The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  THE ERICKSEN CONNECTION

  BARRY L. BECKER

  Barry L. Becker

  Copyright © 2018 by Barry L. Becker Cover Design by Skyhawk Studios

  © Stock Connection On Blue/Alamy Stock Photo Author Photograph by Gayle Rieber Photography

  This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary. The settings and characters are fictitious or used in a fictitious manner and do not represent specific places or living or dead people. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author:

  Barry L Becker, E-mail: bbecker@theericksenconnection.com Publisher: Barry L. Becker

  ISBN-13: 978-1791-945-626

  Dedicated To

  the brave American men and women in uniform

  who risk their lives to protect our country and our freedom.

  1

  n April 18, 2002, at Zero Dark Twenty, an MK-47 Chinook helo lifted off from Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan, into the moonless night with a roar, escorted by two Apache

  gunships, headed to the village of Zarghun Mekh, twenty miles from Khost, Afghanistan. Mark Ericksen, a Navy SEAL lieutenant, and second-in-command leaned forward on the webbed bench. He took a deep breath and reflected on his wife Karen’s last words to him as he gritted his teeth.

  I’m proud of you for protecting our country, but I want you back home in one piece. I love you.

  He glanced at several of his men, and his squadron commander, Major Jeb Templeton, nodded and gave them the thumbs-up sign. Eighteen men of Bravo Team, part of the elite tier-one operators from the Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, were on a High-Value- Targets-Mission. The men wore their battle dress uniforms, and all had beards and long hair to blend into the Afghan culture. The team’s painted camo green and brown earth-tone faces highlighted the whites of their eyes. Several minutes into the flight many of the men closed their eyes to rest, and silence prevailed except the noise from the helo. The rotor blades thumped in cadence to a “whop-

  whop-whop” beat, and the gears made a whining sound like a high- speed chainsaw.

  Ericksen had been on thirty-two missions since arriving in Afghanistan at the end of 2001. He thought about their most recent mission briefing. Eleven days before, the Agency, as the military referred to the CIA, received actionable intel on the targeted leaders’ meeting set for April 18 at 0900 hours. The Predator drone had conducted recon and surveillance in the village over the past six days and transferred intel back to the Agency at Bagram Air Base’s Tactical Operations Center, the TOC. Two days ago, the Predator drone’s live- feed video camera had picked up the Taliban’s second-in-command, along with a senior military commander.

  Late in the evening of April 16 Bravo Team sent a small advanced team to conduct recon and surveillance. The next morning, Delta’s Fico Delgado, using a camera with telephoto zoom lens, collected photos of Saad Al-Fulani, a key Saudi Al-Qaeda leader, leaving a compound. Since Al-Fulani reported directly to Osama Bin Laden, his presence confirmed to the CIA/JSOC Command the significance of the meeting.

  Ericksen reflected on the horrific terror attacks just seven months earlier, on 9/11: the planes that hit the World Trade Center buildings, the Pentagon, and the fourth hijacked plane, United Air Lines flight #93 on course to Washington DC. Had it not been for those brave Americans who rushed the terrorists and fought to take control of the plane, the White House or the Capitol building would have been destroyed. Sadly, the plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, killing all on board. On that day over 3,000 people died on American soil.

  With a few minutes to go before insertion, the pilot voiced a warning: “Ten minutes out.” Ericksen and the men adjusted their helmets and night-vision devices with their gloves. Ericksen was all about duty, honor, and country, and expecting less than one hundred percent from his team was an intolerable thought. He trusted his men and knew should he get injured or killed in action, they would never leave him behind. Failure wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  The helo approached the Infrared Landing Zone (LZ), which glowed on a plateau two kilometers from the village where the high-

  value targets were reported to be staying. The air turbulence shook the helo as it hovered forty feet above the landing zone, kicking up dust, sand, and rocks. The men fast-roped to the ground on the plateau perched above the village, which stood over 3,000 feet in elevation.

  The team quickly assembled one hundred yards away at the staging area. The winds howled out of the east at fifteen miles an hour, the temperature held at fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, while the rain pelted the ground into a mud-soaked path. Their eyes began adapting to the low-level light with the intensified images on the phosphorus screen to best direct their line of sight in green. The team met Bashir Sadozai, an Afghan intelligence officer who was embedded on several JSOC missions. They also met four operators from Bravo Team: Vinnie Goldman, the SEAL Team-Six two-way radio/satellite comms operator; Delta Force Sergeant Delgado; a CIA paramilitary operative; and an Air Force combat controller.

  The infrared technology illuminated the houses at which two nights ago their Pashtun informant had installed guidance beacons. They could be seen only by certain types of night vision goggles and by the Predator drones’ thermal-imaging cameras. The two targeted mud and brick homes were located at the far end of the village, adjoined by three other houses and surrounded by a brick wall enclo- sure. Should the mission fail, the Predator operators stood ready to fire Hellfire missiles into those designated targeted homes.

  By 0145 hours, they had traveled one kilometer and had another kilometer to go to reach the assault vantage point. The team momen- tarily stopped, took out their water packs, and drank some water. The vantage point sat perched on a bluff overlooking the targeted homes. Most of the operators carried Heckler and Koch submachine guns with suppressors, each affixed with a green laser and a white strobe light, three magazines apiece, many flash bangs velcroed to their vest, body armor, a secure two-way radio, lip mic, and headset. Some carried rocket launchers with high explosives, a couple of sniper rifles, machine guns, and explosives to breach doors.

  At 0155, Goldman received a call on his encrypted satphone from the TOC. Ericksen stood twenty feet in front of the team when he and

  the team heard Goldman’s voice through their two-way radio head- sets, “Abort mission! We’ve been compromised!”

  “Shit!” Major Templeton said to the men through his mic. “Back to the landing zone.”

  One minute later, a barrage of bullets rained down on them like a hailstorm bombarding a field of spring corn. Finding themselves targets in the kill zone, the men scrambled for cover. A bullet pierced Templeton’s shoulder, knocking him to the muddy ground. Seconds later, a rocket-propelled grenade exploded fifteen feet away from him, spraying shrapnel into his legs. His mangled leg below the knee bled heavily. Ericksen turned to Sadozai, ten feet behind him, and waved his hand in a follow-me gesture, “Bashir!” They rushed to Temple- ton’s aid, pulled him behind the nearest boulder, and applied a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

  Loud crackling and pops from AK-47s and grenades spit out rocks, dust, and debris tumbling down the mountainside. A minute later a SEAL and a Delta were killed in a hail of bullets. A Delta oper- ator went down, shot with a bullet to his thigh. A SEAL combat medic charged to his aid and began patching him up when a bullet sliced through the medic’s neck, killing him. The Air Force combat controller and another operator ran into the kill zone to fetch the Delta who had gone down, and as they carried him tow
ard another boulder, bullets struck and killed both men. The acrid smell of explo- sives permeated the air. AK-47 rounds and rocket-propelled grenades continued to blast away at the team as they fired up the slope.

  Goldman received a call on the satphone and gave it to Ericksen, who was now in command. “Oscar-Foxtrot-Zulu-Gold Eagle, Condor is down. Do you copy?” said Ericksen.

  “Roger that. The QRF [quick reaction force] is on its way. Do you copy?” Pathfinder asked.

  “Roger and out,” Ericksen said.

  Ten minutes later Pathfinder called. “The video link from the Predator spotted twenty-five armed insurgents (terrorists) moving fast up on the ridge. We’ve called in a couple of C-130 gunships and the Medevac from Jalalabad.”

  “Thanks, Pathfinder, Roger and out.” He had good cover behind a

  large boulder as the bullets continued to rain down. He readied up his lip-mic and passed the word to his team.

  A few minutes later the fighting stopped. Fear and uncertainty penetrated his mind for a moment, as one would expect of any brave SEAL Team-Six or Delta operator, but he, like many of his fellow brothers, was battle-hardened and mentally tough. Their focus zeroed in on their mission: capture or kill the insurgents. If it came down to a survival firefight: kill the enemy before the enemy kills you. The men carried their dead and wounded back up to the LZ. He real- ized the extraction would be dangerous, and the chance of the helo being blown to bits magnified his concerns for the safety of his men.

  Twenty minutes later, the fighting erupted again. The team ran for cover. Twenty terrorists raced down from the foothills shooting at the team. The terrorists who remained on top of the ridge fired at the pinned-down team from concealed positions.

  Ericksen yelled “Fire!” They immediately blasted them with their submachine guns on full auto. Three terrorists ran towards him from thirty yards away. With his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping, he shot and killed one man, then turned to his right and shot the second man dead. The third man ran at him, stopped and aimed to shoot, yelling, “Allahu Akbar,” when Ericksen cut him down with a three-round burst and watched the man’s brains and blood fly out of his skull. He swiftly turned to his left and saw Delgado firing at several terrorists. When one aimed to shoot Delgado from ten yards away, he shot him dead. Delgado glanced at the dead man as he hit the ground. He turned and nodded his head in a thank-you gesture to Ericksen, as their eyes met.

  The Predator shot a Hellfire missile at a group of terrorists on the ridge. The team heard the sound of the boom and felt the explosion as the ground shook around them. Rocks, dirt, and body parts tumbled down, barely missing them. Glancing to his left, Ericksen spotted a charred head and a leg rolling past him. He turned to Gold- man, adjusted his helmet, and with his right glove brushed the sweat off his beard. His heart kept pounding faster.

  “Vinnie, call again and get the ETA on the Medevac and the gunships.”

  At that moment, Vinnie got hit by two rounds in the neck and thigh. Ericksen heard a groan, turned, and saw Petty Officer First Class Vincent “Vinnie” Goldman down on the wet shale and muddy rocks. He ran to Goldman, pulled him a few feet behind the large boulder, and leaned over him. He glanced for a second at his blood- soaked camo uniform, “Extraction is minutes away, bro. You’re going to make it.”

  “Mark, please listen, tell my wife and son I love them.”

  A minute later he coughed up more blood and died, holding Ericksen’s hand. His eyes stared up at nothingness. Goldman, a SEAL Team-Six operator, had been on several missions with him in Kandahar Province and they were good friends. Both he and Goldman were former teammates on SEAL Team-Eight before being selected for SEAL Team-Six. Ericksen’s tears rolled down his muddy, sweat-filled face.

  Ten minutes later, the firefight went silent. Master Sergeant Lech Pulaski, the lead non-commissioned officer, raced over to his posi- tion. “Mark just got a call from TOC; they said a Pashtun village elder they detained claimed Sadozai is a Talib (a member of the Taliban).”

  “What!” said Ericksen, with a puzzled look? “Can’t be.” “They said Bashir Sadozai.”

  He had established a bond with Sadozai, who recently was assigned to Bravo Team. In several firefights, he fought side-by-side with the team, killing many terrorists. He had intelligence, dedica- tion, and performed courageously. The men trusted him.

  Ericksen shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe it. Get me, Colonel Dawkins.”

  “Oscar-Foxtrot-Zulu-Raven…Do you copy?” said Pulaski. “Roger that. Sadozai is a fucking Talib spy. Put Gold Eagle on.”

  “Gold Eagle, we have confirmation Sadozai is a Talib who provided intel to the Taliban about our missions,” said Dawkins. “Do you copy?”

  “Roger that, Iron Fist.” Iron Fist was Colonel Dawkins’ code name.

  “Sir, let me take him back for interrogation. It wouldn’t be the first time a tribal village informant flat-out lied!”

  “Gold Eagle, goddammit! Now terminate Sadozai, and that’s a fucking order. Do you copy?”

  He knew killing an unarmed person violated the Rules of Engage- ment. He wished Dawkins’ boss at JSOC, a Rear Admiral, was avail- able, but the Pentagon had called him back for a briefing. Ericksen didn’t respond.

  “Gold Eagle, I’ve given you a fucking order so you best not give me any shit! Do you copy?”

  He handed the satphone back to Pulaski. He shook his head and didn’t say a word.

  He needed time to think. “What the fuck!”

  The ambush could be attributed to any number of possibilities: It could have been the local tribal village informant who set us up; maybe the first team had been spotted or heard during infiltration. Based on Bravo Team’s briefing, Pakistan’s Inter-Intelligence Services (ISI) provided the intel, did they double-cross us? Perhaps Bashir Sadozai was a spy. The colonel said he had hard evidence. But why wouldn’t he let me take Sadozai back for interrogation and give him a chance to disprove the allegations against him? Disobeying his orders in the heat of battle would have grave conse- quences for me, even though my instincts may later prove me right.

  Those thoughts weighed on him. Time was running out. He had to make a decision.

  2

  he TOC at Bagram Air Base was situated in a large, heavily fortified tent, surrounded by barrier blast walls. It housed a sophisticated array of technologies, hi-def monitors, command modules and computer workstations manned by over forty JSOC technology specialists. They managed the critical satellite links to the command headquarters at Centcom, JSOC, USSOCOM,

  Pentagon, NSA, and the CIA.

  The Agency’s Special Activities Division, the CIA’s paramilitary clandestine section, shared the TOC and ran Predator Drone Opera- tions in Afghanistan out of the UAV Ground Control Station, a thirty- foot, triple-axle trailer situated eighty feet from the TOC. Their primary mission focused on guiding the predator drones by way of a line-of-sight data link for take-offs and landings by pilots and sensor operators, who used joysticks as controllers, similar to those used in operating video games.

  Once the drone reached cruising altitude, the Agency passed on the controls electronically to pilots and sensor operators, who were located thousands of miles away at Indian Springs Air Field, near Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. Those operators based in the United States watched on large hi-def flat screen monitors live-video feed

  from the Predator Drone cameras via satellite communications. They operated the controls in the same manner as their Agency operators at Bagram Air Base. The decision to fire the Hellfire missiles resided with the President, the National Security Council, the CIA director, and the recommendation of the Agency’s station chief in Afghanistan.

  Colonel Shane Dawkins stood two-inches over six-feet, his muscular physique filling his camo fatigues as a cyborg warrior rolled off of the assembly line. At forty-two years of age, the Delta-trained officer wore a military crew-cut and served as the Deputy Task Force Commander of JSOC. He struck fear in his m
en. No subordinate ever crossed him if he wanted to keep his rank. He took another puff of his cigar and walked back to a bank of workstations.

  He stood next to Clyde, the Agency commander and chief-of- station, and Dex, the Agency’s operations chief. They watched the action on the hi-def flat screen television monitors displaying the view from the Predator’s cameras via the military satellite relay communications passed back to the TOC by one of their satellite uplink vehicles parked outside.

  “Our Medevac and C-130s should be there momentarily,” said Dawkins.

  “Let’s hope so. We’ve lost too many men already,” Clyde said. Dex glanced at Dawkins’ right hand gripping his satphone. He turned back to Clyde. “I better get back to the team.” He supervised technical experts out of the Ground Control Station, including pilots, sensor operators, satellite communications engineers, and staff. Dawkins took a draw on his cigar, watched the smoke rings leave his mouth, and then abruptly left the TOC. He was standing thirty yards from the entrance and made a call.

  “Oscar-Foxtrot-Zulu-Raven,” said Pulaski.

  “Raven, I have Agency decoded intercepts. Get me Gold Eagle.” “Roger that.” Pulaski moved closer and handed Ericksen the

  satphone. “The colonel just received Agency intercepts…Sadozai’s a spy.”

  “Gold Eagle, the Agency handed me decoded intercepts with proof. Now terminate that fucking bastard. Do you copy?”

  Ericksen shook his head, put his satphone down and closed his eyes for a second. He tensed his jaw, clenched his teeth and opened his eyes. “Roger that, sir.” He glanced at his desert camo uniform and hands drenched with Templeton and Goldman’s blood.