by Carl Bowen
CONTENTS
MISSION ONE
SEA DEMON
MISSION TWO
BLACK ANCHOR
MISSION THREE
EAGLE DOWN
MISSION FOUR
SNIPER SHIELD
CLASSIFIED
SHADOW SQUADRON
CROSS, RYAN
RANK: Lieutenant Commander
BRANCH: Navy SEAL
PSYCH PROFILE: Cross is the team leader of Shadow Squadron. Control oriented and loyal, Cross insisted on hand-picking each member of his squad.
WALKER, ALONSO
RANK: Chief Petty Officer
BRANCH: Navy SEAL
PSYCH PROFILE: Walker is Shadow Squadron’s second-in-command. His combat experience, skepticism, and distrustful nature make him a good counter-balance to Cross’s leadership.
YAMASHITA, KIMIYO
RANK: Lieutenant
BRANCH: Army Ranger
PSYCH PROFILE: The team’s sniper is an expert marksman and a true stoic. It seems his emotions are as steady as his trigger finger.
BRIGHTON, EDGAR
RANK: Staff Sergeant
BRANCH: Air Force Combat Controller
PSYCH PROFILE: The team’s technician and close-quarters-combat specialist is popular with his squadmates but often agitates his commanding officers.
LARSSEN, NEIL
RANK: Second Lieutenant
BRANCH: Army Ranger
PSYCH PROFILE: Neil prides himself on being a jack-of-all-trades. His versatility allows him to fill several roles for Shadow Squadron.
SHEPHERD, MARK
RANK: Lieutenant
BRANCH: Army (Green Beret)
PSYCH PROFILE: The heavy-weapons expert of the group, Shepherd’s love of combat borders on unhealthy.
CLASSIFIED
MISSION BRIEFING
OPERATION
Well-organized Somali pirates have kidnapped several civilians at sea, including a V.I.P. from the World Food Program. The abductions occurred in international waters, meaning that any miscues on our part will reflect negatively on the United States at large. We have been tapped to put these pirates down before innocent blood is shed. Even though we operate in the shadows, all eyes are on us for this one, gentlemen.
- Lieutenant Commander Ryan Cross
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE
- Secure hostages and transport them to safety
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Neutralize all enemy combatants while minimizing loss of life
- Identify possible leads in preventing future attacks by pirates
MISSION ONE
SEA DEMON
Lieutenant Commander Ryan Cross stood up to check his parachute rigging one more time. As he did, a scrawny aerospace physiology tech prodded Cross in the shoulder. Cross let the tech examine him without saying anything. Standing room was limited in the rear of the brand-new MC-130J Commando II aircraft, but Cross appreciated the tech’s presence. The plane was well over 25,000 feet high in the starlit black sky. No matter how fit and healthy a soldier was, the pressure and cold at that altitude could play havoc on his body. It was the tech’s job to make sure that didn’t happen.
Cross and his men had been breathing pure oxygen for a while now. It was the only way to keep deadly nitrogen bubbles from forming and expanding in their blood at that altitude. But with the two-minute jump warning approaching, the physiology tech was giving the jump team a last checkup. He examined them for signs of hypoxia, narcosis, or other pressure-related ailments. A single problem could take one of the men out of action before Operation Sea Demon was even underway.
The two-minute warning sounded. Cross endured the tech’s last-minute tests while also double-checking the rigging of the soldier in front of him. Muscle memory from dozens of previous jumps made his hand want to clip a ripcord carabiner to a static line at shoulder height. However, this wasn’t going to be a static-line jump. It was to be a high-altitude, high-opening or HAHO free-fall. Other than in training exercises with his former SEAL unit, Cross had never attempted a nighttime HAHO jump.
The tech leaned in close to Cross so he could be heard over the howl of wind and engine noise from the open rear hatch. “Your pulse is elevated,” the tech said.
Cross’s only answer was a Cheshire-Cat grin.
The tech rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “All right, Commander,” he said. “You and your men are all clear to jump.”
“Good to go, gentlemen!” Cross called over the tech’s shoulder.
“HOORAH!” Shadow Squadron replied in unison.
Cross set down his oxygen mask. With one last glance at his watch, he signaled his men to move toward the rear of the plane where the jumpmaster waited.
As one, the men switched to bottled oxygen. They flipped down the night-vision scopes mounted on their helmets. Then they filed out the back as the jumpmaster gave them the go-ahead.
One after another, in perfect form, the members of Shadow Squadron dropped from the dimly red-lit interior of the MC-130J into the starlit darkness.
Cross was the last man out. He hurled himself into the void without fear or hesitation. Like a true soldier.
It was only a matter of seconds before the first man out the hatch, Staff Sergeant Edgar Brighton, flattened out of his power dive. He spread-eagled in the air to maximize wind-resistance. The other skydivers above him immediately did the same. They all spread out into their assigned positions and simultaneously opened their chutes. The jolt of deceleration nearly knocked the wind out of Cross — and very nearly tore the mouthpiece of his oxygen bottle from his mouth. Cross pushed through the pain and wheeled around to link up with his team.
With quick precision, the soldiers glided into position one above the other. Still thousands of feet up in the air, they settled into a vertical stack for the long, long trip down.
Far below the soldiers lay a vast, featureless ocean. The team was headed to a tiny uncharted jungle island in the Indian Ocean east of the Horn of Africa. At the bottom of the stack, Brighton was responsible for directing the team.
Cross had full faith in Brighton’s capabilities. Sergeant Brighton was a well-trained and highly competent US Air Force combat controller. Despite being the youngest man on the team, Brighton had more nighttime jumps under his belt than all of his squadmates combined. Brighton would get them where they needed to go. Cross had no worries about that. All Cross could do now was settle in for the long glide and prepare himself for the mission ahead.
As he fell through the endless dark, Cross couldn’t help but reflect back on the sequence of unbelievable events that had led him to this night.
* * *
A year ago, Ryan Cross had been a “mere” Navy SEAL. He’d served tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d worked behind enemy lines in the deserts, mountains, and half-ruined cities of those nations. His teams had greatly assisted the efforts of the military in the War on Terror. Through raging fire, blinding sand, and shed blood, his actions had been crucial to the war’s success.
Cross’s team brought down terrorist networks and undermined criminals who were thriving in the ongoing chaos of warfare. Cross had never wanted awards or acclaim for his efforts. But when his last tour had ended, he knew he’d made his country — and fellow soldiers — proud.
Cross had thought that would be the end of it. With his duty done, he figured he’d return home to find a regular job, marry a nice girl, and maybe have some kids.
However, the US government had other plans for him. Just minutes before he was scheduled to board the plane tha
t would take him home, a young corporal approached him.
“Sir!” the corporal said. He popped off a quick salute. “I need you to come with me, Commander. It’s urgent, sir.”
“I see,” Cross said. He couldn’t help glancing at the plane waiting to take him home as it idled on the tarmac.
“I’ll tell them to hold your seat,” his lieutenant said. Cross nodded and handed off his duffel bag to one of the airplane workers.
Cross followed the corporal over to the Humvee. He ducked into the cool interior of the vehicle. Waiting in the back was an unexpected — and unwelcome — face. It belonged to Bradley Upton, a CIA operative who had worked with Cross in the past.
“Ryan,” the spook said as Cross sat down.
“That’s Lieutenant Commander Cross,” he said coolly.
“Still?” Upton said with a smirk.
The young corporal hopped in behind Cross. He slammed the door shut and the driver peeled out. The rumble of the engine was so loud that Cross could barely hear himself think, much less ask Upton what the situation was.
Thirty minutes later, the Humvee wheeled into the Victory Base Complex near Baghdad. The base served as the nerve center for US operations in Iraq. The corporal hurried Cross out of the Humvee and led him into the main building, followed by Upton. The corporal threaded them through a bustling crowd of soldiers of countless ranks and job descriptions toward an unmarked office. When Cross and Upton entered, the corporal remained outside and shut the door behind them.
An impressive oak desk was at the center of the otherwise nearly empty room. When Cross realized who was sitting at the desk, his jaw dropped. Cross had never met the man personally, but anyone who’d watched CNN since the war started would recognize him.
Cross snapped to attention and saluted like a new recruit. “General,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were back in the country already, sir.”
The general waved off the salute. “No need to be so formal, Commander,” he said. He gestured to the two seats across the desk from him. Upton had already taken one of them. “Have a seat.”
The general produced a folder from a drawer in his desk. He recited the highlights of Cross’s service record as he read from the file. The general maintained a neutral expression as he read off the list of Cross’s many accomplishments and numerous awards.
After several minutes of recitation, the general stopped. “I’m impressed, Commander,” he said. “Which is why you’re here. I know your hitch is just about over, and I’m told you haven’t signed up for another tour. I want you to reconsider.”
Cross tried unsuccessfully to hide his confusion. “Sir?” he asked. The general wasn’t even in the Navy like Cross was. Why would he care whether Cross applied for more active duty?
“I’m not talking about the Navy,” the general said, understanding Cross’s confusion. “No, I’ve got something different in mind for you. Joint Special Operations Command has selected you to head a special missions unit. It would be an entirely new, secret program. You’re not obligated to accept. But if you don’t, I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”
Cross felt his eyebrows rise in curiosity. The special missions units of the US Special Operations Command were the elite of the elite in the armed forces. It was an honor to even be considered for such a position.
“If I may ask, sir,” Cross began. He nodded toward Upton without looking at him. “What’s he doing here?”
“We here at the Joint Special Operations Command have a history of respectful cooperation with the CIA,” the general said. “Agent Upton here performs field evaluations of soldiers who we’re considering to join us.”
Upton showed a slick smile. “Yours was a particular pleasure,” he said. “Remember Baqubah? You impressed a lot of people that day. Even me.”
Before Cross could say anything, the general said, “In return for his occasional service, we give Agent Upton opportunities like this one to try to steal candidates from us. The CIA has a paramilitary Special Operations Group of its own. Upton wants you to lead it.”
“It’s harder work, and it’s more dangerous,” Upton said. “But the pay’s better. A lot better. Our operators have more freedom in the field, too. You’ve seen Mission: Impossible, I’m sure? Well, that’s kindergarten compared to what we do.” Upton sat back with a satisfied look on his face.
“So that’s why you’re here, Lieutenant Commander,” the general said. “You’ve got a choice to make between us and the CIA. Or you can just walk out the door and get on that plane with the thanks of a grateful nation for the service you’ve already given.”
“Which, in today’s economy and job market,” Agent Upton said, “would be pretty stupid, if you ask me.”
Cross stared at the folder on the general’s desk. Slowly, he thought through the surprising choice set before him. Without raising his eyes, he said, “One thing I’ve never been is stupid.”
Upton clapped Cross on the shoulder. He rose with a triumphant expression on his face. “Smart choice,” he said. “Then let’s get —”
“I’m in, General,” Cross said, lifting his eyes at last. He reached across the desk and shook hands with the older man.
“Excellent,” the general said. “Welcome to Shadow Squadron.”
* * *
The long year that followed was filled with training and more training. Shadow Squadron was comprised of elite soldiers from every branch of the military. The goal was to have the group function independently anywhere in the world. As such, every operator had to be trained in relevant skills that his native military branch hadn’t taught him.
For the first couple of months, Cross met and accepted command of his new team and organized a training schedule for his men. For the rest of the year, the unit lived, drilled, and trained together. They learned to build on each other’s strengths. From a group of very different soldiers, Cross forged a cohesive unit that operated as one. All that remained after the endless training was to get the team into the field and prove it could handle a real mission.
That opportunity finally came one week ago. The trouble started in the Arabian Sea.
For years, the shipping lanes that pass through the Indian Ocean, across the Arabian Sea, and through the Gulf of Aden had been a treacherous feeding ground for Somali pirates. At first, the pirates were simply frustrated Somali fishermen doing whatever they could to protect their coastal fishing waters from other countries’ commercial fishing ships. With the Somali navy in shambles after the country’s civil war, there was no one else who could help.
As their early efforts proved successful, many of the desperate fishermen evolved into professional criminals. Their operations grew in size and complexity. Soon, their piracy began to extend farther and farther from the Somali shore. They began ransoming hostages and stealing cargo for profit. Some of these pirates had grown as rich and powerful as any warlord on land.
Every nation that had been affected by these criminals took steps to fight the pirate menace. They dispatched warships to the area. They trained their merchant ship crews to defend themselves. These measures were effective and drove down piracy rates significantly.
There were also many notable military successes against pirate operations. The US Navy SEALs liberated the captured Maersk Alabama, which increased confidence that the waterways were getting safer. Yet, for every Maersk Alabama incident with a happy ending, there were dozens more that went unreported or ended in the outlaws’ favor.
The pirates weren’t going away any time soon. The incident that called Cross’s Shadow Squadron into action was proof of that.
In the dead of one summer night, a World Food Program cargo vessel loaded with food aid and medical supplies had been attacked and boarded. In international waters, a pair of pirate motorboats launched from a mother ship, circling the WFP ship like sharks. Using AK-47s, the pirates easily subd
ued the crew and the vessel. Then, as far as anyone could tell, the pirates and their stolen vessel disappeared.
Before any ransom demands could be delivered, a distress call went out from the captured ship via satellite phone. Hiding aboard the cargo vessel, the caller was able to make contact with the US Navy a few times. But the pirates quickly found him and silenced him.
A satellite trace gave Naval Intelligence enough intel to guess where the pirates might have been headed. However, no ships on patrol had been able to find the pirates. A day later, new satellite recon discovered the pirates’ hideout — a tiny uncharted jungle island — just as they were towing the captured vessel to shore.
That day, anonymous ransom demands went out. They wanted $20 million for every hostage — except one. For the last hostage, they wanted $50 million. It was likely the last one had been the man they’d caught calling for help. The pirates set a one-week deadline.
As Cross relayed this information to his squad, he saw Chief Petty Officer Alonso Walker narrow his eyes. Cross knew that Walker was about to interrupt his briefing.
Walker had come out of the SEAL teams like Cross, but he’d been in service several years longer. As Cross’s second-in-command, Walker seemed to resent Cross’s perceived lack of special operations experience.
“Who is he?” Walker asked. “Who made the calls?”
“His name’s Alan Smithee,” Cross explained. “He’s the documentary filmmaker who shook up the presidential primaries last year. His new film is about the alleged corruption in the World Food Program.”
“Looks like he got a little more trouble than he bargained for,” Walker said. “Do we know who has him?”
“I was getting to that,” Cross said flatly. “Based on the information he was able to give us, we believe the pirates who attacked the ship belong to the Shayatin al-Bahar group. They operate out of the port city of Kismayo in southern Somalia. They claim to be supported by the Islamic Courts Union. But CIA analysts have proven that their money and weapons are provided by al-Qaeda.”