by Connor Black
Exposure
A Jackson Chase Novella
Connor Black
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part III
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part IV
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Connor Black
Copyright
Part I
The Arabian Sea
1
The sky was a brilliant blue, with only a halo of sunlight separating it from the thick, silky surface of the Arabian Sea.
Raise the temperature a few degrees, add an island with some sand, palm trees, and rum, and it just might be a perfect vacation spot.
I could just imagine myself, six feet and two inches of olive-skinned good looks, surrounded by beauties, sipping something exotic out of a coconut.
Of course, I’d need to ignore the whine of the two giant GE turboshaft engines mounted right behind me. And by the sounds of my fantasy destination, it was going to take some imagination to think of the cold, gray silhouette of the cruiser USS Mobile Bay as a tropical island.
And while I was surely handsome, I wasn’t on vacation. I was on duty as a Naval aviator, tasked with driving a $31 million taxi. At least for today.
Maybe tomorrow I’d be on vacation?
More likely I’d be fired.
“Lima One, Mobile Bay,” came a bored call over the headset. The ship calling my flight. “We have you at one mile out. You are cleared to the pad. We are on course 005, into the wind, making 22 knots.”
“Mobile Bay, Lima One. We have you on 005 degrees at 22 knots. On final now,” my co-pilot, Lieutenant (JG) Rob Stevens, reported.
He continued on with the litany of data that I’d need to bring our S-model Seahawk helo safely to the deck, which we did without a hitch.
“Mobile Bay, Lima One is on the pad. Is our fare ready?” I asked the flight control operator hidden somewhere deep in the ship.
“Leaving the hangar now, Lima One,” came the reply. And just then, six SEALs emerged from the hangar for their ride back to our ship, the carrier John C. Stennis.
I caught a glimpse of the last man to board. The bars on his collar identified him as the team’s leader. As he connected himself to the comms circuit, I saw him glance at the fuzzy kiwi bird some joker had taped to the instrument panel my first day aboard.
The maintenance crew thought the bird was funny, and had left it there as a permanent fixture.
“You a Kiwi?” I heard on the circuit.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, the twang of my odd blend of accents likely showing.
“Can you fly this thing? Thought you guys only knew how to herd sheep,” he quipped with a derogatory chuckle.
Why thank you, Lieutenant Asshole.
“Just finished my training yesterday. Online. Seems to work just like the computer game they sent me.”
Rob was, as usual, ignoring me and continuing on with getting departure clearance from the ship.
“Lima One launching. Adios, Mobile Bay,” I heard him say.
“It’s this handle that makes us go up, right, Rob?” I asked on the intercom as I gripped the collective and lifted off the deck. I thought I could get Lieutenant Asshole to bite on that one, but as I looked into the small mirror affixed to the instrument panel, I noticed he had resisted, delivering only a small grimace.
I love flying helos. It’s a delicate balance between several forces that collectively work against each other to defy gravity.
But since the balance is so fragile, when one of the forces is out of sync, lots of lights and alarms tend to go off.
This, in fact, was happening right now. We had a nice array of flashing lights on the instrument panel.
We were in a hover matching the ship’s speed directly above the pad. In common practice, the helo pitches back and rolls slightly to starboard to let the ship clear.
After the ship cleared, however, our bird seemed to have lost some of its desire to fly and dumped us down towards the sea surface at an alarming rate.
“Take a deep breath everyone!” I said into the intercom as some alarm horns and beeps joined in with the flashing lights.
A shudder in the airframe added to the panic.
The Lieutenant’s eyes bulged. And I saw his cheeks swell with a breath.
Rob turned towards me, and deadpanned, “Would you please let me know when you’re done fucking around?”
I let out a chuckle and brought the hefty bird up in a nice swooping right hander and took a heading for the Stennis.
Who says you can’t have any fun in the Navy?
“Shit,” I heard over the circuit. I didn’t look back into the mirror, but knew there was a scowl there.
Eighteen minutes later we were safely aboard the Stennis. As I shut down the aircraft I felt Lieutenant Asshole’s meaty fist grab the shoulder of my flight suit in a tight ball.
“Thanks for the lift, asshole,” he said, releasing his hand with a shove.
“Any time, mate,” I replied with a smile.
2
Back aboard the Stennis, my work-day had just come to an end. Time for a shower and some chow in the officers’ mess.
After filling my belly with Navy-issued mystery meat and a lifeless salad, I went to flight ops to check tomorrow’s schedule. The deputy commander of the air wing, or DCAG, Commander Pike, sat before a chart at his desk.
“Evening, Commander,” I said to announce myself at the hatch.
“Jackson, come in. What can I do for you?”
“Wanted to check the schedule for tomorrow, see what you had in store for us.”
“I had you down for taxi duty until just a moment ago. Harris has come down with the flu, and I need a good stick for a two-aircraft nighttime insertion.”
Well, that sounded more exciting than shuttle duty.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Saving that for the briefing in 20 minutes. All I they’ve told me is that it’s just south of Kandahar.”
“Lot of distance for a Seahawk,” I replied.
“Yes, which means crew rest issues and multiple refuelings. Likely a ferry stop, as well.”
“Do you know … ” I started, but was quickly cut off.
“Save your questions. We’ll plan in the ready room. Twenty minutes.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said, taking my leave.
Twenty minutes later I faced a master at arms under cover — meaning he was armed — at the ready room hatch, something I’ve only seen a few times, each one involving a covert operation.
And I’d just brought in some SEALs. Interesting.
I showed my ID, and put on my most charming smile as I opened the hatch.
3
“What is he doing in my briefing!” came the warm greeting from my new
friend, Lieutenant Asshole, as I came through the hatch.
I smiled at him and turned to the CAG, Captain Boyle, at the chart table. “Lieutenant Chase reporting as ordered, sir!”
“Does he really need to be here?” Asshole asked the CAG. His name tag, I noticed, did say “Barr”. But I was liking “Asshole” better by the minute.
“Chase is your ride, Lieutenant,” the CAG replied sternly.
I produced another beaming smile.
The CAG fixed me with a glare. “Stow it, Chase.”
He’s a fan of mine. He just doesn’t know how to show it.
Looking at Asshole, he ordered, “Begin your briefing, Lieutenant.“
The illuminated chart table was ringed on one side by the CAG, DCAG Pike, my co-pilot Rob, and two other flight teams.
Lieutenant Commander Haley Chen, a Naval Intelligence officer new to the air wing stood next to the CAG. Rumor was she was a genius, with a Master’s in mathematics from Stanford. She was deeply immersed in her laptop, seemingly oblivious to the briefing. Ah, today’s Navy.
On the opposite side of the table stood Lieutenant Asshole and five of his men, outfitted in NWUs, the Navy’s multi cam pattern.
A fourteenth man, older, and wearing jeans and a black sweater, stood off to the side. A rough face framed cold, dark eyes. He might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “Spook”.
4
Lieutenant Barr walked us through his operation at a high level. We’d ferry to Kandahar Airfield tomorrow night and pick up two fresh helos. The following night we would take a southern circular route over the sand pit and make a northerly run towards Molia Ashraf, a tiny village south of Kandahar.
His team would fast rope to a dwelling, take out what is known to be a small contingent of guards, and retrieve one Tom Boone of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Boone had been captured five days prior during a meeting with one of the intelligence assets he ran. He was young, but apparently had built up a small network in southern Afghanistan.
Barr took half an hour to go through the details of the mission. When he finally pulled out drone images of the dwelling, I immediately stiffened. Oh shit.
More than a house, but less than what would be called a compound, the dwelling was a series of three small structures perched near the top of a small set of hills.
He concluded with a simple, “Questions?”
No one spoke, so I decided to chime in. “Why are we running this from the Stennis? We have helos and pilots at Kandahar, and I would guess at Camp Ares, right?” I pointed at an unlabeled dot near Spin Boldak. When I pointed, I noticed one of Barr’s SEALs look at my arm. I quickly withdrew it.
Barr replied, “With the drawdown, we’re shorthanded at Kandahar. And Camp Ares is shut down. Hasn’t been manned in over a year. How do you know that FOB?”
I ignored the question. “This dwelling … are you going by UAV images only, or have you had a man on the ground?”
Barr’s curiosity was quickly replaced by irritation. “Just get us there, Lieutenant, we’ll handle the details.”
“Sir, I just think that there could be something more to these structures that you might want to keep an eye out for.”
Barr attempted to put an end to my ‘what if’s, “Lieutenant, if you could just ... .”
“Sir,” interrupted the SEAL who had stared at my arm. He was big, slightly taller than I was with arms like tree trunks and a neck as thick as his meaty head. The insignia embroidered on his collar showed him to be a Chief Petty Officer, which would make him the senior enlisted man on the team and second to Barr. His name tag read Sterba.
“I think we should hear what he has to say. I’m not sure this guy is just a helo jock,” he said.
The Chief pointed at my arm. “Show it,” he said.
I raised my hand and revealed the simple “A+” tattooed on the underside of my left forearm. It was by no means art, just a simple fact. My blood type.
While it’s not common, you do see it around. But only on a very specific type of soldier. You hope it’s never needed. I’d recovered in two medic tents with nurses saying it might have saved my life.
“Special forces?” asked the SEAL.
“My primary school grades,” I replied. “The Cs I put on my backside to hide them from Mum.”
He raised his eyebrows, waiting. I finally gave a small nod.
I stand a couple of inches over six feet. And at 185 pounds, I look more like a runner than a Hollywood action star. He was taking this in, and wondering if I was full of shit or not. The world is sadly full of guys who claim to be operators.
Barr had less patience. “If you know something about these structures, spit it out.”
I looked to the CAG, the senior officer in my chain of command.
The CAG pointed to the drone image. “If you know something about this place from your previous assignment, son, let’s hear it.”
While the CAG didn’t know specifics, he did know a bit about my past. It wasn’t a secret, but my service record was suspiciously light on details for a number of years after flight school.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been to the ‘Molia House’ as we called it. I had eyes on it for a little over two days before taking a walking tour of the inside.”
Barr and his team stared at me.
I broke the silence in the room and addressed the CAG. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, sir, I can get clearance to share some detail.”
“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant,” ordered the CAG, and I headed to the secure comms room.
5
A few minutes became nearly 30. But the extra time allowed me to get some imagery from my former commanding officer in New Zealand, along with approval to share the mission.
When I reentered the ready room, it was clear I had the floor. “Please, take a seat, gentlemen,” I began as I walked to the small podium. I knew Barr was wondering what I had to offer. But first I needed to give a little background.
“For those of you I haven’t been properly introduced to, I am Lieutenant Jackson Chase. While I am a US Naval aviator, I was previously a member of the New Zealand Special Air Service.”
The New Zealand SAS, like it’s commonwealth cousins, is among the elite of the elite in the special forces community, and this registered on a few of the surprised faces in the room.
Training in the NZSAS is considered some of the hardest in the world, and NZSAS soldiers are known to be capable in a much broader range of skills than those of many special forces units. While larger countries can afford to have special forces operators focus on certain types of warfare, the small size of the NZSAS requires a different approach. Each soldier needs to excel in a broad range of skills, from airborne insertion to amphibious landings, arctic and mountain warfare, multiple weapons platforms, languages, and especially combat tracking.
While the two NZSAS squadrons are cloaked deeply in secrecy, their skill, adaptability, and professionalism during joint operations have fostered a reputation for being some of the best operators in the world.
“A little over a year ago,” I continued, “my unit was tasked with taking out a high value target: Abbas Baraki.” At this, I noticed Barr glance quickly to the spook, seated at the back of the room.
“Can I assume you know Baraki as well, Mister ... ?” I prompted, hoping to get both an answer and a name.
“You can,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly, as if he had been smoking since birth. “We believe it was one of Baraki’s cells that captured our man. And the name is Slater. Caleb Slater.”
“Then you all know that Baraki is one of Mullah Zahir’s lieutenants, and one of the truly bad guys around here. He’s responsible for uniting a number of disparate Taliban groups, bringing them together for coordinated attacks on coalition forces and local tribes that don’t see things their way. Taking him out would disrupt the organizing of this new Taliban, and deal a sizable blow to Mullah Zahir’s organization.
“Intel,
from both the Brits and Americans put him at the Molia House. We approached on foot, and took position on the ridge just to the west of the main building. We had eyes on the structures for two full days, waiting. Baraki wasn’t there. In fact, no one was there.
“Not wanting to leave empty handed, we decided to gain entry and poke around a bit.”
I pressed a couple of buttons to darken the room and project my first image. It showed a rough building made of concrete blocks. Patches were painted in a dull, lifeless white, but it was by-and-large chipped down to the raw material.
“There are three structures. The eastern-most is the main house. Single story, four rooms, wooden roof, two doors that open inwards.”
I clicked through three more pictures of the structure, one more of the outside and two of the inside, before moving on.
“The second structure, three meters off the northwest corner of the house, has only two rooms. One appeared to be used for storage judging by its size and these scrapes on the floor. The other was empty other than some old junk and musty hay. We called it the big shed.
“The small shed is the third structure, about 100 meters west.”
I changed the image on the screen to show a small shed, about three meters square. One of the walls had crumbled down to waist level, and the scrap of rusty, corrugated roof had bent down to try and bridge the gap.
“An old shepherd’s lay-up shed,” stated Barr.
“We thought so too,” I replied as I clicked to the next image. It showed a trap door lifted to reveal a narrow, wooden set of stairs leading down into a darkened space.
“It turns out, there is a tunnel between the main house and this shed. No offshoots, but there is a small room carved out at the midpoint.”
I flipped to the next image. Three of us could be seen in the tunnel. NZ Army Intelligence had determined that the operator’s identities should not be shared, so large black squares covered our faces.
