by Carl Bowen
With that done, Walker pulled out both men’s Bluetooth headsets and put one to his left ear. Cross took the other one and did the same, signaling his fireteam to advance on the operations center.
“What the heck is going on out there?!” the last remaining mercenary shouted through the earpiece. “Answer me!”
“It’s over,” Cross said. “The rest of your men have been neutralized.”
There was a long pause. Then a voice asked, “Who is this?” To Walker, the mercenary sounded scared and angry — a dangerous combination.
“Give yourself up,” Cross responded. “You’ve run out of time, and I lack the patience to argue with you.”
The mercenary let out a half-crazed cackle. “Oh, really?” he said. “Does that mean I should just kill my hostage, then?”
Cross frowned. Walker wondered if he had forgotten there was one hostage left.
The fireteam made it to the last walkway that led to the operations command station. The station had a large window on the side, but the lights inside went out as the team approached. Cross signaled a halt in front of the one door that led inside.
“No answer to that, huh?” the mercenary said. Walker could hear a second person whimpering in the background whenever the man talked. Walker glanced at Cross, but the commander remained silent.
“I’ll tell you what,” the merc said. “Me and my new friend here are going to get on my boat and leave, and you’re going to let us. If anybody tries to ‘neutralize’ me, I swear —”
“Forget it,” Cross snapped.
“No?” the merc said. “Then come in here and get me. The second I hear running footsteps, I’m putting two bullets in the back of this guy’s head. Then I’m coming out with guns blazing.”
Cross clenched his teeth. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He seemed to be considering daring the mercenary to do just that.
“Wait,” Walker said, addressing both the mercenary and Cross. Walker held up a hand, silently urging Cross to give him a moment. Cross reluctantly nodded.
“Who’s this now?” the mercenary demanded.
“Let me explain the situation to you,” Walker said, his voice steady and heavy with authority. “In two minutes, a helicopter’s coming to pick us up. And we’re all going to be on it because you can be sure that the Cubans are already on their way here to clean up this mess their own way.”
“Wait,” the mercenary said, his voice sounding rattled suddenly. “Who are you guys? Are you Americans? Did Van Sant send you?”
“You’re running out of time,” Walker said. “If you don’t come out, we’re just going to leave and let you have this conversation with the Cubans. And I promise you, if you kill that hostage, you’re on your own.”
“Hang on a second, I —” the merc began.
“It’s now or never,” Walker said, interrupting him. Walker held up the earpiece so the merc could hear the approaching chopper. “Our ride’s here. What’s it going to be?”
At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the mercenary opened the operations center door and stepped out. He froze when he saw four M4 barrels pointing at him down the walkway.
“All right,” the merc started to say. “Let’s just —”
“Put your weapon down,” Walker ordered him.
The mercenary dropped his MP5 on the ground and put his hands up. Uncertainty was written all over his face.
Cross dropped the Bluetooth headset and crunched it underfoot. He walked over to the mercenary.
“Kick the weapon over here,” Walker said, coming up behind Cross. The mercenary slid the gun across the floor. Cross stepped over it, letting Walker catch it under one foot.
Williams’s voice cut in on the team’s canalphones. “Commander,” the corpsman said, his voice somber. “Neil . . . is not going to make it.”
Cross’s face went dark.
“What?” the mercenary asked, unable to hear the conversation but reacting to the sudden change in Cross’s expression. “What’s going on?”
Cross brought up his M4 and smashed the butt stock across the bridge of the mercenary’s nose. The mercenary stumbled backward, bounced off the operations center door and fell forward on his hands and knees. Cross placed his boot on the man’s back, pressing him to the floor.
Walker came forward, planning to pull Cross back, but stopped when he saw the commander’s rage had vanished. Without saying a word, Cross yanked the mercenary’s arm up at an awkward angle and zip-cuffed it to the safety rail. Then he brushed past Walker, picked up the mercenary’s MP5, and hurled it off the walkway. It clattered down through the superstructure and ended with a splash in the darkness.
“Move out!” Cross growled. He turned and walked back the way the fireteam had come, not bothering to check on the hostage in the operations center or the bound mercenary whimpering at his feet.
Yamashita fell into step behind Cross without a word. Brighton and Walker hesitated a moment, exchanging looks.
“Yikes,” Brighton said.
Walker nodded. “Let’s move,” he said.
* * *
The Seahawk was halfway home. Since the team had left the Black Anchor, Cross had sat in silence, staring down at the shrouded, lifeless form resting on the deck below him. Second Lieutenant Neil Larssen had lived long enough to be brought onto the helicopter, but he’d died only a few minutes later. Walker had been trying without success to think of something to say to Cross that didn’t sound forced. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of anything.
“We shouldn’t have left them,” Cross said. He looked up at Walker. “We should have brought all those Hardwall thugs back home with us to answer for what they did.”
“That wasn’t the mission,” Walker said. “We had to do it this way so the Cubans could take credit for the rescue. Letting them save face is supposed to offset the damage Van Sant’s people would’ve done to our country’s reputation.”
“But if we’d brought at least one back,” Cross argued, “we could’ve had him give evidence against Van Sant and bring the whole organization down. But now all Van Sant has to do is claim they went rogue and condemn their actions. He’ll probably get away with everything.”
“He might try,” Walker admitted. “But even if he pulls it off, I think Hardwall Security is about to find itself on some government lists that make it very hard to find good work.”
“Maybe,” Cross said. He sighed. “What a mess. This whole thing is going to be a diplomatic nightmare.”
“Let the State Department worry about that,” Walker said. “Just remember that for your part, you did everything right.”
“Not everything,” Cross said quietly. His eyes went back to the body at his feet.
“That wasn’t your fault,” Walker said.
“‘The lives of my teammates and the success of our mission depend on me,’” Cross said, quoting from the US Navy SEAL creed.
“‘In the worst of conditions,’” Walker said, quoting a different section, “‘the legacy of my teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed.’”
“‘I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates,’” Cross countered. “I didn’t protect him, did I?”
“Knowing full well the hazards of my profession, I will always strive to uphold the prestige, honor, and esprit de corps of my regiment,” Walker said.
Cross raised an eyebrow. “What’s that from?” he asked.
“The Ranger creed,” Walker said. “I’m not sure that’s exactly how it goes, but that’s the general idea behind it. Neil was a Ranger . . . wouldn’t you say he lived up to that standard?”
“Always,” Cross said.
“Then mourn him, and honor him,” Walker said. “But don’t make his loss about yourself. If you start down that road, you’ll end up feeling g
uilty whenever you look around and don’t see him. Trust me: I’ve been right where you are now.”
Cross was quiet for a long while, apparently considering the chief’s words. But bit by bit, Cross seemed to relax a little. He looked up. “Does that mean we actually have a second thing in common with each other, Chief Walker?” he asked.
“Something else?” Walker asked. “What was the first thing?”
“The fact that we’re both SEALs, of course,” Cross said.
Walker smirked.
“Well, don’t get ahead of yourself, Commander,” Walker deadpanned. “I’m an SDV SEAL, after all . . .”
Cross grinned. “Right, Chief.” He took a slow, deep breath. “And thanks.”
Walker nodded. “Sir.”
CLASSIFIED
MISSION DEBRIEFING
OPERATION
PRIMARY OBJECTIVES
- Secure the oil rig platform and transport hostages to safety
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Minimize damage done to Hardwall mercenaries
-Avoid contact with the Cuban and Chinese forces
STATUS
2/3 COMPLETE
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 command.
I had to reprimand the other members of Shadow Sqadron for neglecting to file their Black Anchor debriefings in a timely manner. But overall, they performed admirably in the field. All the hostages were recovered unharmed, and the men kept their emotions under control even when one of our own was shot down. Cross was really shaken up over losing Larssen. We all were. But we were able to keep it together and complete the mission.
Second Lieutenant Neil Larssen was a good man and a good soldier. He will be missed.
- Chief Petty Officer Alonso Walker
CLASSIFIED
MISSION BRIEFING
OPERATION
This one’s going to be a solo mission for little ol’ me. I’ll be running a joint-government effort to shut down the Colombian drug network, or nexus, that is mainlining illegal drugs into the veins of the US. My target is a shipyard along the Pacific coast in the Colombian jungle. Local Colombian soldiers will help me assess the site. After that, I’ll call in an air strike to shut down the nexus for good. The rest of Shadow Squadron just have to launch the strike, then pick me up once I finish doing my thing.
- Staff Sergeant Edgar Brighton
PRIMARY OBJECTIVES
- Covert insertion via parachute
- Rendezvouz with Colombian task force
- Locate shipyard
- Call in coordinates for precision air strike
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Minimize casualties
- Foster positive relations with the Colombian task force
- Remain undetected
MISSION THREE
EAGLE DOWN
Right up until the moment he touched ground in the jungle, Brighton’s assessment of the mission was that Operation: Nexus was going just fine. In fact, Brighton thought it was a nice change of pace to be doing something on his own — and on solid ground — after the last two seaborne, team-based ops.
This mission was a joint US and Colombian venture aimed at striking a powerful blow to the illegal Colombian drug network, or nexus. Their primary target was a low-tech shipyard hidden somewhere in the roadless jungles along Colombia’s Pacific coast.
Somewhere among looping rivers and mangrove trees was a facility that produced vessels capable of smuggling up to ten tons of cocaine at a time. And they were virtually undetectable. These vehicles, nicknamed “narco-subs,” were small fiberglass crafts capable of running just below the ocean’s surface, guided by periscope and GPS. A small crew could take one of these boats from the shipyard, sneak down the riverways to the coast, and get to the ocean with ease. From there, the narco-subs headed north to the coast of Mexico. Then they docked in various concealed ports to offload their illegal drugs to waiting distributors.
In recent years, this system caused a sharp rise in cocaine coming from Colombia, into Mexico, then into the United States. The Mexican Sinaloa drug cartel cut, distributed, and sold the cocaine. Elements of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (or FARC) rebel guerilla army produced the cocaine. FARC also outfitted the narco-subs and recruited the terrified fishermen who piloted them.
When the Sinaloa cartel sold the cocaine abroad, it gave back a percentage of the profits to the FARC guerillas. The guerillas then used the money to buy weapons, equipment, and supplies for their ongoing attempts to overthrow the rightful government of Colombia.
After a lot of talking about the problem and a lot of planning what to do about it, the US and Colombia had decided on a strategy that would cripple the FARC/Sinaloa drug trafficking arrangement. The Colombians had some general information about where they believed the narco-sub shipyard was hidden. However, they had lost every soldier and police officer they’d sent into the jungle. Even worse, none of them were able to confirm the shipyard’s suspected location.
The Colombians claimed they were committed to assaulting and shutting down the hidden shipyard. However, they needed help from the Americans to actually find the base and gather solid intel about it. They didn’t want a large number of American troops and military machinery plunging into their backyard to fight their battles for them. Instead, they just wanted some help getting off the ground.
That help came in the form of Staff Sergeant Edgar Brighton, the team’s combat controller. Because of his unique set of skills, and fluency in Spanish, Brighton was chosen by Lieutenant Commander Cross for the role.
The Colombians welcomed Shadow Squadron to use the tiny military base on the otherwise uninhabited Malpelo Island. Then the Colombians set up their own joint military and police task force to coordinate with the Americans. They’d all been working and training together for a few weeks and were now ready to put Operation: Nexus into motion.
The first stage was to improve the Colombians’ intelligence about the shipyard before an air raid kicked off the final stage. Brighton’s job was to head out alone into hostile territory and perform special reconnaissance. He would then report his findings back to Cross at their makeshift headquarters. In the field, it was his job to maintain contact with whatever aerial units were available. That meant Brighton had to organize fast-attack fighters, heavy bombers, and emergency air transportation. He had to keep them on task, on target, and out of each other’s way.
Brighton was also responsible for direct action. He stood side by side with his fellow soldiers when they engaged the enemy. Plenty of air support was on hand for Operation: Nexus, so it was up to Brighton to get in first. It was up to him to make everything ready for the rest of his team. But he would not be alone.
To help him in this task, he was ordered to link up in the jungle with an advance team of Colombians from the military and police task force. They would point him in the right direction once he got his boots on the ground. Then they would watch his back while he gathered intelligence and reported back to Cross and the rest of Shadow Squadron.
The ride by boat and then car from Malpelo Island to the forward staging base in Popayan had been pleasant enough. It gave Brighton a chance to shoot the breeze with his commanding officer. He also got to chat with the Colombian soldiers who’d come to retrieve him. Being members of an elite group of covert special operatives, Cross and Brighton couldn’t say anything personal about themselves or their service records to the Colombians. But the local policemen and soldiers in the task force seemed to love small talk.
The pre-mission briefing between Brighton, Cross, and Major Timoleon Gaitan (the leader of the task force), had gone well. However, Brighton could
tell the Colombian major was nervous about how young Brighton was. Gaitan had kept his opinion to himself, though, so Brighton hadn’t been forced to list the number of specialized training schools whose programs he’d aced after Combat Control School. He knew he’d been selected for the Shadow Squadron at such a young age for very good reasons. But Major Gaitan didn’t ask what those reasons were. That was probably for the best, though, as Brighton didn’t want to embarrass his host.
The flight out over the jungle was just like the dozens of others Brighton had participated in all over the world. The passenger compartment of the Cessna 206 that the Colombian Police provided for transport was a little cramped. Or, at least it felt that way with the air crew, the jumpmaster, and Brighton’s load of gear all jammed together.
Sadly, Brighton didn’t have the time to chat with Popayan’s team due to last-minute checks of his gear and parachute rigging. However, a few jokes and his pleasant manner seemed to set everyone at ease. That is, as at ease as men can be in a cramped, dark airplane cabin over hostile territory in the early morning hours. But if anyone could pull it off, Brighton figured he was the man. He loved meeting new people and enjoyed nothing more than making new friends.
The pilot said over the intercom that the plane was over the jump zone. Brighton donned his night-vision mask, then stepped up to the Cessna’s side door beside the jumpmaster. With the mask’s several 16mm intensifier tubes sticking out around his eyes, it gave Brighton an eerie, insect-like appearance. In fact, Brighton saw the jumpmaster do a double-take as he approached. Strange looks aside, Brighton preferred the expanded view range of his panoramic mask to the ones the rest of Shadow Squadron used. The other models made Brighton feel like his field of vision was limited.