“I see ‘em,” came the answering voice in his radio earpiece. It belonged to Dale “Mad Dog” Maddox, the sergeant major of Hood’s Delta Force troop and Hood’s oldest and closest friend.
Mad Dog was a fixture in the Unit, a veritable living legend. No one could remember a time when he hadn’t been there, though of course, he hadn’t always been the troop sergeant major. Like Hood, he had paid his dues, worked his way up the leadership ladder. The nickname, like most Delta nicknames, was ironic—a play on his name which was completely at odds with his laid-back persona.
Mad Dog was currently positioned on the opposite side of the DZ, which consisted of a ring of IR glowsticks, defining an area about fifty meters in diameter. At its exact center, like the bullseye on a target, a flashing IR strobe, similar to those worn by the incoming jumpers, served as a beacon to guide them in. The area within the circle was relatively level and had been cleared of large rocks and other hazards, giving the men a reasonably good chance of landing without serious injury, but there were no guarantees when it came to jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. The inherent risks were even greater with a HALO jump.
“Five,” Mad Dog confirmed. “Who the hell are these jokers, anyway?”
It was a rhetorical question, and one that both men had been pondering since receiving the order to stand down from their original mission and await these new arrivals.
Hood wasn’t sure why they had opted for a high-altitude, low-opening insertion. HALO was typically reserved for stealth missions behind enemy lines, and while this valley nestled in the Spin Ghar mountains near the Af-Pak border wasn’t exactly friendly territory, the terrain was far more hostile than the small bands of Taliban and Islamic State fighters hiding out in the mountain caves, especially at night. Actually, he wasn’t even sure why they were jumping in at all, or what they hoped to accomplish. He didn’t even know for certain who they were. The only thing he was pretty sure of was that he wouldn’t like the answers to any of his questions.
This was his mission—his party—and these guys were crashing it. Worse, they were crashers with an official sanction.
His original orders were to conduct a deep reconnaissance of the border region, mapping all the various routes through the mountains, identifying potential caches and refuge locations. They weren’t far from the infamous Tora Bora cave complex where Osama bin Laden had hidden out in the weeks following the 9/11 attacks, and while the initial reports about the caverns had been wildly overstated, Hood and his team had already discovered several previously undocumented caves, suggesting that the mountains still hid plenty of secrets. Two nights earlier, they had observed a small group—six armed men and two burqa-clad figures that might or might not have been women—moving along one of the trails from the east—from the direction of Pakistan.
Without knowing for certain whether they were smugglers or enemy fighters, Hood had elected to follow them from a distance, gathering more intel about their movements, taking photographs and even getting close enough to determine that, despite their traditional Pakistani shalwar kameez outfits and pakul hats they were speaking Arabic.
That wasn’t unusual. IS fighters were recruited from every corner of the Islamic world—from Chechnya to West Africa, and all points in between. In fact, Hood took it as evidence of their affiliation, and so when transmitting data back to the JOC via satellite uplink, he had also requested permission to interdict. While Hood waited for a reply, the group of suspected enemy fighters entered one of the caves and had not yet emerged, so Hood’s team had set up an observation post nearby, ready to pounce as soon as the insurgents came out. Hood just hoped he would get the go-ahead before that happened.
Instead, he had been told to stand down and await the arrival of a specialized—and highly secretive—operations team.
The unexpected response had left him gobsmacked. He could tolerate a certain degree of micromanagement from higher up—that was part of being a soldier. But he and his team weren’t ordinary ground-pounders. They were the Unit. The goddamned Delta Force, the best of the best. They were the specialized team that dropped in out of the blue and took over, not the other way around.
The flashing of the IR strobes seemed to grow more frantic as the jumpers zeroed in on the DZ like guided missiles, but then, just a few seconds before the inevitable impact, Hood heard a series of faint but distinctive reports as the jumpers pulled their chutes, stalling their meteoric descent a mere two hundred feet above the ground. Hood could see the square ram-air chutes, five dark silhouettes against a field of stars, orbiting the circumference of the drop zone, and after a few more seconds, he could make out the human shapes hanging beneath them. One of them broke formation and corkscrewed down to the strobe marker on the ground, raising his legs and flaring his chute at the last possible second for what Hood had to grudgingly admit was probably the best set down he’d ever seen.
The jumper quickly hauled in his chute, jamming it into a stuff sack as he cleared the drop zone, making a beeline for Hood’s position.
“Looks like we’re open for business,” he muttered into his mic. “Who’s our lucky first customer?”
The man held a rifle—an FN SCAR-H if Hood was not mistaken—at a casual low ready, but while his chest rig sported a holstered pistol, and at least half a dozen mag and grenade pouches, he wore no helmet, and did not appear to be wearing body armor; just black coveralls with matching gloves and balaclava. His eyes were hidden, but not by a set of NVGs.
Mad Dog’s voice crackled in his ear. “Is that fucker wearing shades? At night?”
The newcomer was indeed wearing what looked like a pair of Oakley wraparound sunglasses. As he got within a few feet of Hood, he reached up with his left hand and peeled off the balaclava to reveal a square-jawed, unshaven visage that reminded Hood a little of Russell Crowe’s character from the movie Gladiator. The man replaced his shades and then, impossibly given the constraints of their respective eyewear, seemed to look the Delta troop commander right in the eye.
“Major Hood?” The man’s voice was a flat baritone, and low, almost a growl.
“That’s right,” Hood replied, feeling more than a little defensive. “And you are?”
“In a hurry.” The man glanced over his shoulder just as a second jumper touched down, then returned his attention to Hood. “Lead the way.”
Nonplussed, Hood just stared at the other man. Behind him, the second jumper was hastening away from the drop zone as the next man in line spiraled in for a landing. “Don’t you want to wait for the rest of your team?”
“They’ll catch up.”
Hood’s patience was nearing its limit. “Look, I was ordered to give you my full cooperation, but it’s five klicks to the OP, and it’s not like there’s a paved trail and helpful interactive signs along the way. I’ve got men out here, too, and I’m not going to put them at risk by letting you and your people blunder all over the place and draw fire. I’ll get you there—all of you—but you’re going to have to do this my way.”
The square-jawed man regarded him with an utterly blank expression for several seconds. “Major Hood, you were ordered to give me your full cooperation, and that means no questions asked. I don’t have time to lay it all out for you, and even if I did, you aren’t cleared for most of it.”
“Bullshit. My clearance—”
“Doesn’t cover this.” The man paused a beat. “But if it will get you moving, I will tell you this much. My team is utilizing a very advanced battlefield integration system that is way beyond next gen. So, while you’re leading me to the observation point, I’ll be marking the trail for them. They will literally be able to follow in my footsteps. Nobody is going to be blundering.”
Hood’s ire did not cool, but it did change focus a little. If these guys were sporting “beyond next gen” tech, then their authority came from someplace even higher up than he had first suspected. “Those aren’t sunglasses you’re wearing, are they?”
“No.”
The inadvertent disclosure of the first man’s name paled into insignificance alongside that second revelation. A woman?
There were only a handful of military and paramilitary organizations that required their people to be HALO trained, and none of them—at least to the best of Hood’s knowledge—employed female operators. It was of course possible that the woman was an Agency spook, trained on an ad hoc basis for this single operation, but as Hood watched her approach, he dismissed that explanation. The woman—a petite but well-proportioned figure hidden beneath coveralls, balaclava, and the same brand of sunglasses as her partner—exuded the kind of confidence that could only come with real experience downrange.
She took a position at Jack’s left elbow, let her SCAR hang from its sling, and stuck out one gloved hand. “Major Hood. I’m Delilah. Sorry to drop in on you like this, but like you, we’ve got our orders.”
Hood accepted the unexpected handclasp. Behind them, another jumper had touched down. Even from twenty meters away, Hood could see that the man was a giant—almost seven feet tall, and built like a mountain. He wore the same kit as the others, but unlike them was armed with an M240B machine gun, though he carried the twenty-eight-pound weapon with the same ease as the others did their battle rifles.
Hood nodded toward the imposing figure that was now lumbering toward them. “If you’re Delilah, then he must be Samson?”
“Bonus points for getting the Biblical reference,” she said, “But Delilah is my given name. I also answer to ‘Lila,’ or you can use my callsign, ‘Bride.’”
“Bride. Like Uma in Kill Bill?” Hood liked the association and decided to go with it.
He could almost sense her smiling behind her mask. “Not exactly, but that would be a better story.”
“He doesn’t need to hear it,” Jack said, flatly. “We’re not here to make new besties. His job is to get us to the objective. Nothing more.”
Mad Dog’s voice sounded in Hood’s ear. “What a dick.”
“You’re not the first to say it,” remarked Bride, glancing toward the distant spot where Mad Dog was posted.
Apprehension surged through Hood. Had she overheard the transmission? That shouldn’t have been possible. Their MBITR radios were encrypted, and not even the JOC had the cipher key for their internal comms.
“Are they monitoring our freq?” Mad Dog asked, echoing Hood’s thoughts.
“Yes, we are,” Jack replied, irritably. “Now, can we please get moving?”
Son of a bitch, thought Hood.
“We might as well wait for Sharky and Vlad,” Bride countered.
Hood however had enough. “Fine. Let’s go.” Without waiting for a reply, and not really caring whether Jack and his crew kept up, he turned and started up the narrow goat trail leading out of the valley. He had only gone a few steps when he saw Mad Dog hurrying along the hillside on an intercept course. When the latter realized he had Hood’s attention, he raised a finger to his lips and then lowered it a little, drawing it across his throat in a cutting gesture. Hood got the message and thumbed off his MBITR. A few seconds later, the sergeant major fell into step beside him.
“Jeff, I think I know who these guys are,” he said in a low whisper.
“Yeah?” prompted Hood.
“You ever hear of the Monster Squad?”
“Wasn’t that the name of a cheesy movie from the Eighties?”
“Yeah, but it’s also the name of a deep, deep, deep black special operations team.”
Hood glanced over, trying to see if the other man was serious. With the NVGs covering half his face, it was hard to tell. “Something’s getting deep all right,” Hood muttered.
“RUMINT says they’re not part of any chain of command,” Mad Dog went on. “I’m not sure who they answer to, but they’re the guys who get called in when shit gets really real.”
“Dale, no offense, but you sound like a fucking fan boy. Monster Squad? It sounds like a bad GI Joe rip-off.” He paused a beat. “Why have I never heard about this?”
“Probably because of that gold oak leaf on your uniform. Even in the Unit, there are some things we don’t talk about in front of the brass.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“The callsigns are what gave them away. They’re all based on famous movie monsters.”
Hood glanced over again. At the edge of his field of view, he could see Jack trailing at a discreet ten-meter interval, and ten meters behind him, Bride was on the move. “I don’t follow you.”
“The Bride...of Frankenstein. Vlad... Dracula. Sharky... I’m not sure about that one. Maybe the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
“And Jack?”
From somewhere behind them a low howl split the air.
Hood froze and immediately brought his weapon up. Wolf attacks were a very real problem in the Spin Ghar region, but as the sound died away, Hood heard Jack snarl, “Knock it off, Sharky.”
“What the hell?” Hood muttered, turning slowly to look back. All five of the jumpers—the Monster Squad, Hood thought acidly—were on the ground and moving up the trail single file behind Mad Dog and himself. Hood stalked back to join Jack. His right hand squeezed the grip of his HK416, his empty left hand had unconsciously curled into a fist. “What the fuck was that?” he growled.
Jack stared back at him, his face an unreadable mask behind his sunglasses, but Bride hurried forward to interpose herself between the two men. She had removed her balaclava as well, revealing blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid. She was good-looking, albeit in a generic sort of way, but there was something like a streak of dirt on her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose, and after staring at it for a moment, Hood realized it was a scar. “I’ve got this, Jack. Major, walk with me. I’ll try to explain.”
She took his elbow and guided him away from the other man. “Sorry about that, Major.”
“It’s just Jeff.”
She nodded. “Jeff. Jack’s not really a people person, but his bark is usually worse than his bite. Sometimes when we take over for another spec ops team, it can get ugly. Lots of chest thumping. Obviously, I can’t tell you everything, but I think you’re entitled to at least know some of it.”
Hood was keenly aware of her hand on his arm. If she had been a man, the uninvited physical contact would have prompted Hood to put her on the ground and wrap her up in a submission hold. But she wasn’t a man, and that, he realized was the whole point. She was playing him.
He stopped and pulled free. “What the hell was that howl all about?” he hissed, trying to dredge up a little of his earlier ire. “I thought you people were professionals. We’re not back on the block here.”
“Sharky can be a bit of a clown, but trust me, he would never do anything to jeopardize the mission. We did a full aerial sweep on the way down. Believe me, we’re the only living things in a ten-mile radius. And your friend is right. We are the Monster Squad, and yes, our callsigns are all famous movie monsters... I know, it sounds a little corny. It wasn’t my idea.”
The comment set Hood’s mental alarm ringing. He stopped and faced her. “Wait, you heard that? That didn’t go out over the net.”
“Like Jack said, we’ve got some pretty advanced tech.” She tapped the side of her dark glasses. “Not much gets past us. We’re all linked to a VARE—virtual augmented reality environment—so what one of us sees or hears, all of us do. It gives us an edge when things get hairy. Sorry about eavesdropping.”
Hood scowled. “So I guess that means your friend Sharky can hear me telling him to quit screwing around and grow the hell up.”
“I was just trying to answer your question, hoss.” A tall powerfully built man stepped up to join them. He had pushed his balaclava up like a stocking cap. Though it was hard to tell
for certain in the green-tinted display of the night vision device, Hood thought the man looked like a Pacific islander, maybe Samoan. The man’s sardonic grin revealed teeth that had been filed to points. Sharky, no doubt. “Jack is the Wolfman.”
“Wolfman Jack.” Hood rolled his eyes behind his NVGs and turned to the dour leader of the Monster Squad. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I’m sure somebody must have thought so,” Wolfman replied.
As her remaining teammates came forward to join the huddle, Bride went on, “The big guy here is Imhotep.”
“AKA The Mummy,” supplied Mad Dog, coming up beside Hood.
The towering man with the 240B, his face still hidden behind his balaclava, inclined his head slightly but said nothing.
“It fits since he’s actually Egyptian by birth,” Bride went on. “His family came to the States when he was just a kid, so he’s as American as you or me. He’s our heavy weapons guy. Doesn’t say much, though.”
She gestured to the remaining masked figure. “Vlad on the other hand is Russian. And yes, his real name is Vladimir.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the man said, his voice thick with a Slavic accent. Unlike Jack, Bride and Sharky, his FN SCAR was the SSR variant, outfitted with a long barrel and an even longer sound-and-flash suppressor.
“He’s former Spetsnaz. A sniper. Sharky’s our demo guy. Wolfman’s the field leader, and I’m his 2IC.”
“So which one of you is going to tell me why my team has been benched? And why you’re here?”
This time, Bride wasn’t so quick to answer. She passed the question to Wolfman with a glance.
“We deal with situations that are beyond the capabilities of even special operations units like Delta and Seal Team Six.”
“Beyond our capabilities?” Hood shook his head. “Bullshit.”
“Boys,” Bride murmured. “Let’s not turn this into a dick measuring contest.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Hood. You’re good at what you do. I’ve seen your folder. But at the end of the day, you’re a guy with a gun, trained to fight other guys with guns.”
Hellhole Page 33
