Covert Commando: A Sam Harper Military Thriller

by Thomas Sewell

  Too many.

  I shoved my phone into a cargo pocket. Dove over the stern. Hoped to put the netting between me and them. Slow them down.

  Always been fast in the water.

  They climbed over the underwater web. Chased after me. They used long, strong, overhand strokes to follow me on the surface of the stream.

  I dove down. Might lose them in the muddy depths.

  Something touched my heel. A hand?

  I kicked out. Made contact with a head.

  Sped away. Lost my religious hair covering to the water resistance.

  No more disguise.

  Reached the bank. Dug my fingers into the muddy soil. Grasped roots. Hauled myself along.

  Air ran out. Needed to surface. Pulled myself above the water.

  Wipe out.

  The open barrel of a Chinese Arsenal 66 stared me in the face. An AK-47 style Type 56 rifle. Short. Open wire-frame folding stock. Long banana magazine. Pistol grip.

  Common in southeast Asia.

  Deadly.

  Feet propped against the river bank, I raised my hands in surrender.

  Crazy the details you notice when time slows down. When your focus approaches a peak.

  Black shirt. Camo headband.

  His eyes widened. Looked across the river. Shouted something like "not a whore."

  A split second looking elsewhere is all the distraction I needed.

  Didn't wait to see more. Pushed off the bank with my legs. Backward. Downward.

  Water rushed into my nose.

  Bullets shattered the river around me.

  Fast objects striking water hit more like impacting on concrete. After two or three feet, the compressed liquid resistance halts even rifle bullets.

  Doubted they had special CAV-X rounds, designed to penetrate water, for this situation.

  Not an ideal plight, either way. At some point, I needed air again.

  So I turned over. Snorted out water. Kicked. Swam along the river bottom.

  Tugged at round stones, smoothed by centuries of tumbling down the mountain, to propel myself forward.

  Approached the opposite bank.

  Reached under my flowing black robe. Snagged the M17 from the concealed carry holster tucked under my shorts.

  Surfaced. Sucked in air.

  No one on the bank in front of me.

  Shouts behind me. Semi-automatic cracks in the air. Aimed fire impacted the water and the bank.

  They could barely see me. No point in giving them a better aim-point by returning fire.

  Unlikely to hit with a pistol at this range, anyway. Not while treading water.

  Another deep breath. Ducked down. Let the current take me downstream. Along the bank, rather than away from it.

  Held my breath as long as I could. Minutes.

  Crawled out of the water. No one in sight.

  Pistol in right hand, phone in left hand to see with, I slithered through the jungle. Squirmed around tree trunks. Wriggled between vines and branches.

  Found a clearing. Nothing human visible. Just dead undergrowth. Tall trees.

  A trail. Dangerous visibility.

  I raced across. Crouched low. Needed silence.

  Tripped. Thwap. Hung in the air.

  Lost my pistol. Dangled from a noose around my ankle. A dozen feet above the ground.

  M17 in the rotting jungle below. Blood rushed to my head. I scanned around with my phone camera.

  Foliage crunched under enemy boots. Dark shapes entered the clearing from three sides.

  Drew my multi-tool from a cargo pocket. Opened the blade. Reached for my ankle.

  Dislodged my damp robe. It followed gravity. Tumbled down around my waist and chest.

  I stabbed at the rope. Caught the edge. Sawed through.

  Fell on my head. Dropped my multi-tool. Reached for my pistol in the dirt.

  Three men dog-piled me in the dark.

  I squeezed my phone. Slashed at someone's throat with it. Choked on an assailant's arm. Poked at their eyes. Kneed another's groin.

  Lightheaded. Blood pumped, but no oxygen reached my brain. A tingling warmth passed over my legs.

  My chest.

  Vision turned gray. Shrunk to a pinpoint.

  Vanished.

  * * *

  Pahk aimed the FY-6 man portable antiaircraft missile at the sky above the mountain's peak. "When the Flying Eagle acquires an infrared target, ensure the back-blast area is clear and then pull the trigger. The advanced seeker will do the rest, with a 70% single shot probability for targets maneuvering up to 4g at low or medium altitude."

  "Allahu Akbar!" one of Omar's men exclaimed. Another dozen men echoed him.

  Well, Chinese technology was great, Pahk supposed, so they were half right.

  Omar stepped forward to take the long tube from him. He peered at its parts. "How many?"

  Pahk smiled. "Two tubes and a dozen reloads for each. Enough to defend this place from an airborne regiment, or shut down an airport indefinitely."

  The four-foot-high circle of rough stone crenelations surrounding the jihadists' mountain-top lookout protected its defenders from small arms fire.

  With the high ground, defenders would have the advantage over any of the surrounding areas, but they'd be vulnerable from the air.

  Used to be vulnerable from the air, that is.

  Right now, Omar's senior guerrillas filled the clearing. More looked on from one of the trio of jungle trails which climbed the mountain cliffs.

  Everyone wanted to see the destructive toys their new best friend brought on his boat, but rank hath its privileges.

  Omar hefted the tube on his shoulder. Uncovered the toggle switch. Flipped it on. Looked through the targeting window. "Built-in night vision?"

  "It's a digital infrared seeker. Flares won't fool it. Intelligently tracks the specific heat source you aim it at. No reason not to use the four all-aspect sensors in the seeker to provide an infrared targeting display for the user to acquire a missile lock with."

  "Good. The infidels claim they own the night. This will show them differently. The range?"

  "Minimum 500 meters. Out to six kilometers. You can reach beyond the coast from atop this mountain."

  "Gozar Air Station is only a kilometer away. The Army believes they're safe there. I must consider the best time to disabuse them of that notion."

  "Now, let me show you one of the trio of W85 heavy machine guns I brought. They're effective not only on land but also against anything within the Flying Eagle's 500 meter minimum range. Fires ten rounds per second, so I brought thirty cases of belted ammunition."

  "Allahu Akbar!"

  One of Omar's men pushed his way through the crowd, hair plastered to his face, as if he'd been swimming.

  He panted to a halt in front of Omar. "We've captured an infidel in disguise on the river approach! An American!"

  "Allahu Akbar!" This time, their chant echoed from the cliff walls, to be absorbed by the surrounding jungle.

  Pahk grinned.

  * * *

  Schnier dropped his ruck on his bed in their headquarters hut. "This is the worst trip I've ever been on."

  Sergeant Kilkenny nodded. Kept a straight face. "I want to go home."

  "What is it this time?" Schnier expected a negative report. Lately, it was always bad news.

  Kilkenny adjusted his load strap. Cleared his throat. "Check your computer, sir. Intel sent a video."

  Apparently, his sergeant didn't want to be the one to say. So, terrible news. From Harper's platoon.

  "Michelle, you're gonna wanna see whatever this is." He gestured her over from where she sat, staring at her own laptop.

  Probably checking on the littoral combat ship 7th fleet was sending over to pickup their gear now that the deadline for finding the tangos had passed.

  Schnier pulled up the video as Michelle sauntered over. "It's from Harper. That loco lieutenant took video of his river ingress. His platoon sergeant thought we needed to see th
e most recent few minutes."

  They watched as enemies intercepted Harper. He fought. Got swarmed.

  The video ended.

  Michelle was the first to react in the stunned silence. "Just like him to screw over my life even more."

  Schnier stared at Kilkenny. "What else do the intel weenies have?"

  "Not much, sir. A rough location on the side of a mountain. The video cut off there. He'd been sending a live feed to ensure the video wasn't lost if his phone dropped in the river."

  "This changes…" Schnier straightened up. "Your deadline doesn't matter now. We're going to Lubang Island."

  "D.C. will be pissed."

  "Not as much as they will when a bunch of jihadi jabars post a video of Harper's beheading to the world and we go snipe the Filipino politicians supporting them."

  "Not saying we shouldn't go. I'll arrange transport."

  "We?"

  "This entire country is my mission, remember?"

  Schnier ignored the issue for now. "How long will it take to get the LCS Johnbee here?"

  "Hours, then hours more to load up and make it to Lubang. But they carry two Seahawks. Between them, those'll take up to 31 men, you and your entire platoon, wherever we need to go."

  "32." Schnier corrected her. How do you divide an odd number of passengers across two birds?

  "31, plus one woman."

  Dames! Maybe she'd fall out on the way.

  Dead or alive, they weren't gonna leave Harper behind.

  * * *

  Kneeling in the darkness, Larrikowal extended his left arm horizontally at shoulder level. Swung it to the front and side in a sweeping motion.

  His team caught the signal and dispersed farther apart. Experienced in rural village combat, they took advantage of concealment as they moved.

  Once they'd reached the range he wanted, close enough for mutual support, far apart to completely observe this half of the complex, he swung his extended arm up and down to the side until everyone took cover.

  His senior sergeant, Maria, slowly settled into a low spot behind a cinnamon tree. Aimed her night vision at the wall surrounding the nipa hut resort.

  Andre, that FNG, rustled the branches of a wide leafy shrub as he nestled his way in. His disturbance released a musky fragrance from its tiny white flowers into the night air.

  Hopefully, no one heard him, or if they did, they dismissed it as an animal of some kind.

  He settled himself prone, where he could see Maria and Andre as well as the complex wall. He flipped up his NODs and pulled a small screen from his pack.

  Oriented the screen away from the resort wall. Propped his carbine within easy reach against a round stone.

  Their support detachment guarded their vehicles out of sight. They'd launch a small observation drone and feed him the overhead video.

  Time to wait. See what they observed.

  Might take all night and the next day to learn enough about the inhabitants to plan an assault.

  To set up a raid in the early morning hours of the next night.

  A rumbling in the distance. The distinctive thwapping of helicopter blades echoed across the water on the other side of the resort.

  Had someone else approved a mission to assault the resort, and they were going in hot?

  This made no sense.

  His team's drone feed went live on his screen. Low light images. Thirty or so heavily armed silhouettes on the beach. They stood in a line. Faced away from the huts.

  Away from his soldiers, toward the water.

  The rotor noise grew. Two helicopters landed in formation on the beach. The enemy shielded their faces from flung sand. Ran in a line to climb their sides.

  Boarded as efficiently as if they performed combat drops every week.

  Who were these guys? If private mercenaries, they held to higher standards than he remembered ever seeing before.

  Right now, just contrast on a screen. No clear markings visible in low light nor infrared.

  Should he order his men to attack? They'd just settled in. Didn't know who was still in the resort's huts.

  Too risky.

  No, no time to stop them, but had they been tipped off? If that was their entire force, if they were rushing off right after his team arrived, the timing was too much of a coincidence.

  But what could he do about it?

  He signaled for his long-range radio operator. Maybe someone could scramble aircraft to intercept them. At least track them on radar.

  He'd call the closest air base and find out. The Philippine Air Force (PAF) might even send their lone AWACS up to monitor.

  Their rotor noise vanished as the helicopters disappeared back out to sea.

  PART II: Lubang Lockup

  Chapter Twelve: Captive Audiences

  Someone rubbed a damp cloth across my forehead. I maintained my breathing pattern. Listened.

  A rustle of clothing. Light footsteps. Scrape of a sandal on stone.

  Cracked open my eyelids.

  A woman with dark brown hair poking out from beneath a headscarf. Her side to me, she dipped a rag into a pitcher.

  No immediate threat. I blinked. Groaned. Turned my head to see what restrained me.

  Steel shackles attached to lengths of chain bound my wrists and ankles to posts embedded in the rough marble floor. Some kind of cave.

  She turned to face me. "I've cleaned your wounds." Not Filipino. Too tall. Twangy English accent.

  An older version of the photo of the college-age woman Schnier carried around with him. Showed people. Hunted for.

  His ex-girlfriend who fled her family in Texas and he hadn't heard from since.

  Raven.

  What do I do with that information?

  More to the point, how do I get out of here? Would she help?

  "Thanks. Very nice of you. You're American?"

  "Used to be Texan, but that was a whole 'nother life."

  I smiled. "Am I going to live, doc?"

  She frowned. "That's up to my husband."

  "Is it, though? I only see you here." I tugged on a chain. Solid.

  She responded to my overture, but a shuffle of feet in the cave corridor outside interrupted our discussion.

  Omar pushed aside the curtain dividing this space from the outside. He lifted his ankle-length loose white robe over the threshold and ducked his head to clear the shorter cave entrance.

  Not from around here, either. Too tall.

  "So, our guest awakes."

  "I have cleaned his wounds. Nothing serious, mostly scrapes and bruises."

  "Good, we want him looking good for television."

  The chains were barely loose enough for me to lean up on an elbow. "I'm right here. No need to talk about me as if I can't hear you."

  Omar looked me over with a critical eye, as if he didn't trust Raven's assessment.

  "Don't worry, we'll have you signing confessions and admitting on camera to your many atrocities in short order. But for now, you're worth your weight in gold for moral and recruitment purposes. Must take care of you."

  Positively jolly at my capture. If I were to ever consider suicide, this seemed like the situation. Still, with inside information on Raven, maybe I could work this out.

  Besides, Schnier would come for me. Just had to ride this wave until then. He never left anyone behind and wouldn't let someone like me ruin his record nor stain his honor as a Texan.

  Omar chivied Raven out of the room in front of him.

  "Don't worry. I'll be back soon with my tools."

  Which, of course, he meant to cause me to worry. Can't say it didn't work.

  * * *

  Michelle stood behind four of Sam's rangers. The rangers sat in a row at a table in their make-shift intelligence center hut.

  A tangle of cables ran across the table from monitors to computers and out to power outlets, antennas, and other sensors.

  Shouldn't a military unit be neater than that? Bunch of computer nerds, anyway. More green-framed
glasses than rigged rifles, despite their ranger scrolls.

  She liked it. Always used her brain to get ahead. Well, that plus a few other assets.

  The closest monitor displayed a map of Lubang Island overlaid with infrared dots. Expert systems took the drone feed and updated it with real-time analysis of heat signatures. Tagged individuals, vehicles, structures.

  Built up a tactical picture over time as more data poured in.

  The drone from the LCS Johnbee had only recently arrived on station, but besides the civilian areas marked on the map, dozens of tangos on and around the mountain showed.

  A few scattered handfuls guarded three trails and the river flowing from the mountain. A permanent structure built from stone protected the entrance of a lake. They only noticed the occupants when one took a moment to water the jungle outside.

  Men. Couldn't ever keep it in their pants. Not even on duty.

  Worked to her advantage at times, though.

  No path led from Gozar Air Station to the presumed jihadi base location, but it was the closest place to set a helicopter down.

  Schnier and his men could fast rope just about anywhere into the jungle, but they'd need more space than that to exfil the area, unless they intended to walk out.

  He'd used that to convince her to stay behind. That because she couldn't fast rope, she'd never be able to keep up with them, anyway.

  That she'd help Sam the most by doing her own intelligence job instead.

  Her main point of hope and concern was a hot spot of activity near the mountain's peak. It both showed their main camp must be nearby, but also gave them a commanding height to cover all approaches from a distance.

  Climbing a mountain while under enemy fire wasn't something anyone in their right mind did.

  Perhaps a drone missile could take the place out? Would she get approval to launch against a location with unknown occupants?

  Probably not. She'd already been studiously ignoring her email now that her boss would be back in the office. He'd figure out soon enough they weren't evacuating quite yet.

  "Crap… excuse me, Ma'am."

  The ranger across the table from the ones she'd been watching interrupted her chain of thought.

  "Don't worry, I've heard much worse, growing up in the barrio, not to mention hanging around the army lately."

  "Umm… we just intercepted a series of messages between the PAF and SAF."