Without Fear

by Col. David Hunt

  And Maryam slept through it all, her head tilting sideways, finally resting on his shoulder.

  He looked over at her, with her eyes closed, seemingly at peace, in sharp contrast with the deadly operative who had saved his life in Islamabad or the cold and exacting interrogator who had broken the opium cartel boss at Bagram.

  She squirmed, mumbling something incomprehensible, pressing her side against him, and breathing deeply, hands on her lap.

  Lovely and deadly, he thought, eyes drifting from her hands to the Rolex hugging his left wrist, telling him they had been airborne for almost two hours now, and she had slept through most of it. But then again, the woman had slept through the majority of their stay at Bagram, until Gorman was able to secure a ride south.

  The stainless steel watch, combined with her proximity, made him think of Jeannie, of a marriage cut short by—

  “Three minutes, guys!”

  Gorman blinked when he heard the pilot through his headset.

  Maryam woke up, realized she was leaning into him, and quickly straightened, eyes finding his in the cabin’s semidarkness.

  “Sorry … I was really knackered,” she said, before yawning.

  “Knackered?” he said.

  “Aye,” she replied, reaching for a bottle of water and an energy bar. “But everything’s hunky-dory now,” she added, draining half the bottle before unwrapping the energy bar and taking a hearty bite.

  Gorman closed his eyes and inhaled.

  “You okay, mate? You look a bit iffy.”

  “I’ll be fine once we get on the ground.”

  “Ah, dicky tummy?”

  Gorman was about to reply, but the pilot tossed the Black Hawk into a steep right turn followed by an even steeper descent down the forested mountainside.

  “Jesus!” he hissed under his breath, his stomach cramping, unable to control a loud belch.

  “Are you going to chunder in here?” she asked.

  “Chunder? Where the hell did you learn how to speak—”

  “Two minutes!”

  Shaking his head, feeling her eyes on him as she bit into the energy bar, Gorman reached for the massive Desert Eagle as a distraction, removing it from a hip holster, verifying it had a full magazine of .50 Action Express rounds plus a round in the chamber. At the Bagram armory he was able to locate six more spare magazines, which he had secured in the pockets of his utility vest, plus an assortment of fragmentation and concussion grenades.

  “Are you compensating for something, mate?”

  He chuckled before saying, “Yeah, Tallies armed with assault weapons. But nothing can stop these bad boys.” He tapped the massive semiautomatic before pointing at his Kevlar vest. “Not even this. You all set?”

  “Aye,” she replied, placing a palm on her sidearm, a 9mm SIG Sauer, as well as on the suppressed MP5A1 strapped to the side of her Kevlar vest. “Like I said … hunky-dory.”

  Yeah, he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. Me too. Just hunky-fucking-dory.

  The pilot shallowed the angle of descent before transitioning to a hover, while a helmeted crew member came down from the cockpit to open the side door and toss a very thick rope into the darkness.

  “Time!”

  “Blokes first!” Maryam said, removing her headset while shaking her dark hair loose, briefly exposing a pair of small silver earrings. She extended a gloved hand to the door as the crew member waved them over.

  Gorman did a final check of his vest before slipping a pair of heavy leather metalworking gloves over his tactical gloves to protect him from the friction-generated heat of sliding down the rope.

  Sitting at the edge and swinging his legs outside the helicopter, Gorman gripped the rope with both hands while also securing it in between his legs and feet. Glancing down at the narrow gap between two stone pines forty feet below him, he pushed himself off the edge and let gravity do its thing, controlling his rate of descent with his hands, legs, and feet.

  Fifteen seconds later he was on a ground littered with pine needles while Maryam’s figure emerged over the edge, slid in the darkness, and landed softly next to him.

  The standing end of the rope had a Velcro-secured pouch attached to it. Gorman and Maryam deposited the heavy gloves in it before signaling the crewman.

  A moment later, as the Black Hawk vanished in the darkness and they reached for their weapons, Gorman looked about him, scanning the rocky hillside beyond the edge of the woods. Maryam pressed her back against his while doing the same, so that they were covering each other.

  “Are we in the right place, mate?”

  “In theory,” he said.

  His eyes already adjusted to the darkness after being in the cabin, Gorman probed the surrounding vegetation, mostly stone pines amid rocky outcrops. And that’s when he spotted the shadow detaching itself from a clump of boulders.

  “Hey,” Gorman whispered. “Over there.”

  Maryam turned toward him. They were now shoulder to shoulder, facing the lone figure materializing through the darkness just enough to wave them over before merging with the rocky hill, disappearing like a ghost.

  They walked over to the boulders lining the edge of the path, and Gorman was actually surprised that he could not spot the man even though he had seen him hiding here a moment ago. It wasn’t until they were right on top of him that he reappeared, motioning them down into what Gorman now realized was a recess in the rocks, where he had been hiding.

  In the wan moonlight, kneeling next to Maryam, Gorman finally got a look at this ghostlike warrior. He was shorter than Gorman, and thinner, wielding an MP5A1, his narrow face darkened with camouflage cream, his hair hidden inside a dark bandanna, a thick mustache covering his upper lip, and a lollipop sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m Bill Gorman,” he said, then pointed at Maryam. “This is my asset, Maryam.”

  “Hiya, mate,” she said, with a short wave.

  The warrior looked at Gorman, his face impassive. Then he turned to Maryam and the mustache straightened some as his face softened, the lollipop shifting in his mouth.

  “Yeah … hiya to you,” he finally replied, before looking them over, poking their Kevlar vests, which were similar to the one he wore. He nodded approvingly before producing a roll of black electrical tape and a small container, unscrewing the top. It was dark green camouflage cream. He handed both items to them while pointing at their faces, necks, the stainless steel Rolex, and Maryam’s silver earrings.

  “I’m Danny,” he said to Maryam, ignoring Gorman. “The guy charged with keeping your pretty ass alive.”

  64

  Revelations

  SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  “So you’re telling me that the Taliban may have a nuke “there?” Vaccaro asked, staring through Aaron’s binoculars from the top of a ridge overlooking a compound fairly close to the hillside she had torched earlier that day. It looked to be around seven miles from their location.

  “Had,” he corrected her. “We think they moved it after your people spooked them by overtly trying to storm the place—and running straight into an ambush. I mean … what did you think you were attacking?”

  She crossed her arms. “I was told a rifle platoon got ambushed while approaching a suspected IED factory.”

  Aaron sighed. “Of course. To NATO, every compound is a suspected IED factory. NATO’s biggest problem isn’t the Taliban. It’s NATO. Everything looks like a nail to them, and so they bring in the big hammer—people like you. The problem is that sometimes, like in this case, a more surgical approach is required.”

  “Fine,” she said. “So we screwed up and they moved it? Where?”

  “Not sure. Probably deeper in the range.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Aaron produced a transceiver.

  “Hey!” she said, recognizing the radio she had taken from the dead insurgent. “That’s … mine.”

  Aaron smiled. “Not really, Red.”
/>   “It’s ‘Captain Vaccaro’! And that is mine.”

  “You’ll get it back soon enough, just not quite yet.”

  She was starting to lose her patience with this bear of a man. Hands on her waist, she asked, “Why? Afraid I’ll call in the marines?”

  He considered her comment and then said, “That’s one possibility, though it would be unfortunate, given the way your marines—which work for NATO—handle delicate intelligence.” He pointed at the compound.

  She frowned and looked at the column of smoke and fire still rising from the clearing a mile from Compound 57, where she had cleared the way for the Chinooks. But the compound itself seemed to still be in one piece.

  “You sure they moved it?” she said. “The place looks undamaged.”

  “They’re gone, Red. That’s why we headed west, away from the place, after we picked you up.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked, annoyed at this mysterious man insisting on using her call sign.

  “This little radio,” he said. His closely trimmed beard shifted as he grinned. “It has been … how should I put it?… unexpectedly productive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  For the second time that evening, what she heard surprised her.

  65

  HALO

  SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  The Antonov An-72AT jet cruised at forty-five thousand feet over the desert, under an international flight plan to deliver oil refinery control systems equipment from the port of Karachi, in Pakistan, to the Basrah refinery, in Iran. Its current altitude and flight path kept it too high and too far south to be of any consequence to NATO operations out of Kandahar Airfield.

  Still, since entering Afghan airspace thirty minutes ago, Kira Tupolev had kept a close watch on the radar, standing behind the navigator station. The midsize Russian jet, powered by twin Lotarev D-36 turbofans positioned high over the wings, utilized the engine exhaust gases blown over the wings’ upper surface to increase lift.

  The Coandă effect, she thought, recalling the short lesson in aerodynamics given by the pilot. The unusual design feature not only increased the jet’s range by allowing it to cruise at a lower power setting but also improved takeoff performance. The An-72AT could land in short, unpaved fields typically reserved for small planes and some turboprops.

  “Ten minutes!” the pilot announced over the earpiece secured inside her helmet.

  Satisfied that no one from KAF would be bothering with them tonight, Kira patted the pilot on the shoulder and headed back to the main cabin. This version of the An-72 family was designed as a freighter capable of air-dropping up to ten tons from its hinged rear ramp.

  But tonight it only hauled seven Spetsnaz operators and their gear.

  Kira regarded her handpicked team occupying some of the folding side seats near the middle of the cargo area. They wore black one-piece wingsuits made of a mix of nylon and spandex fibers, black tactical helmets, new prototype powered boots, and a slim backpack housing a HALO chute and two canisters—the large one to power the boots, and a small one connected to the oxygen mask each had hanging from their neck.

  She sat next to Sergei Popov, who was screwing a sound suppressor cylinder to the muzzle of his black Kalashnikov AK-9 fully automatic assault rifle. He was tall, slim, and muscular, like Kira and the rest of the group, a physical requirement to maximize aerodynamic efficiency in their upcoming high-altitude drop.

  “All set?” she asked her second-in-command.

  Sergei wore his wingsuit zipped to his waist, exposing the top of his one-piece Nomex and Kevlar battle dress. “Yeah,” he replied, tilting his square chin at the group. “They are. Me? I’m just triple-checking things.”

  He secured the AK-9 to the Velcro straps on the side of his battle dress, which also held a half dozen spare twenty-round magazines, an encrypted radio, a Kizlyar titanium tactical knife in its nylon sheath, and a KBP P-96 9mm pistol along with three spare magazines.

  Sergei’s equipment, identical to everyone else’s, was also handpicked by Kira, along with the small rucksack packed with enough energy bars and drinks to see them through the first five days of their mission.

  After that I need to reassess, based on where we are, she thought. A mission like this one could only be planned so much, and success relied on the initiative, ingenuity, and patience of its operators to see it through. The wishful thinking scenario would be for Kira to track the courier to the bomb within the first few days while remaining completely hidden and then to use her sat phone to call in a missile strike. Sukhoi fighters loaded with supersonic BrahMos cruise missiles were standing by in Iran, less than two hundred miles away. Then it would be a race to the exfiltration point before NATO or the Taliban figured out what had taken place.

  But wishful thinking was for amateurs. The reality was that no plan survived the first shot; thus the reliance on the three pillars of a successful mission.

  Initiative, ingenuity, and patience, she thought, as Sergei stood and zipped up his suit. A two-inch digital display secured to the front of his tactical helmet interfaced via Bluetooth with the altimeter hugging Sergei’s left wrist and with a small GPS receiver on the back of the helmet—again, all standard equipment. As was the switch built into the palm of his right glove, which would activate the twin rockets in each boot. Only Kira wore an additional piece of hardware: a digital tracker tuned to the same frequency as the transponder embedded in the components provided to Prince Mani al Saud by the Russian Mafia.

  Kira had trailed the RN-40 spare parts across two continents by tasking satellites from Russia down to Turkey, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia, then across the Indian Ocean and into Pakistan, then into southern Afghanistan.

  And now it’s less than a hundred miles away.

  “You trust these boots?” Sergei asked, staring at them. They resembled ski boots, sporting a hard shell made of various heat-retardant composites meant to protect the wearer from the extreme temperatures inside the miniature combustion chambers.

  “I trust our training and the laws of physics,” she replied. “And they tell me we can’t reach our target without them. So…”

  “Yeah.”

  “But look at the bright side,” she added. “We have a forty-knot tailwind helping us—”

  “Five minutes!”

  A red light came on in the rear of the cabin.

  The team stood and formed a single line, with Sergei at the front and Kira bringing up the rear.

  “Masks and goggles!” she ordered into the microphone inside her mask.

  Everyone secured their masks and lowered their ZAO high-performance tactical goggles, made specifically for GRU Spetsnaz. They featured shrapnel and flame protection, fog resistance, particle filtration, and were incredibly comfortable, with full air circulation for extended wear. Plus, they were coated in a new-generation optoelectronic polymer that automatically amplified the available light for nighttime operations or transitioned to a UV-protective tint for daytime missions.

  At the moment, they seemed completely clear, but as soon as she lowered them over her eyes and let them adjust, the cabin interior became a bit brighter, with a barely noticeable shade of green.

  Her ears began to ring as the pilot slowly depressurized the cabin in anticipation of their drop and also throttled back, slowing the jet to the predetermined drop speed of 160 knots while starting a slow turn south to head back to Pakistan.

  “One minute!”

  The LED at the rear of the cabin switched from red to yellow, and a moment later the ramp lowered, revealing the silvery tops of a thin layer of clouds some ten thousand feet below them. And well above them, a moon hung high in the southern skies.

  The LED turned green and the group immediately moved to the rear in silence.

  Sergei led the jump, running somewhat awkwardly down the ramp because of the stiff boots. He extended his arms and separated his legs the moment he leaped off the edge, stretching the membranous surfaces of his tri-wing suit betw
een his arms and torso and between his legs, transforming his human form into a full-body wing.

  He vanished from view as the next jumper shadowed him, three seconds later, and the next, and the next, just as they had drilled this high altitude–low opening—HALO—insertion, to the point of obsession. The last two operatives were the least experienced of the group, which meant they each had more than a hundred night jumps like this one.

  Kira followed almost a full twenty seconds behind Sergei, spreading her webbed wing surfaces the instant she stepped off the ramp.

  Air rushed through the inlets of three sets of ram-air membranes—under the arms and between her legs—inflating them, instantly turning them into semirigid airfoils. This allowed Kira to relax, as she did not need to use sheer force to maintain the shape of the tri-wing suit. The aerodynamics of the suit design took care of that.

  But as her combined altimeter and GPS map display at the top of her field of view indicated, at her current forward airspeed of sixty-eight miles per hour, the suit by itself could only achieve a glide ratio of 5 to 1, meaning five feet forward for each foot of lost altitude. And that further meant that, even with the tailwind, starting at forty-five thousand feet, or around 8.5 miles high, her team would glide for forty-three miles before having to deploy their chutes, placing them exactly thirty-eight miles short of the current location of the hardware.

  Too far.

  “Boosters in five,” she spoke into her oxygen mask, before adding, “Four, three, two, one, fire!”

  She threw the switch in her right palm, opening the valve that allowed the pressurized liquid rocket fuel to reach the small combustion chambers built into the sides of her boots.

  The thrust was immediate and powerful, increasing her forward airspeed to ninety-four miles per hour while decreasing her angle of descent by nearly fifteen degrees.

  A flash ahead and below her drew her attention from the display recalculating her new glide ratio.