by Barry Becker
“Mark, kill that fucking traitor for Vinnie and our brothers.” “Where the hell is he?”
“He and Delgado carried the major up to the LZ.”
He grabbed Pulaski’s arm and handed the satphone back to him. “Get Vinnie to the LZ, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Right on!”
Ericksen heard the approaching Chinook MH-47 Medevac and AC-130 gunships by their increased noise levels as they sped closer. Three operators took defensive positions behind the boulders, fifteen feet apart, while the team carried the dead and wounded to the LZ.
A few minutes later, he spotted Sadozai, dressed in the traditional Afghan shalwar kameez and vest along with a wool beret. He bolted toward him. He grabbed the thirty-five-year-old Afghan, slammed him against a boulder, and hit him with a right to the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground. Ericksen kicked his AK-47 away. Sweat ran down his face.
“You fucking Talib, you set us up.”
Sadozai got on his knees, his face bloodied, tears and sweat rolling down his face. He looked up at Ericksen and pleaded, “I’m not a Talib. I hate the Taliban!” He removed a photo from his vest pocket and pointed to it. Ericksen took out his Sig P226 and aimed it at him. “You’re lying.”
“Please sir, I have a wife and two daughters. I’m telling you the truth. I beg you.” Two shots pierced his face as he hit the ground. His lifeless, bloody body lay a few feet away from the photo. Blood poured out of his left eye socket and from the bullet hole in his forehead.
Delgado and Ericksen made eye contact. Thirty feet distance separated the men. He motioned for him to come toward him. Delga- do’s eyes widened, almost surprised by the killing. He shook his head briefly.
“Fico, check his clothing for any intel.”
Delgado nodded, still in disbelief and sighed, “Why did you kill him?”
His right hand trembled a bit as he put his gun back into the holster. “The Agency provided the colonel with proof Bashir was a Talib.”
Delgado shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had been on several missions with Ericksen, and like most soldiers in combat, especially JSOC operators, he knew killing terrorists, and collateral damage came with the territory. Ericksen bent down and picked up a photo of Sadozai’s daughters and wife, and noticed to his surprise Bashir’s wife lacked a burqa. Her unveiled face and casual clothing surprised him. He placed it in his pocket next to his wife’s photo.
The screeching, metallic sound of the Medevac and the gunships approached the LZ. The piercing noise could be heard even with their headsets on. The AC-130 gunships escorted the helo to the LZ. The pilots blasted the terrorists’ positions with 105mm and 40mm cannon rounds as the men ran down the mountain toward the village. Explosions lit up the dark sky, sending dirt and rocks down- hill. If there were any terrorists still alive, they weren’t a threat to the Bravo Team now. Some of the debris hit the men. Sweat and mud covered their faces as they moved up along the trail to the LZ.
The Predator Drone launched its last Hellfire missile and within seconds hit one of the targeted houses, exploding into a giant orange fireball, spewing mud and brick in all directions. Seconds later, the next home burst into flames like a thunderbolt from Thor’s hammer, killing several people inside. The sound could be heard for miles.
The Medevac pilot landed on the LZ. The cargo door opened, and the men loaded up the wounded and the dead. The remaining opera- tors rushed on board, and they lifted off. The risk to the Medevac would have been greater if it tried to hover above the LZ while the men hoisted up the dead and wounded, besides attempting to rope- climb up to the helo. Time was critical. The gunships escorted them back to Bagram.
Once they arrived at the air base, Ericksen went back to his tent.
This fucking hellhole! A stream of thoughts flowed through his mind
about the men on Operation Daring Eagles. He felt a deep sadness for his brothers who had died in the ambush, cut down like ducks in a shooting gallery. He had known many of them since arriving in Afghanistan.
They did everything as a team. They ate, drank, trained, fought, slept side-by-side and killed insurgents. In quieter moments they shared family and life stories. His brothers, which numbered six, would no longer return home and be with their loved ones again. Death delivers permanence. He would always remember the battles and the men who didn’t return.
Ericksen tried processing and questioning what occurred. Why would Bashir insist he was telling the truth? And why would a Talib have a photo of his wife in his pocket during an operation showing her without a burqa? Had Major Templeton been able to command the team, would he have followed the kill orders? Colonel Dawkins said he had solid proof from the Agency intercepts.
The lives and missions of the teams depended on the character of their commanders and the trust the team had in them. Those threads built the fabric of moral leadership. Without that trust, their honor, duty, and country would lose its moral integrity.
3
n April 19, Ericksen entered the TOC wearing his desert camo fatigues, looking for the comms sergeant. He wanted answers, like those the Agency and JSOC sought from the
debriefing session Bravo Team endured, shortly after they returned to the base. He rushed toward Pathfinder, the master sergeant who manned the communications console station. He glanced down on the sergeant’s desk and raised his eyebrows, startled by the front page headline of Operation Daring Eagles collateral damage report, “Eleven Afghan family members killed by a Predator drone in a village night raid near Khost.”
“Is the tribal village elder still being detained?” asked Ericksen, as his eyes focused on the sergeant. “The one who claimed Sadozai was a Talib.”
“Sir, we don’t have any village elders locked up here,” Pathfinder replied, shrugging and staring up at him. Sir, with all due respect, I don’t know anything about Sadozai being a Talib.”
“Is Colonel Dawkins available?”
“No, sir. He left for lunch a few minutes ago.” “Thanks, sergeant.” Ericksen turned and left the TOC.
He jogged to the Agency’s headquarters office; a sizeable tent situ-
ated one-hundred-fifty-feet from the TOC. The Agency maintained two offices, one at Bagram Air Base to control Predator drone opera- tions and to direct high-value-target-ops with JSOC, and another known as Kabul station, located in the Ariana Hotel in Kabul, near the Afghan government offices, American Embassy, foreign embassies, and ISAF headquarters.
He approached two armed soldiers guarding the office.
“I have an appointment with Clyde.” The guard waved him forward. No one knew the last name of the Agency men at Bagram and understood their first names were an alias. The guard took out a phone and called. “Dex here,” said the voice.
“Sir, Lieutenant Ericksen has an appointment with Clyde. What should I tell him?”
“Send him in.”
Dex opened the tent flap, greeted Ericksen, and escorted him into his office. The room had the latest high-tech predator drone scientific equipment, signal intelligence devices, three hi-def flat screen moni- tors on a large table, several computers, and cipher locks on file cabi- nets. Dex appeared to be in his late-thirties, with short brown hair, medium build, and wearing a nameless military desert camo uniform.
“Clyde stepped out and should be back in a few minutes. Please be seated.”
Dex moved toward his desk, stood, turned, and faced him. “I just want a confirmation,” Ericksen said, as he stared with his deep-set blue eyes at Dex. “Did you or Clyde provide intercepts to Colonel Dawkins during Operation Daring Eagles that confirmed Bashir Sadozai conspired with members of the Taliban?”
Dex’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, “Hell no! We never had anything on Sadozai.”
At that moment Clyde rushed into Dex’s office. He was tall, bald, lean and muscular. His posture and military bearing were reminis- cent of a man who had spent several years in a combat command. After serving fourteen years as
a US Marine intelligence officer, Clyde resigned his commission as a major and joined the CIA’s para- military group.
“What’s up, lieutenant?”
Ericksen’s face flushed red. “Dex just gave me my answer, sir. Dawkins is a lying, fucking bastard! He first claimed a village elder fingered Sadozai as being a Talib. Then he claimed your Agency gave him intercepts with proof.” He shook his head, “The colonel ordered me to kill him.”
The forty-two-year-old Clyde motioned with his right hand, “Lt. Ericksen, please follow me to my office.” He turned to Dex; his lips tightened with a scowl on his face.
“You too.”
He thought Clyde seemed unhappy that Dex got involved. His office appeared larger and also loaded with high-tech equipment, computers, monitors, and maps. He and Dex sat down on two chairs facing the Agency station chief. Clyde shook his head, “Colonel Dawkins told me insurgents killed Sadozai during the ambush.” He lifted up a water bottle, took a sip, and placed it back down on his desk.
“Did your satellite communications record the conversation between the colonel and me?”
Clyde’s face tensed up, surprised by the question. He looked at Dex and then at Ericksen, “Sorry, we don’t.”
Dex interrupted, “That’s right.”
“Shit.” Ericksen shook his head and made a fist. “That leaves me with only one witness.”
“Sorry, I wish we could help you,” said Dex, as he shook his head and cupped his chin.
Ericksen gritted his teeth and glanced back at Clyde. “I’m going to confront him.” Clyde shook his head, looked directly at him and slammed his hands on the table, “Be careful with Dawkins. I had a couple of run-ins with him when he served as the military attaché in Riyadh several years ago. Listen up, the Admiral recommended you for the Silver Star two months ago and got you registered at the Naval Postgraduate School. If you keep your mouth shut you’ll probably get promoted to lieutenant commander once you complete your master’s program.”
Ericksen sighed. “Sir, I killed an innocent team member.” He
looked down for a moment, and then raised his head, “Tell me how the hell I’m going to live with that memory the rest of my life!”
“You’re in a dangerous environment, and all kinds of shit can occur. Do you get my drift?”
Ericksen shook his long sandy-colored head, “Don’t forget your squadron rotates back to the States in two weeks. Stay alert and be smart.”
“Do you believe Sadozai had anything to do with this ambush or any in the past?” Clyde turned to Dex and then back to Ericksen.
“I doubt it. Three days after receiving the intel, we sent Sadozai, Delgado, and one of our officers to Khost to meet the informant at a safe house. We had Sadozai under our control. The next day Sadozai impersonated a livestock broker, and along with a vetted Pashtun asset, entered the village to collect the on-the-ground assessment and check out the foothills nearby to determine the best place to serve as our LZ insertion and extraction point besides the video provided by the Predator.”
“So tell me, sir, why do you think the colonel ordered me to kill Sadozai?”
“I can’t answer your question,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.
He began walking out, stopped, turned and looked at Clyde, “Why did you shoot the missile into the house?”
“I felt the Pakistani ISI probably set up the ambush and hedged their bets. They probably threatened Walid to work with them and the Taliban; otherwise, they would have killed him. It’s also possible they hatched a plan where he portrayed himself as the village infor- mant. Our relationship with Pakistan isn’t good, but there are times when they’ve provided us with good intel. When your team got ambushed, I had a gut feeling there was a twenty percent chance the bad guys were in the house. I recommended to Langley to kill them. Those terrorists killed lots of good men, and if they are in that house, they are going to die. No doubt when we fuck up it turns these tribes against us.”
“Sir, thanks for your time.” He turned and left the tent.
Clyde glanced at Dex, raised his eyebrows, shook his head and
placed both hands on his desk. “We have to keep our stories straight. I would advise if you heard any of their conversations to erase it from your mind. The White House, DoD (Department of Defense), and the intelligence community would wash this story before it ever reached the media, even if Dawkins is a sadistic commander. We can’t win this fight.”
“Trust me, I didn’t hear a damn word,” said Dex. “Good.”
Dex suspected no more than twenty people at the highest levels of the DoD, CIA, and the White House heard Ericksen and the colonel’s NSA-enhanced satellite encrypted communications beside himself. Dex wasn’t his real name either. He had graduated from the Air Force Academy with a degree in electrical engineering and received his commission as a 2nd lieutenant. After spending several years as a US Air Force captain in Special Operations, he was recruited by the Agency’s Directorate of Operations into their Special Activities Division.
Dex had a streak of integrity and honor in him, with no respect for anyone who acted unethically, was dishonest, or lacked character. After he intercepted and listened to Dawkins’ encrypted satphone communications with Ericksen, he felt sad he couldn’t help him. He wasn’t about to risk his career and place himself in harm’s way, but no one could erase the truth he knew: Dawkins broke the military trust, lied, disobeyed the DoD’s Rules of Engagement and ordered Ericksen to kill Sadozai.
4
ricksen jogged three hundred yards to the mess hall, entered, looked around, and spotted Dawkins seated at a table on the officers’ side in the far corner along with a
major and Master Sergeant Pulaski. They appeared to be halfway through lunch, eating their turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and cran- berry sauce. He approached the colonel’s table. “Can I talk with you outside, sir?”
“What’s this about, lieutenant?” said Dawkins, as he looked up from his chair. “This matter is extremely confidential, sir.”
Dawkins chuckled, “You can talk in front of my staff.”
Ericksen took a few steps closer and stared into his eyes. He had a face that resembled a heavyweight boxer, with a strong jaw, scar tissue over his right eye, and a broken nose.
“I discovered your claims were all lies. What happened?” Ericksen said, his face tense and flushed red. “You ordered me to kill an innocent man.”
Dawkins’ jaw dropped open and stared at him. “Is that what Clyde told you?”
Ericksen shook his head, “No, Dex did.”
Dawkins suddenly stood up, his face filled with anger. He dropped his fork on the table.
“All right, let’s step outside and discuss this in private.”
They stepped outside, and the other two men followed, leaving their meals on their plates. Dawkins wore US desert camo fatigues and the bird-colonel insignia. They walked 100 yards and stopped in front of the colonel’s tent. He waved Ericksen and Pulaski inside his sleeping quarters, while the major stayed outside. Dawkins put his hands on his hips and raised his voice,
“You’re a damn good officer, but I’ll bust your ass if you ever attempt to imply that I lied to you.”
“Colonel, what the hell do you call this?” Ericksen said, his anger written all over his face.
“What’s one fucking Afghan to you in this medieval country? Shit happens!” Ericksen’s piercing eyes stared at him. He had nothing but contempt for him because he had destroyed the trust and honor bestowed on him by the US military.
“I’m going to request a meeting with the Admiral as soon as he gets back. We’ll find out who’s telling the truth.”
“Listen up, don’t be stupid. You have two weeks to go before you leave this hellhole. Think again, if you pull that shit, Pulaski will testify under oath that you killed Sadozai in cold blood.”
Ericksen turned and moved inches from Pulaski’s face. “Tell the colonel exactly what you told me he sa
id about Agency intercepts.”
Pulaski smirked. “Sir, I don’t know shit about any Agency inter- cepts, but I saw you kill Sadozai with my own two eyes, and he wasn’t armed.”
Ericksen stared at him with a shocked expression and disgust. He yelled, “You’re a fucking liar!”
Dawkins put his hands up, palms facing Ericksen. “Don’t forget if there’s a court-martial they could also order Delgado to testify under oath and ask what he witnessed. I would think twice about your plans. A murder conviction could send you to Leavenworth for a long time.”
Ericksen’s face was red again with anger and shouted, “Colonel, did you just go fucking nuts?”
Dawkins tensed up. He yelled loudly at the major outside the tent, “Get this fucking asshole out of here!”
“Yes sir,” the major said.
He turned and left the colonel’s tent on his own. He had an intense hatred for the man and recognized he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He loved serving his country, and now his career as a Navy SEAL was in jeopardy. The colonel had him by the balls. As he walked back to his tent, he felt speechless. What could he do now?
The next morning Ericksen spotted the six-foot-four, 225-pound Pulaski leaving the mess hall. He walked up to him. “You’re not fit to wear that uniform.” At six-foot-one and 185 pounds, he was just a pound over his collegiate wrestling weight. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Pulaski responded, his face flushed red with anger. Pulaski enjoyed beating the shit out of warriors who either challenged him or verbally disagreed with him. He hadn’t lost a fight in over two years. Both men were experts in close quarters combat. Soldiers leaving the mess hall gathered to watch.