“Why rush? Once we hit this camp, it’s over. If they’re gone, they’re in the wind and they’re never coming back,” Adamo said. “But if we wait, we retain the advantage. Give it twenty-four hours. If they’re out on a training excursion, they will come back. In the meantime, we give Baldwin time to analyze the intelligence and look for something definitive.”
“I’ve been waiting for this motherfucker to show his face for a decade. If you think I’m gonna let him slip away again . . .” Dempsey rubbed his temples. He looked over at BT, who shrugged with a your call, bro expression on his face. Then, he looked at Smith.
“It’s a gray fucking world,” Smith said, “but I say we hit the camp. If we miss al-Mahajer, we can at least pull intel from the camp that gives us an understanding of what’s been going down here. Was it training, or was it something else.”
“What do you mean by something else?” Mendez asked. “We know it’s training, right?”
“Yes, but what kind. Is this indoctrination training or operational training? What if these guys are getting ready for an op? If they’re prepping an attack, that’s something we need to know ASAP.”
Dempsey nodded and looked at Grimes.
“I agree with Simon,” she said.
“Seriously?” he said, his mouth hanging open.
“Look, maybe we get another Predator flight and search the area for a mass of tangos in the area around the camp—”
“Wouldn’t tell you much,” BT said. “There are clusters of shitheads popping up around here all the time.”
“Maybe,” Grimes said. “But I’m worried if we tip our hand—”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard it from Adamo,” Dempsey said, cutting her off. In the Teams, they were expected to police groupthink and share their true thoughts and concerns at all times, which is exactly what Elizabeth was doing. Still, it irked him that she was taking Adamo’s side. He looked at Mendez.
“I say light her up,” Mendez said, then spat something nasty on the ground.
Three to two, Dempsey thought. Not that this is decision by committee. He glanced at Chunk.
The SEAL flashed Dempsey a toothy, tobacco-stained grin. “Never invite a frogman to a fight and send him home empty-handed. You know my answer.”
Dempsey nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “We’re going.”
“That’s a mistake,” Adamo protested.
Smith put a hand on the CIA man’s shoulder. “Decision’s made,” the Director of Operations said sternly. He turned to the DEA strike team leader. “Pull your guys in and let’s brief this thing.”
BT nodded and left to gather his team, while Adamo paced away in the other direction, shaking his head.
“You got a good group here, Dempsey,” Chunk said and refreshed the wad of snuff in his lower lip. He wore the same infectious boyish grin he’d had back in Iraq.
“Yeah, except for the fucking new guy,” he said, gesturing a thumb toward Adamo’s back.
Chunk shrugged and spit a brown gob onto the floor of the jungle. “We’ve all been there.”
Dempsey nodded in the direction of the narco camp. “You brought snipers?”
“Yeah, two.”
“Can your guys hit the shooters in the towers from the ridgeline where we were earlier?”
The SEAL looked up, apparently doing some math in his head. Then he nodded. “Yeah, if the wind stays like this. But it won’t be a quick turn on the second shot from that range, at least four or five seconds.”
“That works,” Dempsey said. Besides, once the machine gunner in the first tower had his head split open like a watermelon with a sledgehammer, there was a pretty good chance that the second gunner would bolt. Snipers seemed to have that effect on people. “Okay,” Dempsey said. “SEAL snipers kick off the show.”
Chunk nodded, and then said, “Unless, of course, you want to scream in there alone in the back of a pickup truck like that Rambo shit you pulled at Al Qa’im?”
Dempsey laughed. “I only had one of those in me.”
“Good,” the SEAL officer said. “Otherwise, I might develop a heart condition.”
“Who’s going to operate the Raven?” Dempsey asked.
Chunk pointed at one of the two SEALs approaching from the tree line to the south. “Special Operator First Class Hughes,” he said. “Hey, Gyro—bring your kit and join us, will you?”
Dempsey turned to Smith. “Get everyone kitted up and teamed like we discussed,” he said. “We’re gonna do a quick UAV recon and then we’ll brief in twenty.”
Smith gave him a thumbs-up.
The SEAL called Gyro double-timed it over to them, weighted down by an unusually large rucksack. The three of them then moved back up the hill to the north, through the thick jungle, and then to the ridgeline, where they belly-crawled to the edge, making sure to stay under heavy brush.
A loud, punctuated baritone growl erupted from a nearby tree. A second call answered in deep, throaty barks. Gyro reflexively trained his weapon on the trees. “What the fuck is that?”
“Howler monkeys,” Dempsey said, laughing.
Gyro lowered his rifle. “They’re fucking loud.”
“I think that one likes you, bro,” Chunk said. “Maybe after the op, you can get you some monkey lovin’.”
“Apparently, you’ve never met my girl in Norfolk,” Gyro said, slipping off his pack. “Believe me, I get plenty of monkey lovin’ at home.”
Dempsey and Chunk busted up laughing while Gyro rolled onto his back and pulled out a laptop. He set the laptop on his stomach, then pulled out a long green airfoil, followed by a shorter fuselage. He snapped them together and then snapped a small green rectangle into the engine mount.
“What’s that?” Dempsey asked.
“New battery—insanely small,” Gyro said. “We used to get an hour or so of flight time. This new battery gives us nearly three hours.”
“Way better lens on the new camera, too,” Chunk added. “Better night vision, better resolution. This ain’t like the RQ-11 we had before.”
“Quieter, too.” After a quick double check of the little drone, Gyro said, “Go?”
Dempsey nodded, and the SEAL brought up a software program on his laptop. He rotated the tiny UAV back and forth, checking the camera. To an outsider, the thing probably looked more like a kid’s toy than an advanced tool with a quarter-million-dollar price tag. Gyro handed it to Chunk, who lifted it up over his head and above the brush. Gyro tapped on his laptop and the propeller started to spin. The engine was so quiet, Dempsey could actually hear the sound of the little propeller pulling air. Gyro gave a nod and Chunk tossed the tiny plane down over the ledge. It promptly fell, gained the speed it needed, and then angled sharply up to begin the approach toward the camp just over a mile away. It disappeared almost instantly into the black night, invisible even on the NVGs that Dempsey had tipped down from his helmet to watch the launch. With the drone out of sight, he flipped them back up and crowded in for a view of Gyro’s laptop screen instead.
They watched the camp grow as the UAV closed range—the image streaming in real time. Gyro piloted the UAV with the mouse pad while tapping to capture still images, which he dragged into a folder labeled RIGHT FUCKING NOW at the bottom of the screen. The narco camp was well lit, affording them a bird’s-eye view with remarkable clarity.
The UAV circled to the west, outside of the camp perimeter, and Dempsey could see that the southeast tower had one man, sitting on a stool and reading a magazine beside the .50-caliber machine gun. The other tower had two men—one sitting on a stool and the other cross-legged on the floor, drinking from a bottle; both were laughing. From the feed, it felt as if the drone were practically inside the gun tower. Dempsey glanced nervously down the hill.
“I’m like eight hundred feet above them and nearly half a mile away,” Gyro said. “They can’t hear me and they sure as shit can’t see me. Don’t worry—I’m quieter than a gnat at this range.”
The drone circled around the
west wall of the camp, where there was little activity. Then it made a pass over the camp from west to east. The dirty canvas tent was unlit, and the training area at the back of the camp stood deserted. As the UAV banked right, the two long buildings came into view. Several dozen men, all with rifles slung over their backs, were hanging out by the side of the barracks. Dempsey could make out the glow of cigarettes and through the windows could even see bottles of liquor on the table. The relaxed mood in the compound was palpable; these guys weren’t even contemplating the possibility of trouble.
“Can you show me the rear of the house?”
Instead of banking the UAV, Gyro tapped the function keys on the laptop, and the image switched to a dedicated side-view camera. The rear of the house was open and expansive with an elevated oval balcony that looked out across the camp. A dozen or so men were seated at tables having dinner. These were the senior guys. The dudes smoking and joking down by the barracks were the grunts.
“No heavy weapons other than the towers,” Chunk said.
“Yeah, but the DEA guys said to expect RPGs,” Dempsey replied.
“Guys on the balcony don’t even have rifles, except for that table by the corner.”
“Bodyguards, maybe,” Dempsey said. “The house probably serves as the Head Shed for these assholes.”
“Heavy-drinking group,” Chunk said with a smile. “Wait a couple of hours and we could tiptoe in and out.”
Dempsey laughed.
“Got what you need?” Gyro asked.
“Yeah,” Dempsey said, “but let’s give it one more pass.”
“Whadaya think about leaving the Raven up?” Chunk asked. “We can park Gyro with my snipers. One less gun but it might be worth it to have eyes—especially if you anticipate they got a cavalry thirty clicks out.”
Dempsey raised an eyebrow. Not a bad idea. It would be nice to have the voice of God in their ears for this op. They had more than enough shooters since there were only forty guys, half of which were probably drunk. “Good idea,” he said, and then turned to Gyro. “You cool?”
The SEAL shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “Hate to miss the fight, though.”
“Then you shouldn’t have volunteered for the drone class,” Chunk said, and slapped his teammate on the shoulder.
“It’s cool,” Gyro said. “I’ll cruise up the road, make one more pass, and then recover for a battery change just ahead of your launch.”
“We’ll go in thirty minutes,” Dempsey said.
“Check,” Gyro said, but he was back focused on the video game that was the UAV.
Chunk and Dempsey slid back down the hill toward the base camp. A quick brief and then it was go time.
CHAPTER 22
They circled around him in the rapidly darkening jungle. Dempsey mentally divided the group into two strike teams—one led by him and the other by Chunk, with one SEAL and four DEA strikers on each. For his team he reluctantly took Adamo, but also Mendez, who was a former MARSOC Marine. He couldn’t dump Adamo on poor Chunk. He put Smith with the SEAL officer and, with a twinge of guilt, Grimes. He felt obligated to watch after her—she was Spaz’s sister after all—but having Adamo forced it this way. Besides, from what he’d seen over the past few months, Grimes could take care of herself.
With all the shooters gathered, he pitched his plan. The two assault teams would move into position, one near the southwest corner and one near the southeast corner. They would stay concealed under jungle cover until the SEAL snipers kicked off the assault by taking out the tower shooters. Then, each team would breach the perimeter wall with breacher charges and move into the compound. The rest was just standard capture/kill mission 101. Once they secured the camp, they’d hold the captured crows in the front courtyard and then toss the house and barracks for intel. The DEA team would defend the compound with the snipers on fire support if an enemy QRF responded. EXFIL would be by air with pickup inside the compound. The primary target was al-Mahajer, but Dempsey planned on taking any ISIS or Hezbollah assholes who survived the assault with them.
“Does it help your operation to haul in cartel guys?” Dempsey asked BT.
“Nah,” BT said. “What would help is if this operation looks like it isn’t a DEA raid. In fact, if the Zetas come away believing that CIA or some black ops team hit them because of their work with Hezbollah, maybe they’ll stop this terrorist training bullshit once and for all.”
“Amen to that,” Dempsey said with a nod. Then to the group he said, “All right, people, final checks and it’s go time.”
Five minutes later, he was leading his team silently through the NVG-lit jungle. He tried to relax, but that was impossible leading a mixed team with shooters who’d not worked together before. He knew the SEALs—whom he had positioned right-side rear of his V-shaped eight-man squad—were solid. He’d operated with Mendez before, so no worries there. That left the four DEA guys, who BT assured him were solid, and Adamo. He’d positioned the CIA man close on his left in case he needed to be managed. Dempsey had expected foot snaps and panting during the jungle trek, but so far, Adamo had been pretty damn quiet.
They weaved methodically through the tangled vines, exposed roots, and heavy foliage, a task that would have been impossible without night vision. The howler monkeys—who had been active at dusk—had settled down, but the jungle had since become a nocturnal circus. The buzz of insects and cacophony of a thousand tree frogs reverberated all around them. The humid, warm air, coupled with perspiration, made Dempsey’s clothes cling to his skin. He inhaled the Guatemalan jungle and could almost taste the miasma of decaying foliage, the musk of earth, and a hint of sweetness from tropical flora.
The team mirrored Dempsey’s lead, moving in combat crouches and scanning over their rifles through holographic sights as they advanced. The warning BT had given him earlier that day played in his head: The drug cartels are investing serious cash money in high-tech gear. They’ve got night vision and drones, so don’t count on the darkness alone for providing adequate cover. Dempsey worked a path through the jungle accordingly, weaving to maximize foliage cover both overhead and in front.
As they approached the target, the bright lights inside the camp told him that the only night vision counterdetection threat they could possibly face was from roaming patrols outside the walls. With so much light inside the perimeter, anyone on greens would go blind—even the shooters in the towers. Twenty feet from the camp, he halted their advance and surveyed the layout. The camp vaguely resembled a medieval castle, with an impressive twenty-foot-tall cinder-block wall and two gunner towers. The cartel had clear-cut and burned a swath of jungle ten feet wide around the outside of the wall. Although not intended to be a moat, the gap had become a nasty bog with standing water where daily rain and runoff pooled at the base of the wall. So far, Dempsey had yet to encounter a roving patrol. Considering the density of the jungle and sloppy nature of the perimeter, now he understood why.
He slowly and silently advanced his team the final few yards into position at the edge of the forest line. Once they were fanned out and set, he keyed his mike and spoke softly into the small boom by the corner of his mouth. “Doobie Two—One—Position?” he said, trying not to chuckle at the call sign Chunk had suggested.
“One—Two is nearly in position. Stand by.”
Chunk was cool and collected, just another day at the office.
“Eagles?” he whispered, calling the two SEAL snipers up on the ridgeline.
“Eagle One—tango is lit.”
“Eagle Two is no-joy.”
Dempsey sighed.
“Wait . . . I have him. Must’ve had to take a leak. Second tango lit.”
“In the tower, Eagle Two?”
“Check.”
“Roger,” Dempsey said. “Doobie Two, call position and ready.”
Two clicks in his headset told him Chunk would let him know when his team was in position.
Dempsey began the familiar kata of checking over his gear, especially
his ammo pouches. He felt over his Sig Sauer 556 rifle and looked through the holographic sight to be sure the red hologram target floated out in space. He clicked off his PEQ-4—they would come off NVGs on the assault because of the lights inside the compound, so the infrared laser designator would be useless. Last, he checked that his pistol was secure in the drop holster on his right thigh.
A crackle in his ear and then: “Doobie Two is set.”
Dempsey took a deep breath and then scanned the brush line around him. No movement, no bodies. Even Adamo was invisible.
“On the first shot, breachers to the wall for a quick entry.”
A double-click.
“Eagles—Go.”
Before the single-syllable command was two seconds out of his mouth, Dempsey heard the familiar thud of a long-range, high-powered sniper round. Then he heard the clatter of man and gear hitting the tower deck. The assigned SEAL breacher sprinted to the wall and pressed a brick of C4 into a crevice in the cement. A heartbeat later, he was trailing wire behind him as he dashed back across the brush line.
Dempsey flipped his NVGs up in preparation for what came next.
A baritone whump echoed in the night as the Team Two breacher charge detonated on the other side of the camp. A half second later his team’s breacher detonated twenty feet away, and he felt the concussive shock wave in his chest. Then he was up and moving through the gaping, smoke-filled hole in the cinder-block wall. Without turning to see, he perceived the flurry of movement behind him as his team followed him into the compound. On the other side, he blinked away the cement dust and smoke, reflexively holding his breath until he exited the cloud of acrid fumes and particulate. He turned left, clearing down the wall, confident that Mendez was clearing right in mirror-image perfection.
With his rear quarter cleared, Dempsey pressed left. Finding no targets, he angled right and advanced toward the heart of the camp. Billowing smoke, backlit by the camp’s blazing halogen lights, obstructed his view. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the haze, spraying bullets wildly with a compact submachine gun. Dempsey hit him with a single shot through the temple. The defender’s arms went limp, but the legs kept pumping for two strides until the body pitched forward face-first into the dirt.
War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2) Page 17