War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  “The aircraft is a Russian-built Mi-17—standard Iraqi air asset. Our guys know to sterilize the crash site. Assuming they get out, there’ll be no proof our people were ever there.”

  “If not, the next thing we’ll see is a video of your boy on some fucking ISIS website getting his head sawed off with a machete. Are you prepared for that, Kelso?”

  “My guy won’t let it come to that,” Jarvis said.

  Philips sighed. “I trust you to clean this up. Get your guy, sterilize the site, and make damn sure the intel we get is worth the ulcer you’re giving me. Because if you don’t salvage this clusterfuck, the firestorm that follows is going to burn both our asses to embers.”

  Jarvis smiled tightly at the double entendre. “Will do. We’re on it.”

  The phone went dead. Jarvis admired Philips for not revisiting the disagreement they’d had on the advisability of sending Dempsey into Iraq in the first place. The government was full of blowhard hindsight geniuses, but Philips was not one of them. They both bore responsibility for the decision, and the DNI was making it clear they would manage the consequences together.

  Jarvis checked his watch and then pushed the number three on his speed dial.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Status?”

  “JSOTF has a Blackhawk in the air, inbound. Thirty minutes to the site, maybe less.”

  “That’ll be too late.”

  “It’s gonna be close,” Smith replied, taking the more optimistic tack.

  “Clean up the mess, either way,” he said, and ended the call without waiting for Smith’s acknowledgment.

  He’d had enough of words that shouldn’t have to be said for one night.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mi-17 Crash Site, Iraq

  0725 Local Time

  From atop the downed Mi-17, Dempsey watched two white pickup trucks diverge, one circling east and the other circling west. A lump formed in his throat. These assholes were both disciplined and cautious—establishing cross-fire positions while maintaining a safe distance from which to survey the downed helicopter.

  They had five minutes until bullets started flying.

  Dempsey stuffed his satellite phone back into his pocket. He wouldn’t be needing it again until this was over. Smith had called him back with news that a Blackhawk had been dispatched from Baghdad, but the helo wouldn’t be on station for another fifteen minutes. That was going to be too fucking late. And there was more bad news. JSOTF didn’t have access to a drone within a hundred miles of their position to provide fire support. Dempsey and the others were on their own.

  Unless he thought of something soon, this was going to turn into a recovery mission. He well understood the gravity of that scenario—Special Warfare fighters entrenched on the wrong side of a border Washington said it would not cross. Covert operations were pointless unless they remained covert. It had been this way since President Kennedy had chartered the Teams over fifty years ago, and that governing doctrine would never change. Recovery missions rarely ended well for anyone.

  Dempsey looked down through the hatch. Directly below him, Chunk was helping Patch into the cockpit. Behind them, the recently unstuck and miraculously uninjured pilot was carrying the helicopter’s only functional .50-caliber machine gun. With the Mi-17 tipped on its side, their firing options were extremely limited: topside or through the shattered cockpit windshield. Since they were being scouted, the latter option was preferable because it was covert until the shooting started. No matter what happened, Dempsey would make sure that his guys fired the first salvo.

  As the pilot stepped over the injured ISIS captive, the butt of the .50 cal clipped the prisoner’s head. The terrorist moaned and mumbled something defamatory in Arabic. Dempsey studied the jihadist, with his heavy, black beard and bloodstained tunic. He rubbed his own beard—grown to help facilitate embedding with Muslim fighters should he need to while in the Middle East. He smiled as an idea germinated. This plan would never have occurred to the door-kicking SEAL he’d been in his former life, but working with Ember had changed the way his brain worked.

  He lowered himself into the helo just as Chunk was crawling back out of the cockpit.

  “You think of a miracle yet?” Chunk said, looking up at him.

  “Not a miracle, but something that might buy us a few extra minutes until the cavalry gets here,” Dempsey said, then outlined his simple plan for the Lieutenant.

  Chunk raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “Yep. If I can buy you enough time to neutralize one of those pickups, we have a marginal chance at getting out of this mess.”

  Chunk laughed and shook his head. “You’re either one steely-eyed frogman or the craziest sonuvabitch I’ve ever met.”

  “I used to be both,” Dempsey said, and flashed the boyish smile that had always inspired his teammates back in the glory days. He crawled through the narrow doorway into the cockpit, where the pilot and Patch were trying to position the .50. “You guys good?”

  The pilot forced a tight, nervous grin. “We’d be better if we had a fuckin’ plan.”

  “We have a plan,” Dempsey said plainly. “Kill all the bad guys and then wait for our ride out of this shithole. Beer is on the EXFIL team when we get back to the embassy mission in Baghdad.”

  “I thought the rescued, not the rescuers, were supposed to buy the beer?”

  “Who said anything about a rescue?” Dempsey said with a snort. “The way I see it, they have the easy job. We’re the guys caught in the jihad stampede, thinning the terrorist herd. All they’re doing is picking us up after the fight’s over.”

  Patch laughed, despite the raw, raging pain Dempsey knew the man was suffering in his leg. SEALs were remarkable creatures. Patch was the same man in the suck as he was under perfect operating conditions. Through adversity, pain, and loss, a Navy SEAL was a Navy SEAL to the core.

  Dempsey helped the pilot kick the smashed windshield out of its housing. There was nothing to mount the heavy machine gun to, so they jammed it into the space between the control panel and the metal frame, now devoid of Plexiglas. Patch was a more experienced gunner than the SOAR pilot, so despite his injury he was the best suited for the job. Taking care with his leg, they moved the SEAL into position on the wreckage of the copilot seat, where he would be able to provide effective fire against any approach from the front of the aircraft.

  “You good?” Dempsey asked.

  Patch nodded. “Get a few rounds flying, and this damn thing practically floats.”

  “Hooyah.”

  “Hooyah.”

  Now for phase two.

  Dempsey moved back into the cabin and slapped the pilot on the back. Then he called up to Chunk, who had taken over as lookout.

  “How much time, LT?”

  “Minutes.”

  Dempsey frowned. “You better join the Lieutenant up top, bro,” he told the pilot. Then he hollered, “Patch is manning the fifty up front, so I’ll lead the other truck aft.”

  “Check,” Chunk said.

  “Don’t fucking shoot me, Chunk,” Dempsey said, only half kidding now.

  “Got it.”

  “But don’t look like you’re not trying to shoot me,” he added.

  Chunk glanced down at him with a smirk. “I’ll shoot casual. How’s that?”

  Dempsey gave Chunk a thumbs-up, then turned and knelt beside the prisoner. The man’s eyes were closed, but he was mumbling something in German. Dempsey unsheathed his knife and cut the terrorist’s hands free. The man groaned as his deformed left arm dropped. Dempsey pulled the man’s filthy, bloodstained tunic up over his head, and then he shrugged off his kit and his shirt, dropped them on the ground, and pulled the terrorist’s “man dress” over his head. He left on his pants, but quickly shed his boots and thick SmartWool socks.

  The man stared up at him with glazed, confused eyes.

  “Well, how about that,” Dempsey said. “Now I look like you.”

  Then, he smashed an elbow hard
into the man’s right temple.

  He dragged the unconscious man forward to the cockpit by his arms. Once in the cockpit, he flashed Patch and his .50 an evil grin, then shoved the flaccid body out through the other half of the windowless cockpit. On a whim, Dempsey wiped his hand across Patch’s blood-soaked BDUs and smeared the SEAL’s blood over the right side of his face. Anything that extended the ruse, by even a few seconds, could make the difference between his plan working and being the first guy killed.

  “Aft pickup truck is holding and the forward one is swinging around now. Both about seventy meters out,” Chunk hollered down.

  Dempsey shoved his Sig 516 out the window, then wriggled out through the hole onto the warming desert sand. He quickly scrambled to his feet, slung his rifle across his shoulder, and began dragging the terrorist behind him, moving in an arc along the belly of the helo toward the tail. He rubbed his cheek against a dirty wheel protruding from the upended landing gear as he moved aft, adding more filth to his face. As he reached the end of the fuselage, a white pickup truck crept into view. He pulled back, giving his brain time to process what he’d just seen. Four men—a driver, a fighter in the passenger seat with a rifle, a spotter standing with binoculars, and a gunner manning what appeared to be a DShK machine gun mounted on a tripod in the bed of the truck.

  That was bad.

  The Russian-made machine gun fired 12.7 x 108 mm rounds at 850 meters per second and was accurate up to 2 kilometers. With a firing rate of 600 rounds per minute, the DShK would tear through the aluminum skin of the downed helicopter and cut everyone inside to ribbons. He hoped like hell that the other truck did not have the same weapon. If it did, they were fucked.

  Dempsey closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and practiced the Arabic phrases he would need. Then he opened his eyes, grabbed the still-unconscious terrorist under the armpits, and headed toward the white pickup. The spotter and the gunner immediately trained their sights on him. He braced for the heavy rounds, which at any second could start flying and tear him apart.

  “Le-termee!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He made a show of glancing repeatedly back at the helo behind him as he struggled to drag the unconscious prisoner across the sand.

  The gunner raised his head up from his circular sight and hollered something at the man with the binoculars. The spotter shrugged and shook his head.

  “Le-termee, le-termee,” Dempsey yelled again, still moving toward the truck. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!

  “Awgaf te-ra ar-mee,” the spotter hollered back. He pointed at the rifle slung under Dempsey’s arm. “Dheb sla-Hak!” He was telling Dempsey to stop and to drop his weapon.

  “La—La!” Dempsey said and motioned at the helicopter behind him. “Amrikan.”

  The man froze. “Amrikan?”

  Dempsey nodded with both fear and enthusiasm.

  The spotter’s expression morphed to one of nervous surprise, and he raised his binoculars to take another look at the helo. This reaction confirmed Dempsey’s theory. These guys thought they had shot down an Iraqi patrol; encountering American military at the crash site was the last thing they’d expected.

  “Ra-ja-‘an,” Dempsey hollered, his desperate please laced with real emotion. Suddenly, he was beginning to second-guess the merits of his plan. “Ra-ja-‘an. Yeg-der aH-Had yi-saa-id-na?” Can’t you help us?

  The spotter lowered his binoculars and glared at Dempsey.

  Dempsey collapsed to his knees beside his unconscious confederate in the sand and began to sob.

  A moment later, he heard the spotter—who was clearly the leader of this crew—begin barking orders. He looked up and watched a man with sunglasses and an AK-47 climb out of the passenger seat of the truck. As the fighter walked toward them, he kept the barrel of his AK-47 trained on Dempsey’s chest. Dempsey bowed his head as the man approached, carrying on the charade.

  Two sandaled feet stopped six feet away in the sand.

  Dempsey calculated he could take the fighter, but when the DShK opened up in response, there’d be nothing left of him but a bloody smear in the sand.

  “Min—wayn in-ta?” the bearded fighter asked, looking them over.

  “Qa’im,” Dempsey answered meekly, hoping the man had just asked him where they came from.

  The terrorist stared at him blankly.

  Sensing uncertainty, Dempsey changed tack. He glanced frantically back at the helo again. “Amrikan!” he shouted and pointed. “Amrikan!”

  “Zein. In-ta ib-‘aman,” the fighter said and reached a hand out to help pull the limp body of the unconscious jihadist through the sand. Dempsey mumbled on about the Amrikans and began to cry. The bearded fighter huffed and picked up the pace, practically dragging both of them back toward the white pickup. As they approached the truck, Dempsey scanned the other three terrorists. The leader was watching him cautiously, but the driver and the gunner were now focused on the helicopter, looking for the American threat. When they reached the passenger side of the truck, Dempsey stifled a sob and added, “Shuk-ran,” thanking the bearded fighter for helping them.

  The leader jumped out of the bed of the truck and approached them. “Ish-Sar?” he asked, trying to understand what had happened.

  “Kha-Tar,” Dempsey sobbed. “Amrikan.” He hoped he sounded like an Arab in shock and not an American speaking Arabic poorly. He bowed his head and placed his right hand over his heart. “Shuk-ran,” he said again.

  The leader looked unconvinced. After a brief pause, he raised his AK-47 and pointed it at Dempsey’s head. “Dheb Sla-Hak!” the man commanded.

  Okay, Chunk. Feel free to start shooting anytime. Whadaya need, an invitation?

  Dempsey cowered, but did not drop his weapon as ordered. Instead, he glanced nervously over his shoulder and said, “La . . . le-termee!” Then, throwing both hands in the air, he shouted, “Amrikans!”

  Two rifle shots rang out, and Dempsey felt the sand kick up against his ankles. He spun around, grabbed his rifle, and fired a three-round burst twenty yards short of the helicopter.

  The leader ducked and turned away from Dempsey. “Termee!” he shouted to the gunner on the DShK, commanding him to fire at the helicopter.

  The bearded fighter standing next to Dempsey raised his AK-47 and began shooting at the helo.

  “Ish-ged?” the leader barked, asking how many fighters were in the helicopter.

  Dempsey dropped into a tactical crouch and turned, letting his rifle follow. He looked up at the terrorist and smiled. “Ih-na Amrikan,” he said. We are Americans.

  The leader looked puzzled. His eyebrows rose. “Eh?”

  Dempsey angled the barrel upward and fired. The 5.56 mm round hit the leader under the chin and exploded out the top of his head. He shifted his aim to the gunner manning the DShK and put a round through the man’s left temple. His next round was intended for the bearded fighter, but as he spun to engage the enemy, the fighter grabbed his arm. Dempsey struggled to raise his Sig Sauer rifle against strong fingers digging deep into his right bicep. At the same time, the bearded fighter swung his AK-47 around. Dempsey ducked under the firing arc of the muzzle as it spat flame and metal overhead. With his left hand, he seized a fistful of the fighter’s beard and yanked, pulling the man momentarily off balance. In his peripheral vision, he saw the driver jump out of the truck and run back to man the DShK.

  Fuck!

  Like a pumpkin hit with a sledgehammer, the bearded jihadist’s head exploded, engulfing Dempsey’s face in blood and brains. Dempsey staggered backward, trying to wipe the globs of the stuff out of his eyes with his fingers. He stumbled over a body as he desperately tried to clear his vision. In that instant, he swore he’d felt the body moving, but that was impossible. He pushed the distracting thought from his mind and swung his rifle in what he guessed was the direction of the pickup and worked the trigger, firing multiple three-shot bursts.

  To his immediate left, someone bellowed, “Allahu Akbar!” and Dempsey’s heart skipped a bea
t. He swung his rifle toward the war cry at the same time a SOPMOD M4 echoed to the north. He heard a body fall and the clatter of a rifle hitting the ground. He wiped the blood furiously from his face with the sleeve of the borrowed tunic. With his vision finally clear, he saw his prisoner lying prone in the sand, arms outstretched and bracketing the gory mess that had been his head before Chunk’s bullet did its job. He looked left at the pickup and saw the driver hanging limply over the side rail of the bed, a casualty of Dempsey’s lucky strafe.

  Dempsey turned toward the helo and waved a hand over his head, signaling Chunk, but the exchange was cut short when gunfire erupted on the far side of the helicopter. The other jihadi assault team was engaging with what sounded like AK-47s. He waited for the gut-wrenching rattle of a DShK opening up, but it never came. Instead, he heard the unmistakable tenor of a .50 cal going to work. Two bursts fired by Patch from the cockpit, followed by another two bursts.

  “They’re repositioning south!” Chunk yelled from his perch on the downed Russian Mi-17. “Out of our field of fire.”

  Another prolonged burst from the .50 echoed across the desert, and then the machine gun fell silent. Dempsey understood exactly what was happening. The jihadi fighters were flanking. If the second truck was not equipped with a matching DShK, then it probably carried surface-to-air missile launchers—the exact weapon used to shoot them down in the first place. A single rocket would obliterate the helo and everyone inside.

  Dempsey would not let that happen.

  He leaped over the dead prisoner, sprinted to the white pickup, and climbed into the driver’s seat. As with most of the vehicles he’d driven in Iraq, ignition was performed via a toggle switch rather than a key. He pushed a black button with his thumb and the vehicle roared to life. He slammed the transmission into gear, jerked the wheel left, and popped the clutch. The truck leaped forward, a rooster tail of sand spraying behind it.