka-Bar fighting knife. He carried ten magazines of ammo for each weapon: 100 rounds for the sniper rifle, 300 for the carbine, and 80 for the pistol. Both the Remington and Kimber were fixed with suppressors. Gil wore no armor other than an integrated ballistic helmet (IBH) fitted with attachments for his night-vision monocular and infrared strobe light. All of this was concealed beneath the heavy, bulky brown robe.
They both carried AK-47s over their shoulders to make sure they looked the part, and though Forogh wore the traditional pakol on his head, Gil wore a shemagh to hide the fact that he was Caucasian. Anyone observing them at a distance would assume they were Tajik or Pashtun. Anyone who encountered them closely enough to identify Gil as a white man would likely catch a round from a silenced 1911.
They hiked all morning to reach the foot of the mountains ringing the Panjshir Valley to the south.
“I feel like a Tusken Raider in this getup,” Gil remarked, sucking water from his CamelBak.
“What’s that?” Forogh said.
Gil chuckled. “The Sand People from Star Wars. Ever seen the movie?”
“Yes,” Forogh answered glumly. “On a DVD in Pakistan a long time ago.”
“In a galaxy far, far away?”
Forogh didn’t even come close to catching the joke. He stopped to lean against the walking stick he had picked up during their hike to reach the mountains. “Is that how you see us? As ugly, wild creatures who live in caves?”
“No,” Gil said, realizing why Forogh might take exception with the comparison to Sand People. “I was talking about myself. You gotta remember, man, Americans lead sheltered lives. We don’t mean nothin’ by it when we say stupid shit like that.”
“It’s not the stupid things you say,” Forogh said, starting off up the mountain. “It’s the lack of thought before you say them.”
Gil chuckled as he fell in behind. “I don’t reckon I can argue with that.”
The climb up the back side of the mountain took an hour, and they stopped just shy of the summit. Gil took out the map, orienting it with a compass and using the GPS in the hi-tech iPhone he’d gotten from Joe to pinpoint their exact coordinates. He had marked on the map the precise locations of all the enemy’s mountain gun emplacements, intelligence that Pope had been able to supply him with over a secure internet connection with encrypted software.
“Okay, we’re right at the eastern opening to the valley,” Gil said, folding the map away. “The closest enemy emplacement is a full five hundred meters to the west of us. Once we crest this ridge, we should have an unfettered view of the valley without having to worry about anybody spotting us.”
Forogh’s thin lips drew into a tight smile. “You could have just asked me where we were.”
Gil busted him on the shoulder. “You’re sure you can get into that village without those HIK pricks giving you any shit?”
Forogh gestured with the sack of extra AK-47 magazines he carried over his shoulder. “This gift should be enough to convince them I don’t like Americans. Beyond that, my uncles will vouch for me.”
“And you’re sure they’ll help with the extraction?”
“They fought beside Massoud against the Russians in this very valley.” Forogh beamed with pride. He pointed eastward. “My uncle Orzu was wounded right over in that pass. They were Mujahideen then, but they fought in the Northern Alliance against the Taliban with your CIA. Then Al Qaeda murdered Massoud. My uncle Orzu and Massoud were friends. I told you before, there’s no chance they will not help. But they won’t be able to help you inside the village. There aren’t enough of them now. But they will secure the extraction zone and help us escape into the mountains once the woman is safe.”
“Where’s the trail they’ll use to leave the village?”
“I will show you.”
They crawled to the crest and lay on their bellies looking out over the valley floor.
“It cuts up the side of the mountain there above the village to the north.” Forogh indicated with the knife edge of his hand. “My uncles harvest timber for a living now. The HIK isn’t interfering with the villagers’ lives. They can come and go as they please.” He then pointed down into the valley where the village men were playing buzkashi on horseback. “See? The Taliban outlawed buzkashi, but the HIK like to play with us.” Buzkashi was a game similar to polo, only it was played with the headless carcass of a goat, and there were virtually no rules. “The HIK doesn’t like the Taliban. They take advantage of them.”
Gil watched the riders playing buzkashi through the sniper scope, a patch of nylon stocking stretched tightly over the lens, held in place by a rubber band, to prevent the sun glinting off the lens. He watched the horses carefully, seeing that they were strong, most of them just fine for what he had in mind. He noted the strange padded helmets many of the riders had on their heads and took his eye from the scope. “Are those Russian tanker helmets their wearing?”
“They are.”
“Where’d they get ’em?”
Forogh gestured at the rusted hull of a Russian T-34/85 tank at the bottom of the mountain. There were many such hulks dotting the valley floor, though not all of them as dated as the T-34. “From the Russians.”
Gil put his eye back to the scope. “Stupid question, I guess.”
Forogh put his hand on Gil’s shoulder. “I should leave you now. We’re too close to the village to risk being spotted together.”
They crawled back from the crest, out of sight.
“Got the marker?” Gil asked.
Forogh knocked on the hollowed-out stock of his very beat-up AK-47 where he had hidden the infrared strobe against the possibility that he would be searched for a satellite phone on his way into the village. The rifle’s fore-grip was split and held together with a very sticky, sap-coated twine wrapped many times around. He had selected the battered rifle to make sure that no
one from the HIK would attempt to trade weapons with him.
They shook hands. “Good luck down there.”
“Good luck to you,” Forogh replied. “You’re going to need it much more than I will.” He got to his feet, dusted off the front of his robe, and walked up over the crest of the mountain.
Gil waited awhile, then crawled back to the crest and lay watching as Forogh slowly worked his way down the rocky slope. There was a white pickup truck down on the road with four heavily armed HIK sentries. Two of them sat in the back of the truck napping. The other two lolled against the fender talking. They were watching the road coming into the valley, and so far hadn’t spotted Forogh trudging down the mountain above them.
When they finally noticed him, they didn’t get particularly excited. They woke up the two men in the bed of the truck, and all four of them waited patiently as Forogh completed his descent to the road.
“Peace be with you,” Forogh said in Pashto, giving a casual wave.
“And with you,” one of the guards replied affably. “Where do you come from?”
“From Charikar,” Forogh said. He unshouldered the bag of magazines and offered it to one of the junior guards. “These are a gift. I’ve come to visit my uncles in the Karimov clan.”
The young guard rifled the sack and then dropped it into the back of the pickup and put out his hand for Forogh’s AK.
Forogh tightened his grip on the shoulder strap. “I’m keeping this.”
The younger guard looked at the sentry in charge.
“We need to search you,” the leader said. “To be sure you’re not smuggling anything into the village.”
Forogh gave up the rifle, consenting to the search. “What would I be smuggling?”
“The Americans know we’re holding one of their people here,” the sentry explained. “They might try to send a spy with a radio. Why didn’t you follow the road up from Charikar? Why come up over the mountain?”
