“Told ya,” Maryam said.
“Delta One, try another patch,” Stark ordered.
“Roger that.”
A moment later another round stabbed the ground a dozen feet from the first shot. Stark ordered two more rounds fired at other smears along the front of the compound, but they all did little more than stir up the ground.
“Fancy a wombat?” Maryam offered.
“What’s that?” asked Gorman.
Stark ignored him while doing a double take on her and nodding, actually starting to like this Maryam woman. “Which kind?”
“M576?” Maryam offered.
Stark spoke into his MBITR. “Delta One, Sierra Echo One. Try an M576.”
“Roger.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Gorman insisted.
Maryam looked at him and slowly shook her head. “What do they teach you at CIA school, love? ‘Wombat’s’ what we call a grenade launcher.”
Before Gorman could reply, Stark added, “Grenade launcher, Mr. Gorman, and we actually call them ‘thumpers’ because of the sound they make when firing a grenade. And the M576 is a buckshot forty-millimeter shell. It houses twenty-four-grain metal pellets that burst outward during detonation, shredding anything in a twenty-foot radius.”
“Makes for a bloody mess,” added Maryam.
“I’ll second that,” said Martin.
“I see,” said Gorman. “So if there are IEDs buried there, the shock wave might set them off.”
“That’s the hope, Mr. Gorman,” said Stark, before tipping his head at Maryam.
A moment later, Ryan came back through the op channel. “Delta One in standby.”
“Send it.”
The blast lit up the entire hillside the moment the shell detonated right over one of the patches, triggering a chain reaction and kicking up rocks and debris that propagated across the clearing as if it had been impacted by a meteor shower.
Even at a distance of a thousand yards, Stark felt the acoustic energy kick as the daisy-chained IEDs, meant to take out at once dozens of men approaching the compound, rumbled like overlapping lighting strikes, rattling him to the core.
Rocks and debris shot skyward, shredding anything in their path, though fortunately it was just tree branches and not a contingent of United States Marines. Dust and heat propagated through the forested hill, forcing Stark and his team to hit the ground as the shock wave blasted over them.
“Bloody mess, huh?” Gorman hissed, lifting his head while staring at Maryam through the haze surrounding them.
“Aye,” she said, dusting off her face.
The perimeter wall’s gate suddenly swung open and a posse of men rushed through, screaming while firing in every direction.
“Sierra Echo One, Delta One, you seeing this shit?” asked Ryan.
“Affirmative,” Stark responded. “The hags think our marines tripped the IEDs, so they’re scrambling out to finish the job. Six Six Zulu, Sierra Echo One reporting at least three zero Tangos headed your way.”
“Roger that. Six Six Zulu engaging,” reported Wright.
“Sierra Echo Two, engage,” Stark said to Larson.
“Roger that,” Larson replied.
Standing, he exchanged the monocular for his MP5A1, already fitted with a Firefield tactical night vision riflescope. As he heard the rumble of Larson’s M2 Browning drowning out the rattle of AK-47s, Stark turned to Gorman and Maryam. “I’m assuming you two know how to shoot?”
Without waiting for a response, Stark added, “Then cover our back,” and rushed down the hill.
Danny Martin took off after him, running past Gorman and Maryam while winking and saying, “Anytime, love.”
67
Fire at Will
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
This time it was different.
Captain John Wright had set up his rifle company in three defensive fighting positions shaped like semicircles a thousand yards from the front of the compound.
Wearing USNV PVS-7 night vision goggles attached to his helmet—as was his entire rifle company—Wright huddled next to newly promoted Gunnery Sergeant Eugene Gaudet, behind an array of large stone formations, with a clear line of sight on the Taliban force exiting the gate and spreading evenly across the clearing.
Just a little closer, he thought, finger on the trigger of his UMP45 as dozens of figures loomed above the bend in the trail, dark silhouettes wearing loose clothing and headdresses, holding AK-47s.
As he prepared to give the order to fire, the same deafening sound of an M2 Browning that he’d heard yesterday, during their retreat, reverberated across the hillside. The insurgents, who appeared momentarily confused, dove for cover as their left flank fell to a volley of .50-caliber machine gun fire.
Bastards think we stepped on their mines, he thought, before saying, “Light ’em up, boys.”
The entire hillside came alive as the muzzle flashes of three rifle platoons, or almost 130 United States Marines, stabbed the sparse forest, cutting down the enemy.
Wright picked his targets carefully, lining them up one at a time, even the handful that turned around and started running back to the compound when they realized their mistake. And in the middle of what was quickly turning out to be a turkey shoot, he spotted four figures off to his far right, firing their way into the compound.
68
The Loo
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Stark led the stack, followed by Martin and the Agency crew, the smell of cordite assaulting his nostrils, eardrums pounding, all senses on high alert. They snuck in behind the Taliban force that had exited the compound, leaving just two guards by the entrance.
Stark took the first one with an easy headshot, and Gorman demolished the chest of the second one with the Desert Eagle, which he clutched in both hands. Maryam held an MP5A1.
“Sierra Echo One inside perimeter,” he said, shifting his aim to the right while Martin covered his left flank and, he hoped, Gorman and Maryam covered the rear. But Stark didn’t like the idea of relying on a pair of spooks to keep from taking one in the ass, so he said, “Chief, where the hell are you?”
“Almost there, sir!”
Stark shook his head, not certain how Larson and Hagen would be able to get around to the front quickly enough, especially through the cross fire that the marines were laying on that clearing.
“Delta One, you still have eyes on us?”
“Negative, sir. But I have eyes on the entrance. No one is coming after you.”
Stark scurried across fifty feet of dirt, reaching one side of the large metal door of the main building, pausing next to it, his back pressed against the concrete wall.
An explosion drew his attention to his left in time to see a blast on the perimeter wall, engulfed by smoke and dirt. An instant later, Larson’s bulky figure emerged through the haze, caked in white dust, followed by Hagen.
That’s one way to get inside, he thought, as Martin also reached the front, resting his back against the concrete wall, shoulder to shoulder with him.
Gorman and Maryam joined them but on the other side of the door, remaining clear of the entryway.
Maybe they’ll live through this.
While the battle waged down the hill, Larson finally reached them, hauling his large Browning and a rucksack with extra ammo, plus more of the same C-4 charges he had used to blow a hole in the perimeter wall. Hagen fell in line behind him.
Stark reached for the door and tugged on it, but as he had expected, it was locked.
“Chief, you mind?”
Larson scampered around him, taking a knee by the hefty door, working the explosives around the heavy-duty hinges and the latch and connecting all charges to a single detonator.
“Everybody back,” Stark said when Larson finished and got out of the way.
“Fire in the hole!” Larson shouted just before the shaped charge tore the heavy door off its hinges a
nd shot it into the entryway.
A moment later, Stark and Martin followed up by tossing a pair of concussion grenades.
Two blasts that sounded more like heavy thumps shook the entrance, and Stark once more led the way, MP5A1 up, scanning the hallway through the weapon’s sights. “Sierra Echo One and Two inside the building.”
“Delta One Roger. All clear outside.”
“Six Six Zulu. Hags down. Moving up.”
That was quick, he thought, as the hallway dead-ended in the middle of a long corridor that ran in both directions.
He stared at moldy concrete walls and floor with skepticism. The stench of urine and body odor was mixed with the smell of cordite.
“Chief, take Danny and Mickey with you and clear that side,” Stark said, pointing to his right, before extending index and middle fingers at Gorman and Maryam. “You two with me.”
Heading in the opposite direction, Stark reached the closest door and kicked it open, staring at a large room littered with dozens of cots and folding chairs, along with blankets and pillows strewn about.
“Clear,” he said, going back in the hallway, where he met Gorman and Maryam, who had also checked the room across the hall.
“Dining room,” said Maryam, returning to the hallway. “Empty. Looks like the blokes left in a hurry.”
They made their way to the next pair of rooms. Stark cleared another dormitory while Maryam and Gorman stepped out of theirs.
“That was the loo,” she said, making a face. “And it smelled terri—”
A figure dashed out of the next room, the muzzle of his AK-47 already pointed at Maryam’s face. Stark had his MP5A1 aimed in the wrong direction. Before he could bring it around, the rebel fired twice, the rounds deafening inside the concrete structure as Gorman jumped in front of Maryam.
Two 7.62 × 39mm slugs struck him squarely in the vest.
Stark took out the insurgent with a headshot as Gorman crashed against the wall and landed on his back.
69
Good to Go
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
The blasts against his chest felt like the hardest hit he ever took in a football game, knocking the wind right out of him. For a moment everything went blurry, then dark, before his vision returned and he focused on a beautiful face hovering over him.
The face of an angel.
Jeannie. My beautiful Jeannie.
Bill!
She was calling out to him, but the voice didn’t match. The accent was different.
Bill! Wake up!
Slowly, Jeannie’s face dissolved, replaced by the face of Maryam Gadai, her large brown eyes wide open with concern.
“Bill!” Maryam screamed again, kneeling by his side, checking his chest.
Stark also took a knee, hands on Gorman’s vest. He pulled out the slugs and showed them to him. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Mr. Gorman.”
“Don’t feel … so…” he mumbled, grimacing as he sat up.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me, love,” Maryam said, putting a hand on his face.
“I owed you that one,” he said, feeling color coming to his cheeks as she stared at him with those damn beautiful eyes.
“Rubbish,” she said. “I won’t forget this, love.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Stark told Maryam. “I’ll be right—”
“No,” Gorman said, breathing deeply. There was a stabbing pain on his chest, but nothing he couldn’t handle. “You can’t do this solo, Colonel. We’re coming with you.”
Grabbing the Desert Eagle, he gutted up, stood, and stared Stark in the eye. “Good to go.”
70
Tunnel
COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Impressive, Stark thought, as Gorman worked through the pain and got to his feet, insisting on coming along.
“Very well, Mr. Gorman,” he said. “Let’s roll.”
They continued, room by room. It was mostly dormitories, plus a couple of private bedrooms, a kitchen, and a nearly depleted armory—but not another soul in sight.
Their end of the corridor led to a set of stairs going down, probably to some sort of basement.
Stark decided to take a peek around the corner, and muzzle flashes immediately filled the dark stairway.
“Shit!” he screamed, jumping back as bullets peppered the opposite wall.
“You okay, Colonel?”
“Yeah … I think so,” he said, checking himself, while Gorman reached for an M67 fragmentation grenade on his vest and pulled the safety pin, releasing the spring-loaded striker to initiate the delay fuze. Counting to three, he tossed it around the corner.
They heard shouts, mixed with the sound of the metallic object clanging down steps, before the 6.5 ounces of Composition B explosives detonated.
Stark went first again, weapon aimed low, firing into anything that moved, stepping over two bloody bodies and shooting into the backs of two more making a run for the basement. The rounds sent them tumbling down the stairs and into the stairwell landing.
He also stepped over them, but he stopped short of the next corner.
“I’ve got this, Colonel,” Gorman said, moving around the dead rebels while reaching for another grenade, this time an MK3A2 concussion grenade, tossing it around the corner.
The blast in such enclosed quarters shook Stark to the bone, forcing him to take a step back, his ears ringing.
I’m getting too old for this crap, he thought, before looking at Gorman and Maryam, their faces nearly invisible in the twilight of the basement.
“You,” Stark said to Gorman, “on me. And you,” he added, turning to Maryam, “cover our back.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned the corner, facing a short hallway of concrete walls leading to a pair of double doors. He moved directly to them, like a shadow, MP5A1 ready, finger on the—
Two suppressed rounds popped inside the concrete structure, coming from the stairwell.
Stark and Gorman pivoted in unison while dropping to a deep crouch.
Maryam stood to the side, just before the stairwell landing, legs spread shoulder width apart, MP5A1 aimed at two insurgents on the ground, each with a shot right between the eyes.
She stretched a finger at the hidden door built into the side of the concrete wall, where the men had been hiding. Peeking inside, she said, “Tunnel. Long one.”
“Great,” Stark said, then he tapped his MBITR. “Chief, anything?”
“Negative. Just empty rooms.”
“Get back this way. We’re in the basement. I need you to check the tunnel just beyond the stairs.”
“Roger.”
“And advise Wright that they may have left via a tunnel, so scrub the hillside for any sign of an exit.”
“Roger that.”
Turning to Gorman and Maryam, he said, “Let’s see what’s behind those doors.”
Gorman led the way, followed by Stark and Maryam.
They stepped into a pristine room—clean floors and white walls under white ceiling tiles and fluorescents that actually worked.
Stark lifted his night goggles, squinting in the sudden brightness. They stared at multiple lab tables packed with IED-making hardware and walls lined with shelves also filled with explosives, timers, fuzes, wire, and metal casings of various sizes. The room was temperature controlled, the whirl of an air conditioner breaking the silence of the place. Somewhere in the background he could hear the hum of a generator.
Stark turned his attention to the contents of the large table in the middle, which Gorman and Maryam had already prioritized. It looked like the outer shell of a long, cylindrical bomb, including stabilizing fins and nose cone.
Stark ran a finger over the Cyrillic script adjacent to a red star on the wide ring joining the four fins.
“All right, Mr. Gorman, Miss Gadai. Looks like it’s your show now,” Stark said.
Gorman and Maryam went to work photog
raphing everything, including various serial numbers stamped on the inside of the metal shells, before inspecting assorted disassembled components. One reminded Stark of a gym weight; the other was a thick metallic cylinder.
“This is the bomb’s impact-absorbing anvil, as well as the carbide tamper plug,” Gorman said, pointing to the cylinders, before adding, “and this is the steel nose plug forging. Definitely a gravity-type weapon.”
“That’s correct,” Maryam said. “How do you know that?”
“CIA school,” he said with a wink.
They continued cataloging each component and their stamped serial numbers.
Stark left them doing their thing while he stepped back outside and met up with Larson and Martin, who were already peeking inside the tunnel.
“Well?” he asked.
“Quite the escape route,” said Larson. “Looks like it goes way out.”
“All right. Take Mickey, check it out, and report back. Danny, with me.”
They walked back into the lab, where they found Gorman and Maryam huddled over a strand of wires next to a four-inch-thick disk made of some dark stuff.
“What’s going on?”
“Good news and bad news, Colonel,” Gorman said.
“What’s the bad news?”
“The good news,” Maryam said, ignoring him, picking up the strand of green wires, and peeling off the insulating plastic with her fingernails, “is that these are the primer wires and they’re rubbish. Also,” she added, pointing at the thick disk, “this is the projectile tungsten carbide disk, meant to protect the U-235 projectile from the charge of conventional explosives. Also no good.” She broke off a piece by tapping it with a pair of pliers. “And this…” she said, pointing at a box roughly the size of a shoebox, filled with cylinders and a greenish paste. “It’s the battery pack. Also no good.”
Stark nodded. “So I take it the bad news is the fact that we now believe that we’re dealing with a nuke?”
“Not just any nuke, Colonel,” Gorman said. “We’ll have to check with Langley first—and Maryam will do the same with her people—but it looks like Glenn Harwich’s suspicions were spot on. We’re dealing with a Soviet nuke, and it also looks like it was taken apart by people who know what they’re doing.”
Without Fear Page 32