War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  The two SEAL officers looked impressed.

  “How the hell did you arrange that?” Chunk asked.

  “My boss made it happen,” Dempsey said, and left it at that. The secret surgical team was a Tier One asset that could do damage-control surgery on a short fuse in battlefield conditions. In the austere setting they were operating in now, emergency trauma care could be the difference between life and death if one of the SEALs got hit.

  “So are my original targets still gonna be there or is that just a bullshit smokescreen you set up for the mission?” Chunk asked.

  “They should be there. My guy is the special guest coming to inspire and direct them.”

  “So we hit the house, we get our guys—or kill them, whatever—and then you take your guy and disappear into the night?”

  “Something like that,” Dempsey said.

  “Fine with me,” Chunk said. “You okay with this, boss?”

  The unit commander looked at the grainy image on the laptop, and his mind went somewhere else—probably to the Iraq War he had fought before Chunk had even finished BUD/S.

  “I’m more than fine with it,” he said. “Let’s get this asshole.” He looked at Dempsey with a little less disdain. “And you’d like to ride along?”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “And I assume this is not your first rodeo?”

  Dempsey laughed. “I’ve had my eight seconds in the saddle, I promise.”

  The SEAL commander nodded like he believed him. “Okay. You’ll be on Chunk’s stick so he can babysit you.” Slapping his junior officer on the back, he said, “LT, get with your team leaders and replan this bitch with Mr. Dempsey. I’ll go talk to Hal about air.”

  And with that, the boss was gone.

  “Who’s Hal?” Dempsey asked.

  “The detachment leader for the group from the 160th—that’s the Special Operations helicopter detachment we work with.” Chunk was up on his feet and looked like a quarterback getting ready to take the field at the playoffs. “Follow me. We’ve got work to do if we want to keep our push time.”

  Feeling more than a little nostalgic, Dempsey tried to suppress the grin forming on his face as he slipped the tablet computer back into his pocket. With his rifle in one hand, he slung his vest-style kit—packed with a radio, extra magazines, and other goodies—over his other shoulder and followed Chunk back into the TOC.

  All eyes turned to look at them.

  A civilian meeting with the leadership meant something had changed.

  It wasn’t their first rodeo, either.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two Hundred Feet over the Desert Floor

  Russian Mi-17 Helicopter

  Western Al Anbar Province, Iraq

  October 13, 0145 Local Time

  Something warm and wet dripped onto the nape of Dempsey’s neck. Scowling, he reached back and used his collar to soak up the offending liquid. He glanced up at a run of hydraulic lines snaking along the ceiling of the helicopter’s cargo compartment.

  Another drip splattered on his bottom lip.

  The SEAL sitting next to him chuckled. “The pilot says if this bird stops leaking oil to let him know immediately.” Chunk grinned at Dempsey in the green-gray world of night vision.

  “Why’s that?” Dempsey asked, wiping the sweet, slimy fluid from his lips.

  “Cuz it means this pig’s outta oil and we’re going to fucking crash.”

  Dempsey rolled his eyes behind his NVGs. “You sure this piece of shit is flight worthy?”

  “It’s a coin toss,” Chunk said, packing his lower lip with snuff. “She ain’t no ’60.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Dempsey snorted. He harbored a deep loathing for old Russian helicopters. This bird couldn’t hang with a fleet Seahawk, much less the slick, modified MH-60M Blackhawks the 160th usually sported around in. He missed the ’60’s wide, open cargo doors. He liked hanging his legs out the side during INFIL—rear, port side, every time. He was about to say so to Chunk, when an unexpected wave of nostalgia soured his mood. Snapshot images of his Tier One brothers, murdered in Yemen, swirled in his mind, taunting him with memories of happier times. He took a deep breath and looked out the tiny Plexiglas porthole at the Wild West below.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” he mumbled, suddenly feeling out of sorts.

  The tightness of his gear, the weight of the assault rifle slung across his chest, the whir of the helicopter rotors as they whisked across the desert at night . . . all these familiar sensations that should be a comfort to him were suddenly having the opposite effect.

  It’s only déjà vu, he told himself, but it felt different from that. This was dark déjà vu—if there was such a thing. He looked around the cargo compartment, expecting to find Romeo, or perhaps Romeo’s ghost, but he didn’t recognize a single face. This team was loose, confident, and so very young. They were a tight brotherhood, but not his brotherhood.

  You should not be here, John Dempsey, Fate whispered in his ear. But you can’t help yourself. You want to dance with me again? Take my hand. Take my hand. Take it . . .

  “Wanna pinch?” Chunk said, waving a tin of wintergreen Skoal in front of Dempsey’s face. “Looks like you could use one.”

  Dempsey ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. The offer was tempting. “Nah, I’m good,” he said. “But thanks, bro.”

  He felt a lumbering heaviness as the pilot flared the Russian helo on approach. They were putting out much farther from the target than what would have been necessary for the ultraquiet Stealth Hawks of his past, but tonight’s air taxi was taking advantage of an entirely different type of stealth. To anyone on the ground, this Soviet-era bird was indistinguishable from those used by the Iraqi government’s dated Air Force. The hope was that this sortie would be seen as another ineffective Iraqi government patrol rather than an American Special Warfare INFIL. As Smith had said to him two days ago, It’s all about keeping a low profile. The folks at home may not know we have American boots on the ground in the battle against ISIS, but the ISIS fighters sure as hell do.

  Chunk gave the signal to make ready, and the SEALs shifted into position. It took two operators to open the bulky, rusted, ridiculously narrow door on the port side of the helicopter. Dempsey watched as they kicked out a single bag of heavy rope. Compared to dual-rope drops, which were standard operating procedure on Blackhawks, this single-rope drop would add precious seconds to their INFIL.

  Another reason to hate this goddamn helicopter.

  Dempsey patiently waited his turn as the pilot hovered. Finally, he was on the rope, dropping toward the desert floor, followed a heartbeat later by Chunk. Engulfed in dusty rotor wash, he hit the dirt, cleared to the left, and dropped prone. In unison with the other SEALs, Dempsey scanned his designated sector for threats. Chunk let the dust clear and the noise fade before finally raising a hand. Then Custer One—eight SEALs and Dempsey—started their fast march through the desert. Custer Two, the other half of the assault force, was being delivered by a different helo to the north. With perfect synchronicity, they would arrive at the target at the same time.

  The team fanned out behind the point man, who periodically glanced at the preprogrammed GPS on his left wrist and made subtle corrections to their course as they hoofed it through the barren Iraqi wasteland. Clusters of trees and grasses began to appear as they closed in on the Euphrates River. Dempsey surveyed the terrain, carefully analyzing each outcropping for cover should they encounter an ISIS patrol before reaching the target. Five minutes later, white lights began to bleed onto the dull, monochrome horizon. Civilization, he thought, if there was such a thing left in Iraq. On seeing the lights, the point man altered course to the west. Ten minutes later, they were at the rally point, crouching in a cluster of tall, lush grass along the bank of a small tributary.

  From their cover, Dempsey surveyed the target compound. Unlike the hundreds of crumbling stucco shitholes he had hit during missions in Iraq, this compound was swank. Ev
en through his NVGs, the house looked like it could have been plucked from mansion row on Bayshore Boulevard in Tampa and airdropped to the bank of the Euphrates. Looking through the iron gate of the perimeter security wall, he could see several dusty SUVs and one stretch sedan parked on the circular, brick-paver driveway. Beyond the vehicles, a grand, curved stairwell led to a main entrance adorned with ornate glass double doors.

  “Eyes,” Chunk said.

  Dempsey turned his head and watched the operator beside the Lieutenant pull a laptop from his kit pocket and open an umbrella-style antenna. Then, the SEAL checked a separate PDA to locate the particular satellite he meant to link with. After orienting the antenna, he gave Chunk a thumbs-up. “Coming up now. Linking to the Predator.”

  Chunk leaned onto his side to better see the screen. “Fucking sweet,” he said in a low voice. “Gotta love these cloudless Iraqi nights. Much better than in the ’Stan.”

  Dempsey craned his neck to see over Chunk’s shoulder. The feed from the Predator circling twenty thousand feet overhead was perfect. The drone’s high-resolution zoom put their POV a couple hundred feet above the compound. Dempsey counted a half-dozen black silhouettes patrolling the walled perimeter.

  The SEAL with the laptop tapped an icon, and the image switched to the infrared band. The house transformed from gray to a pale yellow, and the bodies morphed into multihued blobs. Dempsey began counting the orange-red silhouettes inside the house. With multilevel structures, it was difficult to determine which people occupied which floor, but he’d learned some perspective tricks over the years. He counted six men on the upper level and a dozen plus on the ground floor. Most of the figures were moving about, but a cluster of seven men were stationary—undoubtedly seated—in a large room in the left rear corner of the house. An orange figure walked into the room and then, in sequential order, paused next to each stationary figure. A junior shithead, serving that thick, sweet-ass tea they love to his masters, Dempsey decided.

  Chunk gave Dempsey a nudge. “I count nineteen in the house, and six in the yard. Is that about what you were expecting?”

  “Er, actually, I was expecting our guy to travel with a bigger contingent,” Dempsey whispered, feeling very much the misinformed spook.

  “You said your intel weenie is right ninety-five percent of the time?”

  “That’s right.”

  Chunk spit a glob of tobacco juice into the weeds. “Let’s hope we’re not the five percent, bro.”

  “Amen,” Dempsey said, while secretly praying that Baldwin and the boys back in Virginia hadn’t let him down.

  Chunk checked his watch and then turned to the operator with the laptop. “Get the air inbound and have them call five mikes.”

  The SEAL gave him a thumbs-up and began tapping commands into his laptop.

  “Custer Actual Two, this is Custer One—Ten mikes as briefed.”

  Dempsey nodded to himself as he heard the “Roger” from the Head Shed back in Irbil and a double-click from Custer Two over the radio. Chunk had not announced any changes to the plan, which meant the mission would execute as briefed. Both assault teams would breach and hit simultaneously. Once they had secured the compound perimeter, the teams would enter the house and start sweeping. At that point, when the element of surprise was no longer a concern, the little birds would arrive on station to provide aerial fire support. In tandem, a reserve team of eight more SEALs would arrive with two Blackhawks from the 160th. The reserve team, at Dempsey’s suggestion, was tasked with rounding up squirters and providing backup fire support if needed. Once the sweep was complete, the two Blackhawks would be standing by to EXFIL most of the SEALs and transport any “crows” off the target for interrogation.

  The time dragged, as it always did in the hold, and Dempsey occupied himself by scanning for targets outside the perimeter wall. As his internal clock ticked down toward zero, he redirected his focus inside the courtyard, scanning the stairs leading to the front entrance. Just about the time he felt his muscles tense in anticipation of the go, Chunk’s voice crackled over the wireless circuit: “Custer—Positions.”

  The young SEAL officer raised a hand, and the rest of the team appeared in unison, materializing silently from their hiding places in the grass. Dempsey surveyed the wide gap between the cover of the reeds and the wall surrounding the compound. A surge of adrenaline amped his systems to peak levels in preparation for the silent sprint from safety to the wall. They crossed the gap low and fast. Chunk held them huddled against the wall a moment, listened for any indication they had been spotted. Satisfied his team was still in the dark, he gave a hand signal, fanning them out while a designated SEAL packed a breacher charge into a crack in the mortar.

  “Custer Two, One—Set?” Chunk called over the wireless.

  “Set,” the answer came back from the team leader on the north side of the compound.

  Chunk glanced at his watch. “Stalker Two-Five—Position?”

  “Three mikes out,” the OH-6 helicopter pilot called back. “Sixties two minutes in trail.”

  Chunk caught Dempsey’s eye. Dempsey nodded his agreement; it was time. The Lieutenant flashed him a cocky grin and gave the order to detonate the breacher charge. There was a whump from the explosion and the echo of another from the far side of the compound. Dust and the acrid smell of chemical explosive filled Dempsey’s nose and mouth—the sweet familiar taste of assault. He popped into a combat crouch and followed Chunk through the hole in the wall; the remaining SEALs fell in behind him.

  The SEALs fanned out in both directions from the hole, just in time to avoid the blind fire from the terrorist guards at the locus of the explosion. Dempsey picked his first target, an armed ISIS soldier descending the main stairs from the entry. He squeezed off a round from his Sig Sauer and watched the figure crumple down the steps. He shifted the green targeting dot to a new target—the head of a second terrorist fleeing back into the house. Dempsey’s bullet struck the jihadist in the back of the head; a black cloud erupted in the air, painted in high-contrast monochrome.

  The staccato pops of SOPMOD M4 fire were now drowning out the deeper bark of the ISIS fighters’ AK-47s, signaling to Dempsey that the battle for the perimeter was almost over. He swept his rifle right, across the yard, scanning for targets, but found none left standing. The exterior was won. The battle to claim the house would be much more dangerous.

  Chunk signaled for the team to advance on the entry.

  Dempsey had not taken more than two strides when the ground around him lit up with tracers as an ISIS fighter fired on them from the roof. At the same time, he heard the whine of the Little Birds screaming in low overhead.

  “Custer—this is Stalker Two-Five—strobes on and we’ll clear the roof for you.”

  Dempsey reached up and clicked on the IR strobe on his helmet in unison with the other SEALs. The flashing lights would be visible only in night vision, which he prayed the bad guys didn’t have. He looked up and saw an OH-6 gunship banking sharply into position. A second later, there was a loud belch, and a tongue of fire licked out from the side of the little helo. Dempsey ducked his head as chunks of pulverized stucco and roofing material rained down on his helmet and shoulders.

  “Roof clear,” came the calm, unflappable voice of the Army Special Forces pilot.

  Dempsey flinched with anticipation; he had to fight the powerful urge to lead the team in. Beneath the fading whine of the Little Bird bugging out, he detected the growl of approaching Blackhawks. The timing was perfect—’60s inbound meant the reserve force had arrived to secure the perimeter while they mopped up inside. A heartbeat later, Chunk was on the move. Dempsey followed him and two other SEALs up the left side of the curved stone staircase, while three operators advanced up the right side with near-perfect symmetry. The double entry doors were wide open, their decorative frosted window panels now shattered wrecks. Glass crunched underfoot as Dempsey crossed the threshold and stepped into the cavernous foyer. A cathedral ceiling towered overhead,
and a spiral staircase to their right arced up to the second story. At movement along the railing, Dempsey sighted and fired. The jihadist crumpled into a heap and rolled halfway down the stairs, his AK-47 clattering the rest of the way down.

  “Thought you wanted your guy alive,” Chunk said, the corners of his mouth turned up in a sarcastic grin.

  “That ain’t him,” Dempsey grumbled.

  The SEALs drifted into a half circle in the foyer, their rifles up and scanning. A beat later, more SEALs, led by Custer Two, entered through the front to join them. By Special Warfare standards, this was an insanely large force to take a lone terrorist compound, but Dempsey was happy to err on the side of overwhelming firepower tonight. He had underestimated the enemy twice before, and both times it had cost him dearly. He would not make that mistake again.

  Never again.

  Chunk signaled for the new arrivals to ascend the stairs and for his team to hold. Those who remained below covered the balcony and the doorway leading out of the foyer into the main house. Once the ascending operators controlled the landing, Chunk tapped Dempsey’s shoulder and gestured that he intended to advance. Dempsey nodded and followed him deeper into the house.

  They cleared the doorway only to find themselves in a transverse hallway, forcing Chunk to split the team yet again. Dempsey and three others followed Chunk right, and three other SEALS went left. The next room they entered was a great room littered with upended furniture. ISIS fighters had taken defensive positions behind sofas and chairs—intent on making their last stand. It didn’t matter. Chunk and Dempsey were too fast. Too seasoned. Too accurate. In five seconds it was done, four enemy shooters laid out with headshots. For the next half minute, Dempsey heard sporadic bursts of fire echoing about the house, but almost all from American M4s and MP7s.

  “Back room, northwest corner,” came the call over Dempsey’s headset. “Think we got him.”