Copyright © 2009 by Jeff Struecker
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-0-8054-4853-5
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: UNDERCOVER OPERATIONS—FICTION ADVENTURE FICTION ESPIONAGE—FICTION
Jeff Struecker is represented by The Nashville Agency,
P. O. Box 110909, Nashville, Tennessee, 37222.
www.nashvilleagency.com
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people leaving or dead is purely coincidental.
“DOD Disclaimer”—The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of Defense or its components.
Contents
MILITARY ACRONYMS/ ABBREVIATIONS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Aaron:
I hope you will turn to our Savior when facing Certain Jeopardy.
MILITARY ACRONYMS/ ABBREVIATIONS
AGL—Above Ground Level
AO—Area of Operations
CAS—Close Air Support
COB—Chief of the Boat
DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency
DIM and DISIP—Venezuela’s Secret Police
FLIR—Forward-Looking Infrared
HALO—High Altitude Low Opening
ICM—Improved Conventional Munitions
LVRS—Lightweight Video Reconnaissance System
NSA—National Security Agency
SEAL—Sea Air Land
XO—Executive Officer
PROLOGUE
GOATS.
Sgt. Major Eric Moyer hated goats. He had a burning desire to swear at the top of his lungs. Not that it would do any good. He stuffed the urge.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
The urge returned.
“Junior, get that radio operational. If we don’t reach CAS soon, we’ll leave this mountain in body bags.”
“Working on it, Boss. The snow is giving me grief. I can’t find a stable spot for the satellite antenna. Getting shot at from six directions isn’t helping.”
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
AK-47 bullets whistled over their heads. Moyer pushed himself up from his shallow trench and fired a few quick rounds from his M4 carbine. He pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Flattening himself in the trench, he barked, “Reloading.”
In a practiced move, Moyer ejected the spent magazine and rammed a full one in its place, giving him another thirty rounds. The weapon could fire seven hundred rounds a minute. Only discipline and training kept him from emptying the magazine in a few seconds.
The sound of enemy gunfire erupted again. Staff Sgt. Pete Rasor grunted and raised his hands to his face.
“Junior. Junior! You hit?”
Slowly, the soldier lowered his hands and stared at them. “I don’t think so. Snow and mud splatter. That was too close.” He returned his attention to the antenna.
The sputter of automatic weapon fire echoed down the mountain. Colt had unleashed his M249 SAW.
Sgt. First Class J.J. “Colt” Bartley and Master Sgt. Rich “Shaq” Harbison were paired a dozen yards away, almost invisible in their white camouflage and hunkered in a shallow trench. A few yards beyond them were Jose Medina, the team medic, and Martin Caraway. Caraway was the cause of all this—Caraway and the goats.
Moyer wondered at the irony of it all. Years of training, the best intelligence, the finest equipment, a score of missions under their belts, and they get upended by goats. He could see the writing on his tombstone: Trained by the Army. Betrayed by a goat. Killed by the Taliban.
A rumbling split the frozen air. Moyer didn’t have to see it to know that Shaq had launched a 40mm grenade. Two of his six-man team carried M4s with grenade launchers. The grenade had an effective range of more than 1,100 feet. The enemy was much closer than that.
“Any day now, Junior. These guys are getting on my nerves.”
“I need another minute. I can’t get a bounce off the satellite.”
Moyer fired off a few more rounds. In the distance a man screamed. Lucky shot.
Three days they had been in Afghanistan, and two of those days had been spent on this mountain in knee-deep snow and temperatures that dropped below zero every night. He had been cold from the moment he and the others had walked out the back of an Air Force C-130 transport at 30,000 feet. They jumped in the dark, landed on the desert floor in the dark, and marched to the mountain in the dark. It took them twenty-four hours to reach their observation point and dig in.
They were there to watch, not engage the enemy—that was the mission. The Taliban had a camp on the mountain, and Moyer and his team were to observe it at a distance. But that was before the goats.
Sgt. First Class Caraway had landed hard, the bottom of his rucksack taking the brunt of the fall. Caraway always carried beef jerky and trail mix on missions—dietary good luck charms. This time one of the bags of trail mix had opened on impact. No one gave it a thought, not until they were on the mountain. Not until half-starved goats had picked up the scent.
As Caraway and Doc took their turns sleeping, the goats helped themselves to the trail mix, chewing through the bottom of the rucksack.
Moyer, who had been on watch, spotted the animals and keyed his radio. “Hey Caraway. Intruder alert.”
Moyer saw his surveillance expert sit up, then heard, “What the—” Caraway sprang for the rucksack, but one goat, driven by weeks of hunger, refused to give up easily. The creature began to drag the pack away. Caraway reached for him but missed, as laughter rolled out of the trenches.
“Stow it,” Moyer ordered. Noise carried too well over snow and sloping mountainsides. Caraway had removed his Colt .45, ready to shoot the animal, but returned it to his holster; the report of a .45-caliber round would be heard for miles in these conditions. Caraway opted for a more direct approach: He tackled the rucksack, frightening the goat enough
to send it bounding through the snow toward a ridge—and toward a man with an AK-47. Caraway froze.
Moyer followed Caraway’s gaze. “Not good.”
The man turned his head, and Caraway sprinted the short distance to his trench and dove for cover.
A second man joined the first. He too carried an AK-47, but that fact alone didn’t make the men Taliban. Almost every adult male in Afghanistan carried such a weapon, especially shepherds who used them to defend their flocks from thieves and predators.
The first man said something to the second and pointed in Caraway’s direction. The team’s position had been compromised. Even if these guys were just shepherds, they might tell the Taliban camp what they had seen. A muffled whiff, like a loud puff of air, came from Caraway’s position and the pointing man fell. The second man turned to run, but Moyer heard another pfftt, and the fleeing Afghani grabbed his side with one hand. It wasn’t a kill shot. He fell and involuntarily yanked the trigger of his weapon. The sound of five rounds—five very loud rounds—filled the air. Another shot from Caraway’s position struck the man’s head. He dropped into the snow.
Moyer’s radio came to life. “I’m sorry, Boss. I’m really sorry. I had to stop him. My first shot was off.”
Moyer ignored Caraway. He keyed his radio. “We have to assume our position is blown. Things are about to go from awful to horrible. Prepare for firefight.” He turned to Junior. “Get on the satellite (sat) radio and get us some air support.”
That seemed like a month ago, but in fact only minutes had passed. From the previous day’s reconnaissance they knew the enemy numbered close to one hundred. Six men against one hundred made for lousy odds.
The Taliban fighters slowly approached their position. Moyer’s team held a distinct advantage from a distance of three hundred meters with their advanced scopes and noise-suppressed weapons. Close combat against superior numbers would be a different story. He whispered into the radio, “Let’s keep them as far away as possible.” No one responded; response wasn’t necessary.
Rich Harbison, assistant team leader, took the first shot, and a Taliban soldier folded. “Nice shooting, Shaq,” Moyer whispered to himself. Shots were fired from Caraway and Doc’s position. Moyer squeezed off round after round, each time dropping an enemy combatant.
Seeing several of their own fall without hearing the sound of gunfire told the Taliban force they were facing a military opponent. They immediately began dividing.
Moyer triggered his radio. “They’re trying to flank us. Keep alert.”
What Moyer really wanted was a fallback position, a place to regroup, a position easier to defend, but no such place existed—not one he and his men could reach without being cut down.
Gazing over the rim of his trench, he spied a Taliban fighter moving to a rock outcropping and steadying his weapon on a boulder. They’re sniper, Moyer reasoned. He quickly fired three rounds at the shooter. As best he could tell, five rounds hit the man. Another of Moyer’s team had spotted the sniper as well.
Five minutes passed like an ice age. They had killed a dozen men in that time, but scores more were pressing in. Soon the enemy would have the advantage. Moyer and his team were taking fire from several directions, fire from people who knew this mountain better than he did.
“Give me some good news, Junior. My wife is going to be real angry if I get dead out here.”
“We can’t have—”
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Junior ducked and paused. “That is really starting to annoy me. I need a few seconds of uninterrupted work.”
Moyer could hear the adrenaline-laced fear in the young man’s voice. Fear was a good thing, as long as it didn’t displace duty and training. Moyer keyed his mike. “Cover for Junior. Now.”
From their trenches, each man sent heavy fire at the enemy. Junior popped up and slammed his palm repeatedly on the snow, making a firm, flat surface. He set the antenna and slipped back into the trench. He checked for a satellite signal. “Bingo! Got a bounce.” He took a breath. “Any Storm element overhead, this is Quebec-Nine-Seven. We need immediate suppression. Over.”
Moyer strained to hear a response.
“Any Storm element overhead, this is Quebec-Nine-Seven. We need immediate suppression. Over!” The seconds chugged by. “Come on, come on, guys. Throw us a bone here.”
Several AK-47 rounds tossed snow and dirt into the air just a foot away from the trench’s edge.
“Any Storm element overhead, this is Quebec-Nine-Seven. We need immediate suppression. Over!” Rasor turned to Moyer. “We must have caught them at lunch.”
“They’re Air Force, it takes them a few moments to realize the voice they’re hearing isn’t in their heads.” Bullets whizzed by. Moyer tried to press himself deeper in the trench.
Junior raised the mike to his lips, but before he could speak an unfamiliar voice filled the small space. “Quebec-Nine-Seven, this is Storm One-Three. What is your location and target description?”
Moyer almost let out a whoop.
Junior wasted no time responding. “Storm One-Three, our location is FC 17584539. We are surrounded by a hundred dismounted enemy fighters. They are moving to fifty meters of my position and advancing. We need immediate suppression on our position. We are dug in. Set all ordinance for airburst. My elevation is 3,147 meters.”
“Roger, Quebec Nine-Seven. Understand your location is FC 17584539, elevation 3,147 meters.”
“Roger that.”
“Stand by Nine-Seven.”
Junior looked at Moyer, who nodded. “They’re asking for authorization. It should only take a few seconds.” The familiar sound of the SAW belching bullets rolled across the mountain. Colt must have found a target.
The satellite radio squawked back to life.
“Quebec Nine-Seven, this is Storm One-Three. We are four minutes out from your location, coming in on a westerly course. We are dropping two times ICM bombs. Repeat, two times ICM. Fuses are set at five meters AGL. We understand we are dropping on your position. Confirm that this is danger close and you are dug in.”
Five meters above ground level wasn’t very high, not when two improved conventional munitions bombs would be going off and sending scores of smaller bombs over an area the size of two football fields. This was going to hurt.
“Roger that, One-Three, this is danger close and we are dug in. Repeat, we are dug in.”
“Stand by, Nine-Seven.”
Moyer checked his watch. Four minutes was three minutes longer than eternity. He raised his weapon and pointed it at two Taliban soldiers scampering toward another rock outcropping. Neither made it more than halfway.
The cold air turned acrid with the smell of spent gunpowder.
“Quebec, we are three minutes from your position. Are we cleared hot?”
Moyer caught Rasor’s glance. “Give the confirmation, Junior.”
“Okay, Boss. Storm One-Three, you are cleared hot. Repeat, you are cleared hot!”
Moyer could see the man’s hand shake. He understood; his own guts quivered like Jell-O.
The pilot’s words traveled via satellite, but no distance and no amount of electronics could hide the concern. “Quebec Nine-Seven is inbound to your position.” Then softly, “God be with you, gentlemen.”
Moyer keyed his mike. “Birds are inbound in ninety seconds. Get into your holes! Fall out! FALL OUT!”
He didn’t need to look to know what each man did next. When they first set up the recon position, each man had dug a trench and in the side of the shallow wall he had carved out a hole—a cave just large enough to hold one man and his weapon. They did so because they had been trained to plan for any contingency. They made these tiny caves for a reason—a reason no one wanted to experience.
Scrambling with all the speed he could muster, Moyer pressed himself into his hole, leaving just enough room to point the barrel of his weapon out. Fewer than five minutes had passed from first contact with the F-18s, but those minutes had aged
him ten years.
A new sound rolled through the icy air—the sound of Air Force jets bearing down with purpose. In moments bombs would explode fifteen feet above their heads.
“The antenna!” Rasor shouted and rolled out of his protective lair.
“Junior!”
Rasor seized the antenna from the snow pad he had worked so hard to establish and dove back into his hole. Several shots landed near where he had been a moment before. Junior pressed back into the small cave, clutching the radio and satellite antenna close to hisbody.
“Please God,” Junior mumbled, “let them get the fuses right.”
Moyer heard several of the Taliban shout something, but their words were drowned in the wash of jet noise. Moyer guessed there were two aircraft. A second later Moyer heard the F-18s pass overhead and scream into the night.
“Here it comes,” he said.
They had trained for this. In the worst of situations, a team leader might have to call for bombs to be dropped on his location. His team’s only advantage was in knowing when it would happen and taking cover.
He waited. One second. Two seconds.
An ice pick jammed his eardrums, and a flash of light pushed through his closed eyelids. The ground seemed to depress as if a giant foot had stomped on his position, intent on crushing him like a bug under a boot.
The world shook.
Heat poured down like ejecta from a blast furnace.
Moyer clenched his jaw. Dirt and stones rained down like hail. The concussive force of the bombs pummeled the ground, while two dozen fists pounded Moyer’s body at once.
Then darkness sucked Moyer’s consciousness into a void.
* * *
“… DO … READ?”
Moyer came to with a start. Where was he? What happened? Two seconds later it all came back to him. He coughed up a lungful of dust and rolled out into his trench. His head hurt like his brain was trying to break free of his skull. A consistent, annoying tone played in his ears. Something wet hung just beneath his nose. He raised a hand and ran a finger along his upper lip—blood.
“Quebec … come in.”
Certain Jeopardy Page 1
