by Connor Black
We rode up its slight incline like a ramp, metal grinding and plexiglass popping beneath my feet. We felt the heat blast of the first rocket firing, and I pushed the cyclic forward to get as much downward pressure as possible.
Just as we were about to slide off the top, I felt it give way beneath us.
The truck tilted sideways, and the business end of the launch pod drove into the ground just as the first rocket launched. It’s onboard proximity sensor prevented it from detonating, though it continued to belch fire as it drove itself into the loamy soil immediately beneath us.
The strength of the propellant firing beneath the Little Bird was strong enough to blast the tail section straight up, pushing us ass over teacup. The ground before us slammed into the front of the canopy. The rotor blades made horrendous shrieking noises as they sheared off. We flipped completely upside down, landing on the roof as the engine cut out and the rotor hub seized.
Thank goodness for harnesses and helmets. While the cockpit of our upside down bird was shattered in dozens of places, Sterba and I remained intact.
“Nice landing, Hillary,” Sterba said with a groan.
My witty reply was cut short by the sound of a round plunking the bulkhead of the crew space behind us.
“Time to bail out, Sterbs,” I said as I twisted the harness release. Sterba did the same, and we both landed on our heads and shoulders on the top of the cabin.
We rolled out the doors on each side. Sterba had his M4 up and ready as he hopped to his feet and went around to the cab of the Grad. Three shots let me know he had taken out the Taliban that had operated the launch controls.
I had my P226 in a two hand grip as I went around the other side of the helo, using the tail section as cover. I popped up, weapon in front of me to find one of the Mullah’s men standing less than ten meters in front of me, his AK pointed at Sterba.
I squeezed the trigger twice, taking him center mass. I continued to swivel as he collapsed in my peripheral vision. Twenty meters further, two men came over the hillside. Just as Sterba and I had them in our sights, they collapsed. Peeps and Hona had taken them.
While disconnected from the comm unit on the helo, both Sterba and I had MBITR radios in our tactical vests, each of which chirped now.
“Nice landing, Hillary!”
“Whatever works, Hona,” I said followed by “break” to clear the channel as Chen and Clark would still be on the net. “Grad is down. Repeat, Grad is down. Status of locals?”
“ANA is on site below you, Hillary,” came Landon’s voice over the radio. The Afghan National Army was finishing off the members of the Mullah’s team defending the Grad’s position. “Wait one.”
The sound of M4 and AK fire from below the southern edge of the hill confirmed his report. There was a final three round burst of M4 fire followed by silence.
“ANA says the hill is clear,” reported Clark. “Dilbert has the man with the horses bugging out. They must have planned to scatter on horseback after the attack.”
“Roger, Landon. Please make sure the locals know the hilltop is secure, and there are four friendlies up here.”
Two clicks came over the channel just as four men in combat uniforms crested the hill, weapons down. Sterba and I lowered our own as the lead soldier shouted across the hilltop, “Lieutenant Chase?”
I holstered my sidearm and walked towards him. As I approached, I could see his shoulder boards showed a star and two crossing swords.
“Major, I am Lieutenant Chase,” I said, extending my hand instead of saluting.
He was a short but burly man, with dark brown eyes and a tidy, dark mustache that turned up with a smile as he said in the British flavor of English common in this part of the world, “Major Ahmad, Lieutenant. It appears that we should have listened to your warning.”
I returned his smile. “Well, Major, all’s well that ends well.”
Sterba, Peeps, and Hona came to my side.
“This is an historic day in the history of Afghanistan. And thanks to you all, it will end very well indeed,” he said to us, with genuine appreciation in his eyes. “Our nation owes you a great debt of gratitude.”
“We’ll settle for a lift back to Bagram,” I said.
He let out a hearty laugh. “That is the least we could do!”
33
I am not sure what I expected to find when we arrived back at hangar Lima Six. Some cheers? A cold beer and a pat on the back?
Instead, we were greeted by a mealy little US Army aide. The stuttering Second Lieutenant sputtered a simple thanks from General Woodford, commander of coalition forces in Afghanistan, along with orders that Chen, Sterba and I report to the Pentagon at 0800 in two days.
This gave us a bit of time to thank the SAS boys and the Brits that loaned us the Little Bird I destroyed. This was done adhering to strict international protocols by getting completely shitfaced, and telling stories until the wee hours of the morning. I think Chen was still a little green around the gills when we boarded the flight for the first leg of our journey back.
Arriving at the Pentagon a few minutes early like the good sailors we were, we encountered yet another aide, this time an Ensign. He took us through a maze of corridors and stairwells before bringing us to a door that, unlike all the others in the Pentagon, had no markings.
After dismissing the Ensign, I turned and opened the hatch for Chen, Sterba, and myself.
I was surprised to see Landon Clark in the room. He had begged off the post operation celebration, mumbling something about Langley, and we hadn’t seen him since.
But if I was surprised to see Clark, I was positively shocked to see the tall man standing next to him in a charcoal suit. It was my former sailing coach, Admiral Doug Christie, now retired.
I snapped to attention, pulling my shoulders back.
He extended his hand, and with a warm smile, he said, “Good to see you, Jackson.”
I took his hand and replied, “Good to see you, too, sir.”
His eyes moved down to the NZSAS insignia on my right collar. “Still breaking uniform regulations, I see,” he said, still grinning.
“The unit will always be a part of me, sir.”
“A part you should be proud of. And frankly, a part of you that President Karzai should be extremely thankful for.”
“It was the Kiwis and the team here that saved him, sir,” I replied, waving my hand to the others while doing my best to deflect the compliment.
“Yes, your ad-hoc team. You know, you’ve raised quite a few eyebrows around here. How about telling me the story before we head to the woodshed?” he said, motioning for us to have a seat.
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed this introduction to Jackson Chase. I know he left you hanging there, but that’s because he’d like to return in more short adventures in the near future.
If you did enjoy the story, I would appreciate you helping other readers meet him, too. You can lend this ebook via Amazon, share a link on Facebook, or simply tell a friend. You can also leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. (If you do, please send me a note at [email protected] so that I can thank you personally.)
Jackson and I have been thinking of one another for years. To be honest, he’s been in the dark recesses of my computer, held prisoner by my own fear of letting others read his story. Am I a good enough writer? Is he as great a character as I know him to be? But my goodness, I talked myself out of releasing him for far too long. It was time to stick my neck out.
There are several folks who helped in this adventure, and I couldn’t have written this little book without them. Thanks to Bill, Ken, Jamey, and Matt for entertaining my silly questions. And special thanks to my wife, Niki, who was so good to keep pushing me forward.
Finally, I would like to recognize the fine soldiers of the NZSAS. This quiet group of professionals operates in such complete secrecy that only hints ever make it to the surface. And while their rigorous adherence to silence made research nearly
impossible, it did afford me some flexibility in building Jackson’s background.
My hope is that these heroes will have a laugh at the addition of Jackson to their ranks. Please know he joined the unit out of respect for your unique combination of humility, professionalism, bravery, and incredible skill. Kia kaha.
About the Author
Connor Black is an interactive design consultant in Northern California. He lives with his wife, a New Zealander, and their two sons, who are dual citizens much like Jackson Chase.
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[email protected]
Also by Connor Black
Jackson Chase adventures continue in …
Troubleshooters - Jackson Chase Novella No. 2
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, and places are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No parts of this story may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission from the author.
Exposure - A Jackson Chase Novella
Copyright © 2013 Connor Black
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