Tier One Wild df-2

by Dalton Fury

  Farmer was confident that Gangster and his boys had all the pieces they needed to plan the hit, and even though he had initially wished they had let him deploy with the headquarters section, the thirty-year-old analyst was satisfied with his contribution, and now just wanted to put his head down on his desk and crash.

  “Morning,” came a chipper voice behind him. Farmer turned to find Racer standing there with a cup of coffee and a dry whole-wheat bagel on a napkin. “Brought you breakfast, brother.”

  “Thanks,” said Farmer, wondering if the major would actually make him take a bite of that nasty bagel.

  “So … what’s going on with Gangster and the boys?” Kolt asked, and Farmer took the bagel and the coffee, placed both on the desk, and gave Racer a quick rundown of the situation in southern Yemen.

  “Live G-Hawk feed on screen three right there.”

  Farmer explained that the hit would take place at midnight local. It was several hours off, but Gangster and his squadron would leave their staging base soon.

  “Would love to be in Eritrea,” Kolt said as he looked at screen three.

  “Yes, sir. Me, too.”

  Kolt changed the subject. “Any word on ST6 in the Med?”

  Farmer updated Kolt on what he knew about the SEALs’ operation in Tripoli. As it stood, ST6 was still offshore on the USS Kearsarge, a helicopter carrier, waiting for final approval to launch an attack against a farm just west of Sirte, where intelligence from Aref Saleh himself had indicated a weapons cache was protected by ex-members of the Libyan military. Farmer explained that the intel was anything but absolute, and years ago the target would have just been another NAI — a named area of interest — that would receive intermittent attention from aerial collection platforms.

  But missiles scared POTUS, and he’d given SECDEF the mandate to root them out wherever he could find them, so chances looked good for an ST6 hit in Sirte within the next few hours.

  Kolt headed back down the Spine to his squadron a few minutes later. He had a ton of work to do today, and he wanted to get it over with before the Yemen hit so he could sit and listen to the action over the radio.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Fifty-five-year-old United Nations investigator Dr. Renny Marris stood on the edge of the highway, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun and wiping his forehead with a towel. The heat here reminded him of Libya, but the dust floating through the air was of a different makeup than the dust he’d experienced in North Africa.

  More powdery dirt and less gritty sand.

  He turned away from the sky and looked back to the flat scrub-strewn dirt just east of the highway. On it, the wreckage of the downed Black Hawk helicopter lay twisted and burned. Charred human remains were visible both inside and outside the twisted black metal.

  Around Dr. Marris, Mexican federal police officers, Mexican naval personnel, and investigators from the AFI, the Agencia Federal de Investigación, stood around, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  He wiped his brow again.

  If he had his choice he would say nothing. He did not normally make on-scene preliminary reports, but these Mexicans had been insistent that he give them his initial assessment.

  Marris had been to the scene of many skirmishes in his life, and he knew he was looking at the remnants of a major incident. In addition to the burned and charred helicopter, as he and his Mexican minders had flown into the area they’d passed over a deserted silver mine a couple of kilometers away. There, buildings had burned to the ground and vehicles had been blown to bits. Bullet holes, as well as the telltale scorch marks of RPG strikes, indicated that an engagement had taken place between forces on the ground and forces in the air.

  It was also clear that the Mexican Navy had lost. Their body count had been high, some thirteen dead. The surviving government forces had claimed that many of the enemy had also been killed, but no bodies had been recovered, and local hospitals reported no more patients with gunshot wounds had arrived during the night than on a normal evening in this part of Mexico’s interior.

  Marris had flown in from Toronto, getting on a flight at nine-thirty in the morning, just six hours after the incident itself. He’d been asked to come down because he was the foremost expert on the Igla-S missile and, according to reports from two other helicopter crews involved in the battle, it seemed extremely likely that an Igla-S missile had been used to down the Black Hawk helicopter.

  Marris hoped this was not the case. He hoped like hell some dumb gunman for the narcos had gotten a lucky shot off with an RPG-7, and the Black Hawk had caught it just right, sending the craft and its men into the dirt before the pilot had time to properly react.

  But now, as Marris inspected the impact point of the strike on the fuselage of the helicopter just behind the engines, it was abundantly clear to him that a SAM had indeed knocked the big helicopter out of the sky. The warhead of the SA-24 was larger than any of the other MANPADs on the market, and he could see the effects of the bigger blast in the metal and the scatter path of debris along the highway.

  “Damn.” Marris said it to himself so that the Mexicans who spoke English would not hear and understand. Marris knew much of the Mexican leadership hoped that this was, in fact, an SA-24 shoot-down. That would mean, they all assumed, that the Mexican cartels had purchased weapons from Libya. While horrifying news for Mexican military and police flight crews, for the leadership in Mexico City this meant more money from the United States to combat the narcos.

  Marris had no patience for such bureaucratic cynicism. He was here to find out if “his” weapons had been used, and he had established this with just a quick inspection.

  But what was he going to do about it? He knew good and well that the moment he announced definitively that an Igla-S had, indeed, brought down the Black Hawk, the United States of America would know that Libyan weapons were in their hemisphere and this would raise the stakes precipitously.

  He could not well hide this information from the world — he knew this, but he didn’t like it. If he had his way he would go straight to New York, to the United Nations, and he would tell the leadership of his organization in secret. They would redouble their efforts and, sooner or later, Renny Marris would find the rest of the missing SAMs.

  Getting the United States even more involved in the hunt than they had been over the past year would do nothing but raise the level of bloodshed even higher.

  Another brush of the towel over his brow, and another look at the sun in the afternoon sky, helped the Canadian doctor organize his thoughts.

  “Damn.” Renny Marris had no respect for the Americans, even less so after the incident in Tripoli with the CIA man and the goons Marris assumed were Navy SEALs. But he did have respect for the truth and he knew he could not cover up what he knew to be true.

  He turned to the Mexicans on the highway.

  With a reluctant nod he said softly, “Yes. This is clearly the work of a missile smuggled from Libya.”

  Marris walked away from the wreckage, back toward his helicopter, his heart heavy with worry about what was now to come.

  * * *

  Raynor sat with his mates in the briefing room at 1630 hours, picturing the scene in Yemen, filling in the details from the transmissions coming through the speakers. Gangster and eighteen of his men had hit the village just after midnight local time, approaching from the ocean, flying nap-of-the earth in Black Hawks flown by the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, also known as the Night Stalkers.

  AH-6J Little Birds took out the gun emplacements on the roofs of the buildings, and Monk, Tackle, Benji, and Gangster led the ground assault on the target.

  Raynor found himself gritting his teeth with tension as he listened to the action over the radio and watched the heat signatures on the live feed as the assaulters flowed effortlessly to multiple external breach points. Operator and air crew transmissions cracked and hissed, gunfire and thumping chopper rotors filled the dead air between the words.

  It w
as not long into the mission before a “wounded eagle” call came, a code for an injured operator. The men around Racer sat silently; they’d all been in ops like this where mates had been wounded, and some of the men in the room, including Raynor, had themselves been wounded eagles in the past. They all wished they were there, helping to take down the target while making certain the enemy paid for their mate’s blood with blood of their own.

  Kolt listened to Gangster command and control his operators during the hit. He sounded a little amped up, but was so far getting a passing grade. It was evident Monk was in charge of the clearing of the village itself, and Benji controlled the perimeter. Tackle breached a small building and met resistance, and another wounded eagle call was broadcast in the briefing room.

  One of the Black Hawks circling the perimeter of the target area took several rounds from an AK fired from inside the village, and the radio transmissions indicated that two of the air crew were wounded, but the helo remained airborne and on station.

  Kolt and the rest of the men at the compound sat quietly through an attack that lasted less than twenty minutes. When it was over, Gangster called Webber, who was back at the staging base in Eritrea, to give his sitrep. These comms were broadcast in the briefing room as well.

  “Wrangler Zero One, this is Gangster.”

  “Go for Wrangler Zero One.”

  Gangster’s voice was clipped and professional. “Target secure. Numerous EKIA, still counting. Status of friendly — door gunner on one of the Black Hawks is dead. Copilot on the same helo took a round in the arm. I’ve got four WIA eagles. Two of them critical.”

  “Roger. Send call signs of the criticals, over,” Webber said over the radio.

  Kolt had not expected it to go down clean, but watching the ISR feed as several people were loaded onto a helicopter made his stomach tighten and the back of his neck sweat.

  “Tackle caught an AK round to the stomach. Lost a lot of blood. He’s on a helo now. We’re working on him. Kingfish ate frag from an RPG. He’s stable but not out of danger, over.”

  “Roger all,” said Webber. “Good job.”

  Gangster continued, “Can confirm now one-four EKIA. Several more bugged out to the hills. We’ve got another two dozen or so women and children here in the vil, as well. Looks like we hit a family reunion. Over.”

  The assault phase of Gangster’s operation now over, the operators began the SSE, the sensitive site exploitation phase. Now they would tear the place apart looking for any items of intelligence value.

  Gangster had been ordered to first head to the twenty-foot container that Farmer had found there in the middle of the settlement. It was hoped by all that it would be filled to the brim with the missing SA-24s, so everyone could go home happy.

  “Wrangler Zero One, Gangster, over.”

  “Zero One, go.”

  “We’re at the container. It’s up on blocks. Just about four feet off the ground. We’ll pop the door and climb up in it. Wait one … Okay … I’ve got a stack of wooden crates here,” he said before a long pause.

  The pause lasted several seconds. Then, “Negative. These boxes are all empty. Only thing in here are some bedrolls and some water bottles lying loose on the floor.”

  Kolt and the others in the briefing room looked at one another. No one was sure of the significance of this, or even if it was significant.

  Then Gangster’s voice came back up on comms. “Wrangler Zero One, something else interesting here. It’s a device that seems to be made out of expended ordnance and a piece of an RPG. It’s not a functioning weapon, but it looks like a SAM launcher.”

  “But it’s not a SAM launcher?” Webber asked.

  “Negative. No way. But it looks like it could be a model. For training purposes.”

  “It’s in the container?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Okay. Get some video and wrap it up.”

  “Roger that. Gangster out.”

  Kolt and the others said a silent prayer for Tackle and Kingfish, then they speculated about the potential intel haul. There was much still to learn about what was going on at the target location, so Kolt decided he’d drop in on Ken Farmer at the SCIF later in the afternoon to see what news had made its way back to the SCIF from the CIA or other channels.

  Kolt left the conference room with a group from his squadron who would be heading to Wyoming early the next morning for alpine training. With the target area in Yemen being a semi-permissive environment, they figured the op was a wrap. They all went together to the squadron bar and passed around some cold ones to celebrate Gangster’s squadron’s success.

  Kolt had just offered up a toast.

  “Here’s to Tackle and Kingfish and a speedy recovery.”

  Just as the cold beer hit Kolt’s upper lip his beeper went off. As he reached for it he heard the Unit PA buzzer. Webber’s secretary came over the PA. “Major Raynor call 4005. Major Raynor, 4005.”

  Kolt killed his beer, finished a short story about something that had happened when he was a young troop commander, and wished the guys well on their trip before heading to the command group. He wasn’t on alert anymore. No hurry.

  He was close enough to Webber’s office, so he just walked in. As he did so, Joyce stood quickly from behind her desk. “Major Raynor, I have Colonel Webber on the phone for you. I can send it to his extension. Head right on in.”

  Raynor looked down at his watch in confusion. It had only been thirty minutes and a tallboy since he’d left the briefing room. Even if Gangster and his men had left the target, they would still be in Yemeni territory. Kolt could not fathom why Webber would be calling him here at Bragg, essentially during a hit on the other side of the globe, while the other squadron was still in harm’s way.

  He stepped into Webber’s office, grabbed the phone off the colonel’s desk, and sat down in one of the chairs in front of it. As much as he would have liked to sit in Webber’s seat, he fought the urge.

  “Raynor here, sir.”

  Webber’s voice was stressed. “I just got a call from Langley. There is a situation developing.”

  “Send it, sir.”

  “There was an engagement last night in Mexico between suspected members of the Zetas cartel and military forces.”

  This was odd. Why the hell would Webber be calling about that? “Yes, sir. It was on the news this morning.”

  “An SA-24 took down a Navy Black Hawk with thirteen on board,” said Webber.

  “Holy shit,” Raynor said softly. “That was not on the news.”

  “There have been reports of SA-7s and SA-16s, and maybe even some Stingers on the loose in Mexico, even though none of them have turned up. But this has been verified by your old friend Tripwire as a Grinch strike, and the only missing Grinches are out of Libya.”

  “Did it come from the shipment that went to Yemen?” Kolt asked.

  “No way to know that yet. But if they traveled by air they could have made it into Mexico with time to spare. The SECDEF wants JSOC down on the border and ready in case there is an opportunity to get the munitions back.”

  “Of course,” said Raynor, slowly understanding the reason for the call from Webber.

  “Six is still in the Med, and Gangster and his squadron won’t be on U.S. soil for twelve hours minimum. SEALs from Coronado are going to predeployment locations to the west, in California, Arizona, and New Mexico, but the commanding general has given us the hit if the SAMs are found in the east.

  “Are you putting us back on alert, sir?”

  “Yes, I am. Recall your teams still in Fayetteville. You’re wheels-up in ninety minutes. You’re going straight to McAllen, Texas, for right now, but Langley has assets in Mexico searching for the Zetas with the missiles, and UAVs over the border looking for any signs of them.”

  Kolt asked, “How do we know they were Zetas? What if they were AQAP and they are heading to the U.S.?”

  Webber said, “If this AQAP camp was training terrorists how to fire the SA-
24, then I think you are asking a great question. We will double-time the analysis of the intel haul at the target in Yemen, and push the details to the White House. You just get everyone available in your squadron on the C-17 ASAP. The deputy commander will get everybody there to help push you guys out.”

  “Yes, sir. By the way, any update on Kingfish and Tackle?”

  “Kingfish is critical. Tackle didn’t make it. His wife hasn’t been notified yet, so close hold.”

  Shit, thought Kolt. Son of a bitch.

  “Focus on the task at hand, Raynor, and watch yourself down there,” added Webber. “The Zetas may not be jihadists, but they’ve been fighting a two-front war down there in Mexico for over five years. They have fought off other cartels and they’ve fought off the military and federal police. I want you to give their potential for danger to you and your men your full attention and respect. They are as bad a bunch as you’ve come up against over here and we certainly don’t need any more fallen eagles’ names engraved on the wall.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Seconds later, Major Kolt Raynor ran through Webber’s outer office on his way to the staff duty to initiate the squadronwide recall, passing Joyce by at a sprint.

  * * *

  Raynor stood behind his desk in his office. In front of him, a half dozen of his men sat on the other desks and leaned against the wall. These were the first group of squadron members to make it in, as they had been down at the range working some evening CQB — close quarters battle — training. The coded page went out to the entire squadron, of course, but many of the guys had already departed for team training across the country or signed out on leave.

  But those available had come running or come calling. Even though they weren’t on alert anymore, when a Unit member’s beeper shows the real-world recall code, he is expected to drop what he is doing and make his way directly back to the compound.