Green Berets with Humvee in Afghanistan
Khod Valley
Ice and Mirza had pushed hard to reach the top of the ridgeline in less than two hours. Their position on the mountainous spur now afforded them a view down into the valley to where they could see the American patrol approaching. “Sir, I have spotted a single target moving along the ridgeline,” Mirza’s voice came over the radio. They were lying about fifty meters apart, systematically searching the terrain on the opposite side of the valley through their high-powered optics.
“Where?” Ice asked.
“Directly across, 100 meters below the prominent crest, moving north.”
Ice crawled forward and scanned the terrain on the opposing slope through the scope of his assault rifle. The location was almost six hundred meters away and covered in rocks; he almost missed the target. There was no doubt the solitary figure was one of the men they were looking for. He was wearing chest webbing and carrying what looked like a sniper rifle.
“Seen,” Ice whispered.
“You want us to take him down?”
“Negative. Let’s just watch and see where he’s heading.”
They didn’t have to wait long. The target moved to what appeared to be a rugged outcrop, lifted the edge of a camouflage net and disappeared from view.
"Damn! We would never have spotted that,” transmitted Ice.
Now that he knew what he was looking for, Ice scanned the surrounding area. He counted five similar outcrops that could be well camouflaged fighting positions. “I count five,” Mirza whispered over the radio.
“Same. More than enough to hit our Green Beret friends hard.”
“Ice,” Mirza replied, “Texas 1-3 is on the move. They’re going to be inside the Taliban engagement area in no time.”
Ice needed the Pain Train on station and needed it now! “Pain Train, this is Ice. I need an ETA.” He opened a channel to the aircraft.
“We’re thirty minutes out, old man, inbound as fast as we can,” Mitch responded.
Ice looked down at the screen on his forearm and the image beamed from the Sentinel UAV. Using his finger, he zoomed out the image to get a clear indication of the distance between his position, Texas 1-3, and the Taliban. Zooming the image back in on the concealed positions, he dropped five target indicators on them. Satisfied with the locations of his targets, he sent the target data to Mitch in the Pain Train. By his calculations, Texas 1-3 would reach the engagement area in about ten minutes but the Pain Train wouldn’t be on-station for another thirty.
The impending ambush could provide cover for Ice and Mirza to slip past the Taliban and infiltrate further up the valley. Alternatively, if Ice warned the Americans, they might just pull back, leaving him and the Pain Train to deal with the Taliban. Ice looked down at his watch; he literally had seconds to make a decision.
There was no way Ice could let the Green Berets walk into an ambush; he had to warn them. He selected the communications menu and contacted PRIMAL HQ. “Bunker, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Chua replied.
“Can you patch me through to Texas 1-3?”
“Give me two minutes.”
Ice peered through his scope at the Green Beret convoy as it moved from the valley floor up the mountain pass.
***
Captain Kevin Daley, the commander of Texas 1-3, watched anxiously from his Humvee as it crept cautiously along the narrow track that wound its way up the mountain pass. His truck’s doors had been removed, allowing him to sit sideways with his weapon covering the cliffs on the right hand side.
In front of the vehicle two platoons of Afghan soldiers were patrolling on foot. The fifty soldiers spread out on either side of the track, scanning the high ground for potential ambush and checking the track for Improvised Explosive Devices. They had been working with the twelve-man Special Forces Operational Detachment for over six months now and they were all battle-hardened veterans.
“Water, Jimmy.” Kev reached over his shoulder and his signaler handed him a bottle of water from the cooler in the back of the vehicle.
Jimmy spat his chewing tobacco out of the Humvee and looked back out at the valley walls towering over them. “You think the fuckers who killed the Stryker boys are still hanging round?” he drawled.
“Not sure, buddy. We’ll be OK though.”
“You sound scared, boss.” The young radio operator knew the Captain well enough to give a bit of cheek.
“Fuck, no! I just think a bit of air support wouldn’t go astray.” Kev wasn’t impressed that all available aircraft were supporting the heavy contacts in the south. “I’m not real happy having to punch the Kandak forward like this, but it’s the only way we’re gonna stop these assholes getting the jump on us.” Kandak was the local term for a company of Afghan Army soldiers.
“Fuck, better them than us, boss,” Jimmy said.
The Captain looked over his shoulder and fixed him with a dark stare.
“Shit, boss, I was kidding, but did you see those Strykers. Those guys died real bad.” Jimmy used his gloved fingers to stuff a wad of tobacco under his lip as he spoke, “We need some fucking warthogs up top. Those bad boys’ll blow the tits off the towelheads.” The A-10 Warthog was a favorite of the Green Berets, the devastating power of its 30mm Gatling gun could change the tide of a battle in seconds.
“Well, we don’t, buddy, so we gotta—“ Kev was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice coming through on the radio speaker.
“Texas 1-3, this is Nemesis 4, over,” the radio transmitted over the secure military frequency.
As far as Kev was aware, there were no other friendly forces in the area. “Jimmy, who the hell is Nemesis?” Kev asked as he grabbed the radio handset, pushing it up against his ear.
“No idea, boss.”
Kev transmitted, “Nemesis 4, this is Texas 1-3. Who are you?”
“Texas 1-3, we are a friendly call sign. You are approaching an ambush on the eastern ridge. You need to halt immediately, over.”
“Nemesis 4, this is Texas 1-3, what is—“
A huge explosion rocked the Humvee. The driver jumped on the brakes and the vehicle slammed to a halt, smashing the Captain’s helmet into the dash. Through the cracked windscreen he watched the Afghan infantry scramble for cover and the eastern ridgeline opened up in a barrage of muzzle flashes. Plumes of dust and smoke enveloped his men as they sought refuge from the onslaught.
Kev’s mind instantly reviewed the situation. The muzzle flashes were appearing from what looked like a text-book defensive formation and he immediately knew they were in the middle of a well-prepared ambush with heavy weapons sited in a deadly overwatch position.
The fifty-caliber heavy machine gun in the Humvee turret opened up with a steady thud, spraying rounds into the valley walls. The gunner screamed as he started to fire, “INCOMING! GET THE FUCK OUT!”
“GO! GO! GO!” screamed Jimmy as he dove out of the vehicle head first, the driver hot on his heels. Kev leapt from his seat, hitting the ground in a roll. He slammed into a small ditch as a missile hit the stricken Humvee and detonated. Heat washed over him and time slowed as the vehicle exploded, throwing shrapnel, burning equipment and the remains of the fifty-cal gunner across the track. The blast snapped Kev’s head forward, smashed the bridge of his helmet into a rock and knocked him unconscious.
***
Ice was lying on his stomach watching Texas 1-3 through his rifle scope when the first missile launched and slammed into the bonnet of the Humvee. Almost instantaneously all five of the enemy positions on the opposite ridgeline erupted with a roar of machine gun, grenade, mortar and rocket fire. In the first seconds of the onslaught at least a dozen Afghan and American soldiers were killed or wounded as the ground around the formation was lashed by a maelstrom of shrapnel and lead.
Ice silently adjusted his rifle sight and scanned the enemy position for a target. “Free to engage,” he said over the radio. He steadied his crosshairs on the nearest
muzzle-flash and fired five rapid shots, the rounds kicking up dust around the fortified position.
“Boss, they’re too well dug in. I can’t get a clean shot,” Mirza transmitted.
“Watch for an opening. Try and suppress until the Pain Train comes on-station,” Ice replied, his voice as calm as ever. “Pain Train, what’s your ETA?”
Mitch came in over the radio. “Eight minutes out, chaps, targets loaded, ramp down. We’re ready to drop.” Ice double-checked the target coordinates on his flex-screen.
“Roger. Targets are ready to receive. Bring the Pain.” As Ice finished speaking, a missile jumped from a position they hadn’t spotted, the back-blast lifting the camouflage netting covering the firing position. The missile streaked across the valley, slamming into one of the Humvees. Ice brought his rifle to bear on the new position. He caught a glimpse of the missile tube but it was just outside of the range of his assault rifle. “MIRZA!”
“Saw it. He’s lying low in the pit, but I’ve got a shot on the launcher.” The Indian anticipated Ice’s order and squeezed off a round.
Ice saw a flash and the missile launcher fell from view. “Direct hit!” he said. Apart from that lucky shot, Ice knew they weren’t able to effectively suppress the Taliban’s heavy weapons. The rest of the ambush positions continued to rain fire down on Texas 1-3 and if the Pain Train didn’t arrive soon, the Afghan soldiers and Green Berets would be annihilated.
***
Texas 1-3’s remaining Humvee was parked in a shallow depression, the MK19 grenade launcher on top of it firing rapidly as the operator launched volley after volley of grenades into the ridgeline. The weapon was firing at maximum range, lobbing grenades into the general target area, but it wasn’t close enough to be effective against the fortified positions.
Kev could vaguely register the distinctive sound of the 40mm high velocity rounds as he came to and his eyes flickered open to see Jimmy crouched over him, using a bottle to splash water on his face.
The Green Beret commander had only been out for a couple of minutes but in modern warfare that was enough time to win or lose a battle. “What the fuck’s going on, Jimmy?” Kev croaked as he came to his senses, adjusting his helmet. The crump of the grenades intermingled with explosions, rifle shots and ricochets, creating an overwhelming cacophony of sound.
“Some cunt smoked us with a missile, boss,” Jimmy yelled. He had the radio on his back and Kev’s second-in-command was next to him, leaning against the Humvee, the handset pressed into his head.
Kev scrambled to his knees and slid in beside his second-in-command.
“Shit, boss, I thought we lost you,” the Master Sergeant yelled over the noise of the battle.
“What’s the situation?”
“Alpha and Bravo platoon are both under heavy fire, we’ve taken a shit load of casualties, and the Kandak commander is trying to pull his men back. His radio operator’s dead, so I am talking direct.” The senior soldier handed the radio handset back to Jimmy. “I can’t raise HQ and certainly can’t raise any fucking air support.”
“So what’s the plan?” Kev asked.
“I’m trying to use the rest of the team to provide suppressing fire and let the Afghans pull back. Problem is their fucking positions are fortified and at our maximum range. They’re using heavy caliber weapons and out-ranging us.”
Kev knew they needed to come up with a solution or all his Afghan infantry would be wiped out. The obvious plan would be to flank the enemy up the ridgeline but this could take hours, and by that time both platoons of the Kandak would be KIA. The look on the Master Sergeant’s weary face said it all. The situation was hopeless.
“Hey, boss!” Jimmy yelled, holding out the radio handset. “It’s that Nemesis fucker again.”
Kev grabbed the handset off Jimmy, holding it to his ear.
Ice’s voice came through the handset. “Texas 1-3, Texas 1-3, this is Nemesis 4. Do you read me, over?”
Kev replied immediately. “This is Texas 1-3. I don’t know who the hell you are but we need assistance ASAP!”
“Texas 1-3, tell your forward troops to keep their heads down. We have close air support on station in five minutes. Hang in there, the Pain Train is inbound. Nemesis 4 out.”
“What the hell?” yelled Kev. “Who the fuck is this Nemesis, Jimmy, and what the fuck is a pain train?”
Chapter 30
Pechersk, Kiev
During the 70s and 80s, towering concrete apartment blocks had popped up all over Kiev. Even the most exclusive suburbs had not been spared from the scourge of communist-era construction. The graceful architecture of the pre-Soviet years – elegant townhouses, intricate churches, and historical monuments – were overshadowed by hulking gray blocks of high-density living.
In the affluent suburb of Pechersk the extravagant dwellings of Kiev’s elite stood side-by-side with the drab existence of the city’s working class. Dostiger’s estate was located in the most exclusive part of the old suburb, yet it still had a number of apartment blocks nearby. It was these tall buildings that Chen Chua was scrutinizing from Lascar Island over 10,000 kilometers away.
Using a customized version of Google Earth, Chua identified which buildings would provide the best surveillance position for Bishop and his team. A few minutes browsing on a Ukrainian real-estate web page had identified a number of suitable apartments available for short-term lease and within a few hours, Bishop’s team had established a covert Observation Post on the top floor of a fifteen-storey apartment building.
The serviced apartment was advertised as a luxury penthouse but the reality was very different. It looked like a bad 80s’ TV set. White leather lounges and lime-green linoleum tiles may have been fashionable twenty years ago, but now they were about as stylish as disco. For five hundred US a week, the place was a dump, but Bishop didn’t care. The apartment had the one redeeming feature the team needed; from the full-length balcony it offered a 270 degree panorama of downtown Kiev and perfect views of the Dostiger residence.
Discreetly positioned on the balcony were two compact, remote-stabilized video cameras mounted on sturdy tripods. Thick black cables ran from the cameras into the apartment, plugging into a pair of laptops open on the dining table.
The FIST’s technical surveillance operator, Pavel, was working intently at one of the laptops. The 17-inch screen displayed two high-resolution color video feeds. One was zoomed in on the guardhouse at the front of Dostiger’s residence. The second was recording a wider shot of the entire estate, from the guardhouse and high wrought-iron fence with its heavy gates all the way back to the black Range Rover parked at the entrance to the two-storey mansion.
“How’s the setup going?” Bishop asked as he sat down in the chair next to the swarthy Russian.
“Almost done. Just finished hooking up the ELINT antenna.” Pavel tapped a few commands into the second laptop and the screen suddenly came alive with dancing lines. “If someone turns on their phone in that house,” he tapped at the keyboard, “we will have the number before they can say hello.”
“What about landlines?”
“More difficult at such short notice. I can patch them but it means I need to get into the junction box.”
“I’m not real keen on that.”
“I agree, we risk compromise.”
“Yep, can’t risk it. This’ll have to do.” Bishop watched the dancing lines for a second before looking back at the residence. “The place is certainly a fortress. Those walls have got to be at least a foot thick. And that fence – doesn’t like visitors, does he?”
“In the briefing you said that Dostiger is very secretive, very... ” Pavel struggled to find the right words.
“Security conscious?” Bishop offered.
“Yes, security conscious. Perhaps he keeps his information on paper, not on computer. Or maybe his computer is not connected to the internet.”
“Which brings us back to the big problem.”
“Yes, how do we get in t
here?” Pavel tapped the image of Dostiger’s estate with the back of his pencil.
“More importantly,” Bishop emphasized, “how do we get in and out without Dostiger knowing?”
“You see these?” Pavel zoomed in on one of the trees. The high-resolution camera lost none of its clarity as the lens adjusted.
“Sneaky fucker,” Bishop remarked. There on the screen was a small CCTV camera painted the exact color of the tree. “How many more are there?”
“I have found six. I think maybe a few more. All of them are controlled by the guard at the gate.”
“Did you show Kurtz?” If anyone could break into the house it was the young German. Before being contracted by PRIMAL he had spent a couple of years developing his covert entry techniques while conducting counter-terrorism operations with GSG 9.
“Da, he is in the bedroom with the plans to house. I think he has a few ideas.”
“Good work!” Bishop gave the Russian a thump on the shoulder and walked across the living area towards the master bedroom. As he entered, Kurtz looked up from the laptop he was working on.
“Guten tag, boss.”
“Hey, mate,” Bishop responded. “How’s the planning going?”
“Ja, gut. I have a concept of how we’re going to do it. The biggest issue is the guard. To get in and out undetected we need to hack the cameras. The only way we can do that is to get into the guard room.”
“Poses a problem. How’re we going to crack it?”
“Take down the guard, hack the cameras, in and out in 15 minutes.”
“Sounds good. Just need to make sure Dostiger isn’t at home when we go in.”
“Well, he won’t be home if he is meeting with Herr Fischer.” The German winked.
Bishop laughed. “True. Let’s hope Dmitri gets back to me soon.”
“BOSS!” Pavel yelled from the other room. “I think we have a problem.”
Bishop moved back into the living room, followed by Kurtz. They stood behind the Russian as he peered intently at one of the laptop screens.
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