Wright and Gaudet worked quickly, setting up three M18A1 Claymore mines. Each packed seven hundred one-eighth-inch steel balls behind a shaped charge. They positioned the charges linearly every twenty feet down the goat path, facing the enemy. Hidden behind fallen branches, the Claymores provided three layers of defense.
Wright had Gaudet help him run the Claymore wires down to the entrance to the boulder path. But the dizziness returned, and he nearly collapsed.
Gaudet helped him reach the long crater formed by the IED blasts, still warm to the touch. The two corporals walked backwards toward them while firing their M249s, reaching the rocky formation, keeping the enemy at bay as the sergeant connected the wires to a single detonator with three buttons.
“Get your men back to the LZ, Sergeant!” Wright said, coming back around, trying to hold it together, breathing deeply, forcing his eyes to focus on the sloping terrain beyond his DFP.
As images of his father and grandfather loomed over him, he added, “Hurry! Get the hell out of here! I’ll hold them back!”
All three marines stared at him as if he had two heads.
“What about you, sir?” Gaudet finally asked.
“Leave me your ammo! And go!”
“But, sir! That’s—”
“An order, Sergeant! A direct order! Now go!”
Several insurgents loomed in the distance the moment the suppressing fire stopped, and the distant sound of helicopters echoed down the mountain. Wright shouted, “It’s the only way, guys! I can barely stand and will slow you down! Now go! Get everyone to those helos!”
“No man left behind, sir!” Gaudet shouted. “You’re coming with us!”
“And whose going to cover us from that?” Wright insisted, pointing at the threat. Twice as many insurgents were visible now, almost as if the forest was birthing them in real time. One of the corporals emptied his M249 and most heads ducked for cover.
“There’s no more time! Go!” Wright said.
“But, sir, we can’t leave you—”
“Now, soldier!”
Gaudet put a hand on Wright’s back and said, “Semper fi!”
“Semper fi!” Wright hissed under his breath.
They left him three magazines for the UMP45 plus the other M249 connected to a two-hundred-round M27 linked belt of 5.56 × 45mm NATO cartridges.
Fighting the growing wooziness from the round to his helmet plus the IED blast, Wright gutted up, dealing with a likely concussion while lying flat inside the shallow trench carved by the IEDs.
Setting the M249 on its forward bipod, the stock pressed against his right shoulder and shooting hand on the pistol grip, the marine captain aligned the enemy from the entrance to the corridor. His flanks were protected by the boulders rising to either side of him, stained red with American blood—blood he intended to avenge.
He readied to defend his line in the sand for the sake of his men, just as his father and grandfather had done in distant lands long ago, taking as many of the bastards with them as possible.
Wright waited as the enemy materialized, their loose clothing fluttering in the breeze, turbans shifting as they broke into a run, AK-47 muzzles flashing.
But he waited still, letting them get closer.
Up close and very fucking personal.
Before reaching for the detonator.
* * *
Pasha heard the multiple IED explosions and grinned. The buried mines had broken the Americans’ coordinated retreat, interrupting their fancy tactic by forcing them to rush their wounded to the landing zone, giving his men an opening.
The marines had had their chance to show off their warring skills, and it was now time for Pasha to show off his—and finish them off.
He had divided his men into progressive waves of ten to fifteen warriors, each one more experienced than the preceding one, and better armed. The concept was simple. Deploy the newbies first to give the enemy a false sense of confidence, before hitting them harder and harder with each subsequent wave, confusing them while breaking them.
And I will break them, he thought, as the first wave, composed of eleven newly trained recruits—hormonal teenagers promised eternal life for fighting with the Taliban—took off toward the rocky pass.
They left in a blur of AK-47s, khet partugs, and war cries.
Pasha watched their figures dashing down the hill toward—
A terrible explosion rumbled just ahead of his men, the blast blinding, shredding them with the force of a hundred shotgun blasts, the shock wave slamming into the next wave of jihadists standing a dozen feet from him.
* * *
Wright blinked as the outermost charge, designed to strip the determination of the most committed enemy, swallowed the incoming silhouettes in a fan-shaped pattern of steel balls that momentarily blocked all sunlight.
The Claymore was overwhelming in its destructive force. Men vanished if they stood within its sixty-degree horizontal arc and maximum height of six feet, cut to pieces by this ridiculously powerful weapon.
But the marine captain had been around the block enough times to know this particular enemy would be simply temporarily set back by the Claymores, never deterred.
These fanatics simply didn’t know how to quit.
An instant later, as a new wave of warriors emerged through the forest, running toward him, Wright pressed the second button on the detonator.
39
A Fair Fight
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Hardly a fair fight, Colonel.”
Stark observed the events unfolding down the hill from his vantage point and had to agree with Chief Larson. Although it was admirable that the marine captain had chosen to stay behind to cover his platoon’s retreat, there was no way he could handle the violence heading his way. Even with the Claymores and the solid DFP, the math just didn’t work.
Checking his Casio and realizing that the CIA contingent—a Bill Gorman—wouldn’t be here for at least another four hours, Stark said over the secured frequency, “Chief, Ryan, Mickey, get in there and provide suppressing fire. Danny, keep eyes on that compound.”
“What about Agency rules, sir?” Ryan asked from his sniper’s perch.
“This one is on me, boys. Get busy.”
“Where are you going, Colonel?” asked Larson, as Stark stood and checked his MP5A1.
“To make it a fair fight.”
40
Jarhead Justice
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Pasha kept sending them, wave after wave, their boots stomping across the uneven terrain, marching right over the disfigured and bloody remains of their fallen comrades.
The first and second waves never made it past a hundred yards before the explosions consumed them or the machine gun emplacement near the mouth of the passage cut down the few that escaped the shower of steel.
The air stank of cordite and the coppery smell of blood and burned flesh, replacing the pine resin fragrance of just moments ago as the third wave scrambled ahead. Its ranks were filled with more seasoned warriors, though they were still mostly kids, just a few years older than he and Akhtar had been the first time they drew blood.
The men charged ahead without fear, confident in their cause, certain that Allah was on their side. They fought for their homeland, for their beliefs, just like their fathers had fought against the Soviets, with an iron will.
But they still didn’t get far. A third hidden charge ignited the hillside, the burst deafening, ripping through cloth and flesh.
41
Sweet Point
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
The trick to the Claymores was patience. And that last blast had truly taxed Wright’s discipline, waiting for the rebels to get close enough while he was taking fire, while rounds peppered the ground around him, sparking off boulders.
But he had waited, aware of the Claymore’s optimum effective range, the swe
et point between lethality and area coverage of 160 feet with a hit probability of over 40 percent on a man-size target, though fragments could travel as far as seven hundred feet.
The rest he handled with the M249, keeping his fire low and limited to short bursts.
A fourth wave of rebels emerged on the hillside, screaming and firing their Kalashnikovs, advancing toward him like a maddened horde.
John Wright, fresh out of Claymores, knew that it would take a miracle to survive another minute.
But as he steeled himself to face the same fate as his ancestors, while cutting down as many of those bearded devils as possible, the miracle happened.
* * *
What in Allah’s name is happening? Pasha thought, as his fourth wave of men, ten of his best warriors, was decimated. But not by American mines or that lone soldier firing his light machine gun from the mouth of the boulder pass.
His men were not falling on their backs from taking rounds to their chests. Instead, they succumbed to large-caliber shots shrieking down the hill.
Someone had flanked them—someone on higher ground and armed with a much louder and much more powerful weapon.
That’s a fifty-cal, he thought, its dismembering rounds wreaking havoc on his men, turning his warriors into a mangled mess of bloody parts bursting in the forest.
* * *
Wright was confused. His men were supposed to be on their way to the LZ. But someone had joined in this fight—someone unseen and also unyielding, obliterating that last wave with a brutality matching the Claymore carnage.
And though he was confused, his veteran sense could discern at least three weapons being fired against the enemy from their left flank. A Browning M2 certainly dominated the well-orchestrated action, but in between the synchronized beat of the heavy machine gun he saw the surgical strikes from individual .50-caliber shots, probably from a sniper.
To Wright, the single shots tearing off heads and chests resembled disruptive silent notes to the unchained melody of the Browning. And although he also could not hear the third weapon, he could see the impacts from a smaller-caliber weapon than his own M249, perhaps from a suppressed UZI or MP5.
Wright was indeed confused, but he was also out of ammo. Firing his final machine gun rounds, still feeling groggy from the headshot and the IED shock wave, he managed to stand.
And as he did so, he had the sudden desire to make a run for the landing zone.
42
Come Back to Me
RED ONE ONE. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Muzzle flashes sparked to life, followed by tracers rushing up toward her.
“No you don’t,” Vaccaro mumbled, unleashing a torrent of 70mm Hydra rockets, their bright contrails swarming toward enemy positions threatening to overrun John Wright and his marine rifle platoon.
In the blink of an eye, more than a dozen men vanished in sheets of orange flames.
She pulled back and circled the calculated mess she had created, before aligning the Avenger and squeezing the trigger.
The nineteen-foot-long cannon thundered to life, demolishing with a few hundred 1.5-pound rounds anything that had survived the Hydras. But just as she was about to pull back up, the fuselage trembled with the sound of a dozen hammers.
“Damn,” she thought, catching a glimpse of the muzzle flashes to her right, a pair of machine gun emplacements where the insurgents had managed to flank her. Pushing the throttles to get herself out of range, she watched as warning lights from her left turbofan accompanied a loss in thrust.
“Bravo Niner Six, Bravo Niner Six. Red One One is hit. Lost port engine.”
“Red One One, Bravo Niner Six. Hooks thirty seconds away. RTB. RTB.”
“Negative, Bravo Niner Six,” she replied to KAF’s order to return to base. “I’m staying with my boys.” Then she added, “Hookers, Hookers, stand by. LZ not secured. Repeat, LZ not secured. Acknowledge.”
“Red One One, Hooks Two and Three holding two miles south.”
She made a wide circle before dropping right over the machine guns and opening the Avenger. Ground fire peppered her left wing, tearing into the armored skin. Airbursts of antiaircraft fire ignited in small dark clouds around her nose as she worked the control stick, rudders, and throttle to guide the cannon straight across the enemy positions.
The massive gun cut a track of terrain ten feet wide that reached the threat, the two machine gun nests, each manned by three men. For an instant, she saw their muzzles pointed directly at her, men in turbans at the controls while others fed ammo belts into the sides of the weapons.
And then they were gone, swallowed by the river of explosive death roaring over them. The colossal energy deposited over the course of five seconds cut men and machines to pieces, disintegrated them.
She pulled up at the last moment, banking hard left while climbing, reaching two thousand feet and entering a tight holding pattern while verifying that she had put down all resistance.
The first marines stepped tentatively into the clearing, weapons in hand, before turning to the skies and waving. She tried to see if Wright was among them, but with their helmets, they all looked alike from three hundred feet.
Vaccaro rocked her wings. “Hookers, Hookers, LZ cleared. Customers waiting.”
“Roger that, Red One One. Thanks for your help.”
“Red One One, Bravo Niner Six. RTB. RTB.”
“In a moment, Bravo Niner Six. Circling overhead until they’re cleared,” she replied, entering a shallow holding pattern while fighting the urge to contact the marines for a SitRep, in the hope that Wright would reply.
Come back to me, John. Fucking come back to me.
43
Ghosts
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Wright lacked the energy to run, but he ran anyway, fueled by adrenaline and sheer willpower, fighting the dizziness and the ringing in his ears. He left the puzzling battle behind, too tired and groggy to care who had interceded on his behalf.
The rattle of mixed gunfire behind him gave way to the deafening double rotors of the Chinooks biting the air just ahead, hovering beyond the edge of the tree line, where he could also hear the thunderous sound of an Avenger cannon.
Wright ran as fast as his body allowed, his vision blurring, his mind growing foggier, his senses numbing. But as he neared the tree line, and through the cacophony of sounds, he heard his men shouting as they boarded the choppers, as they got the wounded aboard, as they prepared to leave the area.
They’ve made it, John. They’ve made it, thanks to you.
The thought preceded a wave of nausea that dropped him to his knees just a few feet from the edge of the clearing, bending him over in uncontrollable spasms as he gagged, then vomited, eyes veiled in tears, ears ringing, legs turning to putty.
Collapsing on his side, he began to tremble, the abuse finally catching up to him. And in this altered state of body and mind, he saw the forest come alive in front of him, watched the figure of a helmeted soldier rushing toward him in the snow.
The snow?
The man knelt by him and smiled.
Pops? What are you doing here?
Taking you home, kid.
Wright stared, dumbfounded, at the image of his grandfather as snow fell around them, alongside the reverberating pounding of artillery, followed by the rounds whistling overhead. The ground shook around them, explosions of shrapnel, frozen dirt, and snow.
But another figure emerged through the explosions, a tanned and wiry man in jungle fatigues and an unbuttoned army vest, hauling an old-fashioned M-16. The sweatband around his helmet held a pack of Marlboro 100s and a book of matches. Sweat dripped down his face, dog tags hung from his neck, swinging across his chest.
Wright remembered those dog tags.
On the mantelpiece, next to the flags and the—
Hey, Johnny.
Dad?
But the figures grew transparent in the forest, their vintage uniforms replace
d by a large soldier clad in body armor, holding a suppressed MP5A1. He materialized behind them, emerging from the surrounding woods like a ghost, prompting Wright to press his right palm against the grip of his holstered SIG P220.
“Easy, soldier,” the stranger said, taking a knee and placing a hand over Wright’s to keep him from drawing his service sidearm. “I don’t know about you jarheads, but us snake eaters only shoot the bad guys.”
Wright wanted to laugh, but his head and belly ached too much. Instead, he relaxed his shooting hand, surrendering to the Special Forces warrior, who picked him up with ease and threw him over his right shoulder.
Staring at the back of the soldier’s boots as they rushed out of the forest and into the clearing, Wright tried to thank him, to express his gratitude. But his mind was spinning, propelling all thoughts to the periphery of his consciousness. In this whirling world, as the ground, the boots, and the Chinooks swapped places in his blurry field of view, Wright felt many hands on him, heard the distant voices of his platoon, and above them that of Sergeant Gaudet.
“Bravo Niner Six, Six Six Zulu, we’ve got him!” Gaudet shouted into his MBITR. “We’ve got the captain! Getting out of Dodge!”
But Wright didn’t care. His head turned toward the open side door of the Chinook as it left the ground. He caught a glimpse of that mysterious warrior, rushing back into the woods, vanishing from view just as he had appeared, like a damn ghost.
Ghosts.
For an instant, Wright thought he saw two other figures by the tree line, one drenched in sweat, the other caked in snow.
Before he passed out.
44
Doer of Deeds
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Pasha ran with a handful of men to the clearing, making a wide circle around whoever it was that had opened fire on his soldiers. He’d left a small contingent behind to keep that hidden force busy while focusing his energy on the landing zone.
Without Fear Page 22