Covert Commando: A Sam Harper Military Thriller
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART I: Manila Mayhem
Chapter One: Shooting Rooftops
Chapter Two: Shooting Cars
Chapter Three: Shooting Away
Chapter Four: Shooting Execution Style
Chapter Five: Shooting Information
Chapter Six: Tracking bits and bytes
Chapter Seven: Tracking Behavior
Chapter Eight: Tracking Enemies
Chapter Nine: Tracking Paperwork
Chapter Ten: Tracking The Wrong Tea Tree
Chapter Eleven: Tracking Allies
PART II: Lubang Lockup
Chapter Twelve: Captive Audiences
Chapter Thirteen: Captive Flights
Chapter Fourteen: Captive Collisions
Chapter Fifteen: Captive Torture
Chapter Sixteen: Captive Meetups
Chapter Seventeen: Captive Plans
Chapter Eighteen: Captive Clashes
Chapter Nineteen: Captive Battles
Chapter Twenty: Captive Reset
Chapter Twenty-One: Captive Revenge
Chapter Twenty-Two: Escape Trick
Chapter Twenty-Three: Escape Scrape
Chapter Twenty-Four: Escape Ambush
Chapter Twenty-Five: Escape Denied
Chapter Twenty-Six: Escape Caves
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Escape Complete
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Escape Rocks
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Escape Life
PART III: Spratly Struggle
Chapter Thirty: Good and Bad News
Chapter Thirty-One: Information Problems
Chapter Thirty-Two: Disinformation Solutions
Chapter Thirty-Three: Island Prep
Chapter Thirty-Four: Island Confrontation
Chapter Thirty-Five: Island Fireworks
Chapter Thirty-Six: Island Fall
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Island Rest and Relaxation
Covert Commando
A Sam Harper Military Thriller
Thomas Sewell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, or groups, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Design by Aaron Leavitt.
ISBN 13:
978-1-952242-02-1 (Paperback)
Copyright © 2020 by Thomas Sewell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
Catallaxy Media, Charlotte, NC
http://CatallaxyMedia.com
Dedicated to our sheepdogs in the Armed Forces.
And to the readers who pre-ordered this book,
whose interest and patience made me keep writing it.
And as always and forever, Christi.
Without her support, I probably wouldn't be done writing it either.
PART I: Manila Mayhem
Chapter One: Shooting Rooftops
Urban battles suck. Especially during a muggy island afternoon in Manila. We roasted beneath a mottled gray sniper hide on top of a blazing skyscraper's roof.
Reflected all the heat right back at us.
My fogproof M151 spotter scope fogged up. Or maybe that was just my drippings. Sweat pooled in the corner of my eyes. I shook my head and scattered perspiration in bulbous droplets across my civvies.
My disguise. Shorts and a tourist t-shirt.
How could Schnier stand it? He just rested there behind his rifle, comfortable in old jeans, and claimed the humidity is even bigger back in Texas.
Rather be surfing off Point Loma. A cooler wet.
Schnier and I took turns observing the lectern the local government raised on a platform, plus the government-center buildings and civilian spectators which surrounded it.
The Speaker of the Philippine House of Representatives sure riled up that crowd.
Two plainclothes police guarded him.
My MI team warned us of an Abu Sayyaf sniper team, local jihadi militants, so I don't know why the locals hadn't deployed more men. Perhaps they'd also placed counter-sniper teams in nearby buildings?
If so, I hoped they didn't spot ours. We'd be tough to explain.
A high-velocity bullet tore one of the bodyguard's right arm from him with a thud.
Red blossomed across the guard's flowing-white embroidered baróng shirt. He spun at the impact. Collapsed on the platform above the crowd of demonstrators.
Dude! Only two-feet from the Speaker of the House.
Boom. The shot's echo reverberated from Manila's skyscrapers. Shattered the crowd's calm.
The ShotRadar app on my issue sat phone pinged. Displayed a satellite map of the area surrounding Batasang Pambansa, the Philippine House of Representatives complex.
Sound waves impacted known ShotRadar listening posts. Based on the muzzle blast's audio intensity, the expert system automatically tagged them as a gunshot. Triangulated the location of the shooter.
Flashed a red dot onto the map.
The Speaker's other white-shirted guard tackled him. Dragged him behind the bamboo lectern.
Drew a pistol from under his loose dress shirt. Pointed it randomly and ineffectually into the air.
Protesters screamed. Dove. Hid.
Milled in swirls of confusion, like a disrupted whirlpool.
I pivoted my spotting scope away from the lectern. Toward the red dot's real life location.
"Contact. Two tangos. Parking garage. Four o'clock." Glanced at the rangefinder. "640 meters. Black van. Three ... no four floors down from the top."
Captain Schnier swung his Stoner SR-25 rifle across the tar and gravel roof. "Set, Harper." He let the black-camo blanket over the barrel flap in the wind. Settled in the tripod. Lay prone again. "Contact".
"Go to glass."
He twisted his Houston Astros ball cap backward around his red hair. Sprawled his legs to absorb the recoil. Peered through his scope.
"Two on roof of black van. Sniper and spotter."
Dude always has been vain. "Sniper is your target. Check parallax and mil."
He adjusted a nob on his scope. Aimed at the parking garage. "Ready." Paused his breathing.
"Check level. Hold over, two point four." Just enough for the bullet drop from our height to theirs to impact on target.
"Ready."
I gave him my final correction. "Wind left point 6."
Barrel flash from one of the two figures laying on top of the van.
Too slow to prevent another shot.
My TCAPS earbuds dampened the peak of the 7.62 cartridge blast from Schnier's rifle. That shockwave combined with the boom of the enemy's shot.
ShotRadar pinged again. Two red dots.
I ignored the app. Watched the track of Schnier's projectile.
Air turbulence swirled off the supersonic bullet as it cut through the summer heat. Van's windshield exploded. Rear-view mirror tore off.
Shards scattered across the van's interior.
"Six inches low. Four left." Just missed the figure firing the sniper rifle.
The Speaker's lectern exploded.
* * *
The windshield below Raven shattered into a web of safety-glass cracks. She rolled off the roof of the van. Slammed into the concrete of the parking garage deck.
"Oof." Knocked her breath out. Dirtied her black cotton sh
irt. Took forever to hand-wash it. At least her modest tan pants didn't show dust.
How inane.
Omar flopped off the van's roof like a wounded bat. Hit the pavement on the far side. Clutched his rifle. "Move!"
Her first firefight. Don't flip out. Don't flip out. She couldn't afford for Omar to see her as flaky.
She filled her lungs. Crawled around the back of the van. Stood. Sprinted across the garage's parking spots.
Wished she still owned Adidas running shoes, instead of these Filipino clunkers.
Yearned for a lot of things from her old life. Freedom, for one.
Omar ran with his rifle held across his chest.
It slowed him down. He fell behind.
She led him down a circular ramp meant for cars.
He gasped for air. Panted behind her. "Secondary firing location."
She nodded as she stopped. Slammed her hands into the door of the beat up silver sedan they'd stashed in a parking spot ahead of time. Absorbed her momentum.
Yanked the car door open. Slid into the driver's seat. Fired up the engine.
Pressed in the clutch. Ratcheted the gear-shift into first.
Facing outward. So easy to drive away without him. Steer for the exit. Floor the accelerator.
Make him dodge.
But the girls back at their island mountain camp would pay for his anger. She'd continue to go with the flow.
Look for her opportunity.
He caught up. Shoved his rifle onto the back seat. Jumped up front. Yelled.
"Drive, wife!"
Slammed his passenger door on her dream of escape.
* * *
After the first shot, plainclothes Special Action Force (SAF) Captain Larrikowal tackled the Speaker of the House.
Pulled him across the dais. Behind the bamboo lectern.
"Stay down!"
The soft wooden stand concealed ballistic armor. Thick fibers designed to give and spread shock while solid plates prevented penetration.
It'd have to do. Safer here than running.
His top sergeant just lost an arm, but his duty for now was to protect the Speaker.
Larrikowal drew his 9mm service pistol. Pointed it at his best guess of where the shot came from.
Somewhere above them. In a building.
Where were the counter-sniper teams responding to the ShotRadar the defense ministry installed for just this situation?
The lectern exploded into bamboo shards. Left the black ballistic armor exposed, but not penetrated.
Another pair of shots. Different locations.
Protesters screamed. Dove. Hid.
Police Central would summon reinforcements and an ambulance, but they'd take forever to fight through this crowd. Too long to reach them.
He pulled the flexible armor back and down. Covered the Speaker's entire head, plus his chest past the waist.
Confused people milled around, unsure of what to do. Others with better ideas ran. Didn't want to remain near a target for gunfire.
Not that he could blame them.
Nothing else to do, but to lead their horses to water. He edged closer to the smashed lectern. Pulled its thin dangling microphone down to his mouth.
"Please walk quietly and calmly to the nearest exit from the plaza. Additional emergency services are on their way. You are not at risk. If you are injured and can walk, please exit with the others. If not, stay here. Medical services will arrive shortly."
Distorted, but fathomable, his words reached the crowd. Beginning at the edges, they picked their way toward the streets leading between buildings. Out of the plaza.
"For everyone's safety and so medical personnel can reach those injured, please depart quietly and in an orderly fashion. Calmly. Ensure no one else is injured."
The crowd pressed away from the center of the plaza. A little strain where the mass filtered down to a narrower flow at the exits, but they'd clear out soon enough.
From above, another high-powered shot rang out.
He flinched. The crash echoed.
No nearby impact.
The crowd ran. A woman carrying a sign tripped. Fell. Then a man wearing a city maintenance uniform stumbled over her.
Disaster.
Chapter Two: Shooting Cars
Ranger Captain Buck Schnier paused his breathing again. Waited for one of the pair of tangos sprinting along the line of cars to cross his optics.
"Rushin' like all git-out."
Tangos fled on foot. One wore baggy tan pants. Long sleeve black shirt. Flowing brown hair.
No obvious weapon.
Centered her in his cross-hairs.
Dad-gum it! Schnier wasn't fixin' to shoot a fleeing woman in the back, no matter how dangerous.
He was the herd's bull. Here to protect, not to murder.
Well, also to party. Party and protect. His Manila motto.
Someone began making announcements on the plaza's public address system. Schnier blocked out their words. Harper would tell him if they had to leave.
That's what intelligence subordinates were for. Real-time tactical info.
Through his rifle scope, he watched her slide into the driver's seat of a silver sedan.
Car's running lights flashed on. Male ISIL terrorist in the passenger seat.
Harper packed his spotting scope into their hard case. Folded his tripod. Gathered their gear. Swept loose Orange Fanta, Cherry 7-UP, and energy drinks into a black duffel bag. Left the hard-case open for his rifle.
Ready for pursuit.
"Radio chatter. SAF coming. Time to go."
Schnier ignored him. Shifted his point of aim. Prepped the trigger.
The woman drove forward. Out of her parking spot. Swung her car around to face the down ramp. The exit.
Faced directly at Schnier. He pressed his delicate trigger. Set in motion a brief explosion.
Recognized her face.
Raven?
She turned right into the path of his next bullet.
* * *
Their car's front grill caved in. Hood popped up three inches. Caught on a twisted latch.
Raven recoiled from the impact.
Steam exploded out of the radiator. A shot cracked from outside. Echoed across the parking garage walls.
Not one of theirs. Enemy sniper again.
She desperately needed to escape to somewhere safe. Protected.
But for now, she'd settle for survival. Her white knuckles gripped the steering wheel.
Omar commanded in Tausug-English pidgin. "Ignore the radiator. Go!"
He curled up below the windshield. Behind the dash. Protected by the bulk of the engine.
"Always looking out for number one." She'd pay for her comment later, if he remembered. If he understood her expression.
He growled.
She shoved down the accelerator. Their wounded sedan lurched forward. Freaking out wouldn't help.
Shifted into second. Accelerated down the concrete ramp. Followed the black and yellow stripes painted on each edge.
Summer heat reflected from the pavement beyond the flimsy exit gate.
She aimed the car at the red and white boom barrier. No time to stop and pay.
At least it couldn't damage their radiator more than it'd already been destroyed.
How far would they get before the engine seized from the heat boiling up?
* * *
Police Central shouted in Larrikowal's ear. Difficult to make out over the screams of the mob rushing the exits. Something about teams arriving.
Weapon out, he scanned the skyline. Expected another shot any second. One that could make him look like his sergeant, moaning on the dais.
"Repeat."
"Assault teams reached the two buildings identified by ShotRadar. Proceeding to clear the locations."
Two buildings?
He turned away from the lectern. Activated his throat mic.
"Confirm, shots from multiple locations? Different buildings?"
&
nbsp; How organized were these guys, to have a backup team? No wonder he'd heard so many discharges.
They'd been lucky.
"Yes, Captain."
The anguish on his sergeant's face as he clutched the remains of his shoulder prompted Larrikowal to try again.
He leaned back toward the lectern's microphone. "Please. Slowly and calmly. Everyone will get out. Emergency personnel will be able to get in and help."
Stupid politicians, to insist that once everyone was searched for weapons at the entrance, no crowd control officers were needed in the Plaza itself. They'd just inflame the masses.
After all, it was a friendly crowd, right?
Not entirely. Not anymore. People were hurt out there.
His sergeant rolled toward him. Trying to get help? An attempt to help cover the Speaker from further shots, despite his injury?
The man was obviously still in shock, but what bravery. Courage. He'd see he got a medal. Perhaps even a good disability pension.
Larrikowal glanced at the Speaker. What a waste.
Still, he did his duty. Kept him safe.
Chapter Three: Shooting Away
Out of time.
I shoved my multi-tool into a cargo pocket on my shorts. Everything else packed, I tapped on Schnier's shoulder. "No more time, dude. Officially not here, remember?"
"Don't pitch a hissy-fit. Might could've had 'em."
He levered himself up with his elbows. Crouched on the roof. Folded up the tripod on his rifle.
Needed to depart the building's roof before we blew the covertness of our mission.
"Still gotta go."
He grunted. Seemed distracted.
I tapped my electronic map, updated in real-time by my MI platoon in support. It showed the spread of our nine sniper teams across the area, the tango's last known position, and the Philippine National Police response.
"Local forces less than three minutes out."
He settled his long gun into its padded hard case to protect the scope's zero.
"Michelle's gonna kill us if the SAF catches up to us, but those hombres won't get far in a wrecked car."
I helped him lock down the case. Slung half our gear onto my back. Not usual officer work, but we'd stretched Schnier's platoon thin to cover this whole Manila government district without detection.