Chunks of rock plinked off the turret’s faceted surface, forcing Mason to duck. The concussive explosions rocked his MRAP and choked the entire area with dust and smoke.
“Did anyone see RPG trails?” Mason called to his squads.
None had.
Mortars.
“All units, reverse course! Reverse, reverse! Launch smoke!”
He had to get his vehicles moving before the Taliban adjusted their aim for a second salvo. Mason believed the next round of mortars would be targeted farther along the road, not behind.
He guessed right.
More explosions cratered the road where they would’ve been had they continued forward. After his radio operator reported the attack to command and relayed their GPS position, Mason was told air support was being dispatched from Shindand Air Base.
Believing the Taliban had a spotter somewhere on high ground, Mason opened up with the M2 and walked his tracers along the rim of the canyon. Chunks of pulverized rock blasted free from the cliff’s face. He saw no dust cloud from the launch of the mortars, which probably meant they lay beyond the canyon’s rim, well out of his line of sight.
He told the other turret gunners to open fire on the rim.
Radio chatter from the lead vehicle informed him the downed biker had jumped into the dry creek and ducked out of sight. Mason swung his turret in that direction as his driver continued to back up. More chatter came through his headset.
The motorcyclist was back up—shouldering an RPG!
Mason lined up on the kid and thumbed the trigger.
The Browning answered the call.
Clenching his teeth, Mason walked a burst of tracers onto the human form. The kid’s body shuddered as though being pulled in every direction at once.
He pivoted his turret back to the north, where hundreds of slugs peppered the canyon’s rim. Mason added his fire to the barrage. The air shimmered in ghostlike pulses as the supersonic bullets tore through the atmosphere. Expended brass and links began piling up next to his weapon. Mason reached down and tossed some of it over the turret’s armor.
“Ammo!”
One of his men handed up another can. He fired the remaining rounds, tossed the empty can into the canyon, and replaced it. After feeding the belt into the Browning, he cranked it three times until a link came out. His M2 was good to go.
Decision time.
Mason had no way to know if an IED had been planted up ahead or if the motorcycle was rigged to explode, but there hadn’t been any bombs along the stretch of road they’d just traversed. With no room to turn the MRAPs around, they had two choices. Go forward or go backward.
Or take the fight to the Taliban.
Mason was sick to death of this damned stretch of road. It was time to neutralize those Taliban assholes once and for all. The question was how.
Bravo’s MRAP held the platoon’s sniper. If Mason could get him deployed, he might be able to take out the Taliban’s spotter. At a minimum, his shooter could put some suppression fire on the spotter, forcing him to scramble. But even if successful, that wouldn’t end the threat.
Despite the risk, Mason decided to attack the mortar teams on foot. He ordered the German MRAP to increase its speed and continue reversing course until it cleared the arroyos. Once it reached flatter ground shy of the canyon, he ordered it to leave the road and swing around to the north, cutting off any Taliban escape in that direction.
Mason yelled into the compartment below. “Get ready. We’re deploying in thirty seconds. We’re taking out those mortar teams.” He repeated the command to the other BSI vehicles and ordered a man in each MRAP to stay behind and lay down M2 suppression fire as needed.
Chip volunteered to lead Alpha’s ascent up the canyon—a gutsy offer. Without knowing the number of combatants they faced out there, it could be a suicide mission. If a platoon-sized force of Taliban lurked on the high ground, his men could be pinned down and made vulnerable to another mortar attack.
Three more explosions thumped the rocky slope. Once again, pulverized stone and shrapnel pinged off the MRAPs’ armored surfaces. One of the blasts hadn’t missed by more than a few meters. The Taliban mortar teams were now firing at will, no longer concerned about being simultaneous.
Mason believed he was facing 81 mm shells. If they were HEAT rounds, the high-explosive anti-tank projectiles would penetrate the plate steel atop their MRAPs, creating a very unhappy result. As long as he kept his MRAPs moving along the winding road, they’d be difficult targets to hit. Reversing the convoy had temporarily confused the enemy, but it wouldn’t last. Mason fully expected to see explosions any second in the direction they were traveling.
He ordered his remaining MRAPs to launch more smoke grenades and slow to a crawl. The smoke wouldn’t be super effective under the current wind conditions, but he didn’t need much of a margin to execute his plan. When the white smoke reached its peak, he gave the order to stop. Including himself, twenty-one BSI personnel jumped out the rear doors of their MRAPs. The entire off-loading took less than four seconds; he and his men hunkered on the low side of the road as the MRAPs resumed backing up.
Deafening explosions continued to erupt all around them. Geysers of dirt and rock were flung in every direction. Goggles protected their eyes, but the white smoke assaulted their lungs.
Fifteen seconds after they exited the vehicles, the engine noise from the last MRAP faded and they lost sight of it around a bend in the road.
An eerie calmness ensued as the mortars went silent and the cover smoke thinned.
Were the Taliban teams already on the move? If so, Mason had no intention of letting them escape.
Sounding like crackling thunder, short bursts of turret fire continued to echo down the canyon. Mason ordered a battlefield cease-fire. If the mortars started up again, he wanted to hear the launches.
Mason was an old southerner at heart and believed in dividing his forces to gain a tactical advantage. They’d make a three-pronged advance up the slope. Alpha squad would take the left, Bravo the center, and Charlie the right. He told Bravo’s sniper team to remain behind and find a good shooting position. At his order, all three squads sprinted across the road and began their ascent. Not only was the terrain steep, but it also made it hard to find footholds that didn’t give. If the Taliban were going to attack, now would be a good time.
Mason took a moment to call his command MRAP for a gunship update—still no ETA on the chopper.
Low, rumbling whomps resonated through the canyon. The Taliban mortar teams had resumed. Either their spotter didn’t see Mason and his men down here, or he deemed the MRAPs to be more valuable targets.
As near as he could tell, the launchers were at his two o’clock, just beyond a V-shaped protrusion of the rim. It was a tactically sound location, protected by a steep wall of rock that couldn’t be easily or quickly climbed. The best route to the rim was a snake-shaped ravine just south of the protrusion. If they could follow that up, they could get behind the Taliban mortar position.
A single rifle shot echoed down the canyon.
“Everyone get down!”
Too late.
The man behind Mason grunted as a bullet smashed into his ballistic vest.
“Sniper!” Mason yelled. “Did anyone see the flash?”
Mason’s radio crackled to life. He knew from the calm voice it was Bravo’s sniper.
“I’ve got him.”
A second shot boomed, this time from behind their position. Near the tip of the protrusion, a single Taliban tumbled down the rock face. The lifeless body slid the last ten meters and stopped.
“Good shooting, Finn. Any sign of the mortar’s spotter?”
“Negative, but that could’ve been him.”
“Double-time to a new SP and keep eyes on the rim.”
“Copy.”
His
man who’d taken the bullet in the chest grimaced. He looked like he was about to vomit.
“Breathe, Tucker,” Mason told him. “Hang back for a spell. You’ve probably got a few cracked ribs.”
“I’m okay. I’ll be . . . right behind you.”
“Sit tight, Corporal. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mason patted his wounded man’s shoulder and resumed his ascent.
If Bravo’s sniper had neutralized the Taliban’s spotter, the mortar attack might be over. Hit-and-run was a common tactic, but Mason wanted to find more than footprints up there.
He looked across the canyon and didn’t like the way Alpha and Charlie were no longer synchronized. He ordered Charlie to slow down so Alpha could make a parallel ascent. He wanted his two squads to arrive at either side of the V-shaped protrusion simultaneously.
The mortars fell silent again. Had the Taliban spotted his men? Mason diverted his squad to the south so they could take advantage of the ravine for additional cover.
Thirty meters from the rim, all hell broke loose.
Half a dozen Taliban appeared at the top and opened fire; the white twinkling of their AKs stood out against the deepening twilight like a fireworks display.
Mason and his men leapt into the deepest part of the ravine and slid down its rocky bank. Each man protected his face as hundreds of 7.62 mm bullets thumped through like a maelstrom of exploding firecrackers. Once again, they found themselves mired in choking dust. One of Mason’s men took a round in the thigh and cursed. A dark stain began saturating the man’s pants.
“Tie that off and fall back to Tucker’s position,” Mason yelled.
Bravo and Alpha opened fire on the rim.
Bullets peppered the cliff face, creating tiny craters in the rock face.
Mason ordered Charlie squad to keep going.
The boom from Bravo’s sniper echoed through the canyon again. Another Taliban slid down the slope like a rag doll.
Then, as abruptly as it began, the AK fire stopped. Mason had seen this before. The Taliban weren’t stupid. Fearless, but definitely not stupid. They would typically open fire, relocate, then fire again.
“Sergeant Hahn, you’re with me. The rest of you stay here and cover our ascent. Conserve ammo. Don’t fire unless you have positive targets in sight.”
If the Taliban’s intent was to slow them down to allow the mortar teams time to disassemble their tubes and beat feet out of there, they were going to be sorely disappointed. Mason intended to raid their party. He estimated they could be at the rim in just under forty seconds.
More mortar-launch whomps reverberated off the canyon walls.
With no way to know where the projectiles would land, Mason ordered all his squads to take cover.
Time seemed to stretch as they waited for the high-arcing munitions to detonate.
Mason watched in horror as one of the rounds landed in the middle of Charlie squad.
Shit. He didn’t know how bad it was, but he knew there’d be serious wounds or even fatalities. Charlie’s squad leader radioed that his unit had taken three casualties, one serious. Mason told them to stop their advance and take cover.
Where was that chopper?
“Let’s go, Chip. Balls to wind. We’re putting those assholes out of business.”
“I’m right behind you.”
More explosions rocked Charlie.
Mason now knew the launch tubes were at his two o’clock position, in roughly the place where the AK fire had come from. So far, the AK-wielding Taliban hadn’t returned, likely cautious of the sniper who’d taken down two of their comrades.
After half a dozen explosions, the mortars fell silent again.
Worried about ricochets, he told the MRAPs to cease firing at the ridge. He and Chip were twenty seconds from the top and really huffing. Mason concentrated on breathing and dug harder to get footholds.
He could no longer see Bravo or Charlie; the V-shaped protrusion blocked his line of sight. A quick radio call confirmed Charlie’s arrival to the summit was ninety seconds. Mason reminded them about the cross-fire risk.
For the last ten meters, he and Chip would be dangerously exposed. The shallow ravine they followed got gradually shallower until it flattened out with the rest of the slope. If any Taliban appeared directly above them, they’d have little chance of surviving.
Another solo report echoed down the canyon.
Not knowing its source, they dived for the deck.
Like something out of a western movie, a Taliban soldier tumbled down the rock-strewn slope right in front of them.
Bravo’s sniper. He’d been covering their ascent.
Half a second later their world turned into dust, shattered rock, and zinging bullets. They lay flat and hoped a lucky shot wouldn’t find them. Mason felt a hornet-like sting on his calf and knew he’d just taken a bullet fragment, likely a tiny piece of deformed copper. He stole a look at the rim and saw the muzzle flashes. Fortunately, they were at the tip of the protrusion and too far away to be accurate. Most of the bullet impacts were separated by several meters.
Mason keyed his radio. “Bravo. Hold position. Suppression fire only, short bursts, conserve ammo.”
Below and to their right, his second squad peppered the rim at the source of the twinkling AK fire. Over the crackling M4s, Mason heard the low woofs of Bravo’s grenade launchers. A fiery blast near the tip of the protrusion collapsed the rim, and two Taliban found themselves without any ground under their feet. They cartwheeled down the slope like spastic gymnasts.
Multiple M4 bursts nailed the tumbling men.
The Taliban rifles fell silent again.
Shaking their heads to dislodge the worst of the dirt, Mason and Hahn used the break to advance the remaining distance. If they were going to get shot, it might as well happen while attacking. The distant rumble of M4 fire continued to crackle through the canyon. He ordered another battlefield cease-fire, but excluded his sniper from the order.
The terrain was so steep near the top of the ravine, they had to sling their rifles and use both hands to steady themselves. For the last three meters, they couldn’t use their weapons. Just below the rim, Mason stopped and pulled a grenade. Chip did the same. They nodded and tossed the frags over the top. The air seemed to shimmer as the concussive blasts shook the entire area.
Agonizing screams followed, then went silent.
With Chip following, Mason clawed his way up the last of the slope and lay flat. Dust and smoke hung everywhere. He could scarcely see his hand in front of his face.
Being blind created the worst kind of stress. He didn’t want to fire into the dust because there was no way to know what was right in front of them. They might fire into a boulder and take themselves out with ricochets.
Patience, he told himself. Sometimes no action was the best action.
Slowly, the dust from the grenade detonations cleared enough to see five meters.
Then ten.
He told Hahn to be ready; both had their M4s shouldered.
What materialized looked like an ant farm.
No more than a tennis court away, several dozen Taliban were scrambling to take down their mortar tubes and pack the remaining ammo.
“I’ll take left to center,” Mason said. “You take the right.”
With surgical precision, they walked the bursts from either end of the scrambling men into the middle.
The result was devastating.
Six men went down, with four others clutching their stomachs and chests.
Their M4s empty, Mason yelled, “Grenades.”
They rolled onto their sides and hurled the frags. Some of the Taliban recognized the gesture and dropped, but others weren’t so fast.
“Eyes,” Mason said, reminding Hahn to avoid being flash blinded.
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Two more blasts slammed the desert. Mason felt something thump off his helmet.
They used the newly produced chaos to reload their carbines.
“Charlie, you’re clear. Advance! Advance! Alpha, follow our route. Advance!”
Both squads copied his orders.
He was about to send another M4 salvo when a chain of eruptions headed straight toward them. One of the Taliban had taken a knee and lined up on them.
And Hahn was on the business end of the chain.
Without thinking, Mason shoved Hahn out of the way.
Mason felt his arm tear open as if struck by an invisible hatchet. His brain told him to curl up and wait for the volley to stop, but adrenaline ruled the moment. He rolled back to his right and discovered his left sleeve was shredded from elbow to wrist.
Oh man, he thought. That looks bad.
The next thing his mind registered was blood.
Lots of it.
He ignored the overwhelming desire to cover the wound and yelled for Hahn to return fire.
Hahn’s M4 answered the call.
The desert fighter shuddered as bullets tore through his body. Remarkably, the man tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t work. Hahn finished him with a second burst.
The rest of the Taliban abandoned their tasks and took off in a dead run, their loose clothing flowing in the wind. It was clear they didn’t know how many men they faced.
With one hand, Mason shouldered his weapon and emptied the magazine. Two more Taliban went down.
“Alpha, ETA?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Hold your fire until you reach the rim. I’m hit. Hahn’s returning fire. Charlie will be at your three o’clock across the plateau. You copy that?”
“Affirm, Charlie at our three. Hang on, sir, we’re on our way!”
“Charlie, Alpha will be at your nine.”
“Copy, Alpha at our nine.”
Damn. His arm felt like a swarm of hornets had attacked. From the look of the fabric, the bullet was probably tumbling when it cut into his flesh. The wound needed a pressure bandage, but until the rest of Alpha arrived, he’d have to let it hemorrhage.
Contract to Kill Page 2