by Brian Tyree
Ghost Trail Copyright © 2013 by Brian Tyree. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Brian Tyree
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Brian Tyree
Visit my website at www.briantyree.net
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Oct 2017
ISBN-13 9781973121404
It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save life and to aid the injured. I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things we do, that others may live.
—USAF PARARESCUE CREED
PROLOGUE
BOOMERANG
Prince Sultan Air Base, Saudi Arabia—2003
Hal Sheridan had never jumped before—as a team leader. He notched dozens of jumps as a member of Air Force Combat Search and Rescue—CSAR—including many into hostile environments. This would be his first jump as a Combat Rescue Officer of the PJs—a retronym given to the Pararescue Jumpers Special Forces group in 1947.
Hal pondered his new responsibilities while driving an Air Force truck over the sweltering Saudi tarmac. The most critical of which weighed heavy on his mind... Being responsible for the lives of the men in his unit.
Hal backed the pickup to the open ramp of a Hercules HC-130 cargo aircraft. The Hercules was aptly named: A behemoth with four thundering propellers biting into the hot air, spewing dust and sand at Hal’s team near the ramp. The Herc was the most reliable means of dropping special operators into harm’s way for over three decades.
Hal and his team hoisted their gear from the back of the truck. Hal was six-feet-two and two-hundred pounds, with a rugged build and wind-burned face. The kind you get from a decade of riding motorcycles or jumping out of airplanes. In his case it happened to be both. Having served as a PJ for eight years, Hal was ready for more action and more responsibility. He took courses in his free time to fulfill the rigorous requirements of becoming CRO. At thirty, he seemed like a mother hen among the much younger PJs and enlisted men and women.
Upon hefting their gear from the truck, they dumped it on the asphalt for the “PJ bag drag” into the Herc. The DEVGRU operators—SEALs—carried theirs, giving the PJs odd looks for dragging their rucks up the ramp. Each man secured his own gear into metal boxes along the hull, inside the aircraft.
Hal finished stowing his gear then checked each of his men as they packed theirs. He wondered what kind of mission called for two DEVGRU specialists, a CSAR PJ and a spark chaser—PJ electronics specialist. The SEALs used temporary call signs for the mission—Romeo23 and Romeo24. Romeo two-three was big and burly with a thick beard. He looked more like a seasonal Christmas-tree-lot-operator than a special-operator. Two-four was slender and squirrelly. Lennon, the CSAR PJ, was short and stocky, hand-selected by Hal for his paramedic skills. The spark chaser went by the call sign Jonah. Or maybe it was his last name? Hal wasn’t sure. He figured the call sign was a better guess because Jonah was a rotund man, not the stereotypical IT nerd. Call signs weren’t always complimentary, and Hal thought Jonah may have earned his for his appearance in Basic Military Training—boot camp for the Air Force.
The SEALs packed up their gear and stood before Hal while he observed the others. “Lifter19?” Two-three asked, curious about the origin. “As in skirts?” He lifted the back of two-four’s shirt. He played along, daintily bending over, allowing the lifting of his “skirt.” Two-four then grasped Hal’s bicep.
“Ohhh!” Two-four squeaked. “It’s weights, not skirts.” He and two-three cracked each other up.
SEALs, Hal thought, smiling. Taking the ribbing. This is gonna’ be fun.
Romeo23 gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Safe trip, sir. Damn proud to be here with you.” Romeo24 also gave Hal a sincere handshake, and the two SEALs continued on to their jump seats.
Command briefed Hal and his team before the load-in, but provided only minimal details. The mission was too secretive. They would learn all they needed to know up in the air. The last utterance from the commander was, “You men were never on this hop.” Judging from the mere DEVGRU presence, Hal knew SEAL Team Six would only be joining them if it was an important mission— their basic purpose in life was to track down and kill High Value Targets—HVTs.
Hal and the others buckled into seats along the Herc walls that were more like harnesses with a small pad for your back and one for your ass. They were each wearing high-noise headsets under their Mich helmets.
“This is your captain speaking,” the pilot’s voice sounded over their headsets. The spark chaser turned the sound up on his, not anticipating the magnitude of roar from the Herc propellers. “Welcome aboard Zeus one-five! Fasten your seatbelts and be sure to return your tray tables to their upright and locked position.” The SEALs chuckled. “Secure for takeoff,” the pilot said in a serious tone.
Prince Sultan Air Base was part of Operation Southern Watch, responsible for the south of Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Search and rescue missions like this one were under the command of the Joint Search and Rescue Center–JSRC at Prince Sultan. Had the mission been closer to the Turkey Border, Operation Northern Watch would have taken it, with their own team of DEVGRU, PJs and a spark chaser. Hal knew that wherever they were going was too far for the local mode of PJ air transport, the HH60-G Pave Hawk helicopter.
Not long after the Herc was wheels-up, Hal heard radio traffic confirming an AWACS plane was flying overwatch. The AWACS served as a guardian angel, flying thousands of feet above, monitoring enemy activity in the area.
The Herc leveled out and a call from the navigator sounded over the radio. A call Hal typically would have zoned out as it was for the team leader. Realizing that was now him, a brisk chill shot up his spine telling him to pay attention.
The navigator called Hal up to the cockpit to confer on the approach and positioning over the drop zone (DZ). Hitting the drop zone was a challenging undertaking for the Herc, even with GPS and state-of-the-art avionics. Hal arrived in the cramped cockpit, taking in the view outside while working with the navigator. It was a clear, cool and starry night as the Herc cruised thousands of feet above the hilly desert terrain.
Herc navigators played a vital role in getting the giant aircraft in place over drop zones. Navigators calculated wind direction, air speed and altitude, all in coordination with the PJ team leader. This communication with the navigator gave Hal new information on the mission, including the name of it: Operation Outback. His hunch that it was an HVT was also proven correct, although the navigator didn’t know exactly what or who the target was. Hal presumed it was a downed helicopter or plane with a surviving CIA agent or high-level Al Qaeda officer aboard. This would explain the need for having a spark chaser on the team, to get the downed helo or plane back up in the air. Hal thought the HVT might also be a new type of drone they didn’t want to fall into enemy hands. This theory of Hal’s would explain the startling amount of demo ordinance he saw Romeo24 stow away. The navigator confirmed the obvious—the HVT was too far away for the helos. The standard CSAR doctrine was still in play, and command scrambled a task force composed of two helos and two a
ttack aircraft. The task force was on schedule to arrive an hour after Hal’s team.
Hal returned to his seat, passing the jump details on to his team. Their target was in the mouth of a canyon near a village with insurgent activity. The DZ was outside the canyon, so nailing a precise drop and landing was mission critical. This ruled out using static chutes. Their round, bulbous form wasn’t as maneuverable, creating the dangerous possibility of blowing into enemy territory by a strong wind.
PJs could jump from a Herc as high up as 18,000 feet in what’s called a HALO—High Altitude Low Opening—jump. Hal and the navigator chose a “hop and pop” jump from an altitude of 4,000 feet. Just high enough to give the men plenty of time to pull their chutes if they went into a spin or tumbled off course. Provided their recovery was quick, they could still guide their chutes back to the DZ.
Hal instructed his unit to prep for a free-fall (non-static) jump. They each climbed into their chute-pack harnesses. Fastening belts around their chest and waist and pulling straps snug and comfortable. The rectangular free-fall canopy and chute had controls and brakes to enable a precise landing on the DZ.
The pilot radioed back with the six-minute warning to jump. The JSRC commander, Coach07, broke in over the radio… “Coach oh-seven, Coach oh-seven, Zeus one-five…”
“Zeus, go for Coach19,” the Herc pilot replied.
“Be advised, enemy activity near the DZ. HVT has no comms. Repeat no comms. Look for IR on DZ.”
“Copy that.”
Hal and his men got the message. It would be a tight jump and aim for an infrared chemlight to mark the drop zone.
The HC-130 ramp lowered like the jaw of a massive steel dragon—opening a chasm that sucked the compressed air out while freezing-cold air flooded in. Hal checked the chutes of his men, making sure they were properly prepped and ready. He also gave a quick inspection of each man’s rifle, sidearm, radio and grenades. Ensuring they were secure for the drop.
“Follow the leader!” Hal yelled over the propellers and the blast of cold air at his back. Giving the standard jump instructions to his men. He spoke with emphasis to the men he had never jumped with before to remove any confusion or doubt from the jump. “Count to one after I jump then go, you count to two, three and so on. Stay on the man in front of you. We may use S-turns to bleed altitude. If you land off target, head to the canyon opening.”
Hal stepped to the front of the line, eyeing the jump light, waiting for the green to jump. The navigator’s transmission to the base erupted over their radios, “Zeus one-five to Coach oh-seven, Inserting SAR now.” The jump light flashed green. Hal flipped down the Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) on his Mich helmet and leapt off the ramp into a star field, plummeting to a pool of crisp blackness below. The first SEAL counted a beat, ran two steps and sprung off the ramp.
Hal plummeted toward the black earth. Wind blasting him in the face as he eyed the ground for the IR chemlight. It wasn’t visible with the naked eye, but the infrared sticks glowed in high contrast through Hal’s NVGs. Hal spotted the light, its glare producing a soft glow on the canyon walls beyond. Hal aimed straight for the chemlight, steadied himself and pulled his chute.
Once safe under the chute canopy on a direct line to the DZ, Hal looked skyward for the rest of his unit. Confirming the popping of their chutes and that they were trailing him to the target. All four men were accounted for, drifting at staggered altitudes, right above him.
Hal saw the desert scrub coming up fast from a couple hundred feet. He pulled the toggles—the chute brakes, and released his seventy-pound ruck so it slid beneath his legs. It hit the ground first and he landed ahead of it in a jog. Coming down on the DZ so close to target that his ruck covered the chemlight. He tugged the ruck away. The next to land were the SEALs followed by Jonah and Lennon. The spark chaser hit the ground and rolled in a Parachute Landing Fall. Lennon stuck a clean landing behind him. Hal ordered Jonah to stay on his side, thinking he may be a combat liability. It was an order welcomed by the electronics specialist.
Hal called in the safe landing to command while the men removed their harnesses and gathered up their chutes. Hal scanned the mouth of the canyon. Towering rock walls rose from the ground, forming the canyon. They appeared ominous at ground level, much different than at twenty-thousand feet. A glimmer inside the canyon caught Hal’s eye. It was a twirling chemlight, swung on a string. A sign from their HVT. Hal waved his men up and radioed command that the target was in sight.
Crackly static burst over the radios. “Coach07 to Lifter19, Stark01 and Stark02 are in transit for exfil. ETA thirty minutes.”
“Copy that,” Hal replied.
Command continued, “Escort called off due to low cloud deck. Unfriendly activity at ten miles. Two vehicles bearing one-eight-zero. One Technical. One transport. Approx twenty PAX. Over.”
“Roger, Coach07,” Hal replied. Concerned about the Technical—a light, improvised vehicle with mounted machine gun in back. Typically, small Toyota trucks from the 90s. PAX was the total number of enemy passengers in both trucks. They must have seen the parachute canopies, or one of them had NVGs to see the chemlights, He thought. Stark one and two were the code names for the Pave Hawk helicopters heading toward them to provide air support and care for any wounded. The helos would also be their ride home. “Lifter19 to Coach07, how copy on additional air support?” Hal asked. “Anything in the area? Over.” Hal waved his team up. Double-timing it to the canyon opening, waiting for the reply from command.
“Negative, Lifter19” the reply came. “We’ve got nothing in the area.”
Hal copied the transmission as he reached canyon opening. He stared in awe at a massive camo-net draped over the form of what appeared to be a Luftwaffe Flying Wing, deep in the canyon. Operation Outback, he thought. It all made sense—Boomerang.
Beneath the desert camouflage net was not a German airplane, but the most lethal fighting machine in the Air Force arsenal—a B-2 Stealth Bomber. Boomerang, as the USAF airmen nicknamed them.
The B-2 achieved near radar-invisibility through many classified methods: a design with a low radar cross-section, reduction of heat-signatures, and the Radar-Absorption Material (RAM) forming the outer layers of the craft. The RAM consisted of blended radar absorbing polymers coated with Iron Ball paint. Iron Ball alone reduced the Radar Cross Section (how it appeared on enemy radar) by seventy to eighty percent.
The pilot, Captain James Rodgers, rushed over to greet Hal and his team with grateful handshakes. “Welcome to the Spirit of Colorado! We had an electronics failure and had to set her down. We tried to guide her into the canyon for cover and scraped a wing on the way in. She’s still air-worthy though. My Mission Commander got a little jammed up on the landing and he’s resting under her now. He’s conscious. Not much pain, but may have some internal damage.”
Hal nodded to Lennon, and the PJ took off for the B-2 with his med-kit. “We’ve got enemy moving in fast. Two trucks with ten passengers total,” Hal said to the others. “Two-three and two-four, cover the bird while Jonah works inside. I’ll be on the east side of the canyon opening. When Lennon finishes with the Mission Commander, send him to the west side of the canyon.”
The SEALs copied his order and hustled into action with Jonah following behind.
“Lifter19 to Coach07,” Hal radioed command, “Update on HVT status... One bravo, minor injuries. Conscious. How copy on enemy movement?”
“Enemy at three miles and closing. PAX armed with AKs and RPGs.”
“Copy that,” Hal said, flipping down the NVGs on his Mich helmet as he crossed the canyon opening. Realizing it bottle-necked to the entrance. Not good. A perfect ambush point for the enemy. If they drive the Technical into the canyon, we’re all in trouble, he thought.
Hal scanned outside the canyon through his NVGs—watching green-tinted dust plumes trailing both trucks as they wound toward the canyon, dodging sagebrush and blazing their own trails across the desert. Hal took cover on the eastern wall be
hind a three-foot outcropping of solid rock. He took an inventory of his gear: M4 carbine rifle, Beretta M9 9mm sidearm, two M67 frag grenades and a SRK VG-1 fixed-blade knife.
Hal thought about his SRK and how it had never seen combat. He realized only his M4 had, and that was from wild strafing as he fired out of a Pave Hawk on a couple missions. He had never been in close quarter enemy contact. He hoped the helos would arrive with their .50 cal’s before the enemy trucks did and save the day. Hal keyed his radio. “Lifter19 to Coach07…”
“Coach07 go for Lifter19.”
“How copy on Stark01 and 02 ETA?”
“Ten minutes. Be advised, enemy at five-hundred meters bearing one-eight-zero.”
“Copy, Coach07.” Thanks, he thought. Wanting to tell them it was closer to two-hundred meters. Hal raised his M4 to a concealed position, leaning behind the rocks. He watched the light trucks avoid the mouth of the canyon, each pulling off to a side of the canyon for cover.
Command radioed Hal their real-time assessment form the AWACS flying overhead. “Lifter19, enemy personnel dismounting. Fifteen to twenty PAX approaching on foot from your southwest.”
“Copy Coach07,” Hal said in a calm voice. Then shouted into his radio to his fellow PJ... “Lennon! I need you here with the 203 on the west wall!”
“Roger. On the way.”
Hal flipped up his NVGs, peering through the EOTech night vision scope on his M4. Waiting for the hostiles to arrive in his line-of-fire. If they get in, it’s CQC, he thought. Pondering Close Quarter Combat with Iraqi insurgents. Hal imagined George Washington in battle, remembering a story he read about the General. Wondering if he would have the same kind of bravery, the way Washington strode on horseback across the front lines, unafraid of enemy fire. Hal now realized Washington’s bravado wasn’t about the man, it was about his care for his men—his willingness to risk his life for them.