by Scott McEwen
A mountain cloak hung from a nail beside the door. Gil pointed to it and then back at himself, asking with his eyes if he could have it. The man nodded and gestured for him to take it. Gil let the MSR dangle from its sling and shrugged into the heavy cloak. The villager showed him how to shape the hood so it would cover his IBH helmet, leaving only the monocular showing, and then reached for the Dragunov Gil had placed against the wall, offering it with both hands.
Gil tucked the Remington inside the cloak and slung the Dragunov. He didn’t like having to lug the bulky hunk of junk, but the villager was right about it helping him to blend in.
The Tajik stood back to look him over, making a “good enough” expression and cracking a smile.
Knowing the Afghan people considered it rude to shake hands with gloves on, Gil pulled off his Oakley tactical glove and offered his right hand. The Tajik’s grip was firm and confident. Gil nodded his thanks and slipped carefully out of the house.
47
AFGHANISTAN,
Kabul, Central Command
General Couture stood up from the table in the darkened command center to extend his hand as Captain Metcalf entered the room looking half asleep. “Thanks for coming over, Glen. Sorry to wake you up.”
Metcalf shook his head. “Don’t be silly, General. What’ve we got?”
Couture turned to indicate the large plasma screen on the wall. He and his staff were watching the UAV feed from over Bazarak in real time. “What do you make of that strobe on the rooftop there?”
Metcalf stepped forward, staring at the black-and-white infrared video of the Panjshir Valley. The steady flash of the infrared strobe that Forogh had tossed onto the roof of Sandra’s building was clearly visible in the center of the screen. “Can you zoom in?”
Couture turned to the Air Force lieutenant. “Cynthia, advise Creech you’re taking control of the aircraft, will you please?”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later, they were looking at a tight enough shot of the strobe light to see that it was an MS/2000 Firefly, the same model used by American forces.
Metcalf turned around. “Somebody’s sure as hell up to something, aren’t they? Has there been any indication the enemy knows it’s there?”
Couture shook his head, jutting his chin toward the soundproof office at the back of the room. “Talk to you a minute?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Metcalf followed Couture into the office and pulled the door closed after him. They could still see everything that was taking place on the screen, but here in the glass room they could speak freely.
Couture sat down on the corner of the desk. “I hate to ask you this, Glen, but do you have any idea what the fuck is going on? Over the past ten days, we’ve spent a few million dollars’ worth of taxpayer money in preparation for Fell Swoop, and now it looks like we may have to scrub the entire goddamn operation.”
Though the general was maintaining a military bearing, Metcalf could see that he was on the boil. It was no secret that Operation Fell Swoop was to be his first large-scale offensive since taking command of the ATO the year before. With the scheduled drawdown of troops, it was unlikely he would get another opportunity. “No, sir. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“But you knew about Bank Heist, correct? Don’t lie to me, Glen. I’m not looking to—”
“I had an inkling about Bank Heist, General, yes. But I have absolutely no idea what’s taking place on the ground in the Panjshir Valley tonight. In fact, I know even less than you do because I just got here.”
“Okay, I believe you.” Couture put his hands on his hips, chewing the inside of his scarred cheek. “But goddamnit, this has SOG written all over it. If this is another unauthorized rescue attempt, the president’s going to fire everybody from here to Diego Garcia. It’ll make Stalin’s purge look like a night at the fucking Oscars.”
At this point Metcalf realized Couture feared for his career. The president must have handed down some pretty serious threats in private after Bank Heist. There was only one consolation that Metcalf could think to offer the general. “Well, sir, if this is another unauthorized rescue attempt—and I repeat that I have no intelligence to that effect—it may well be in our interest to provide whatever help we can to see that it succeeds.”
“And suppose it does. Then what?”
Metcalf smiled. “Well, General, it’s obvious you’ll have to take credit for it—as will the president once it gets kicked up to him.”
Couture blew out a gust of air. “And if it fails?”
Metcalf shrugged and sadly shook his head. “I can only speak for myself, General, but I’ll be too busy mourning Sandra’s death to feel sorry for myself. I’ve had a good career.”
“Goddamnit,” Couture muttered. “I’d like to hang these bastards over a fire by their bootlaces—whoever they are.”
There was a rap at the window. The general’s aide was pointing at the screen where the white infrared image of a soldier was running parallel to the Panjshir River.
Both men slipped out of the office to find a couple of chairs just as Gil was setting up to take out the two men on the far side of the farm plot. The trees mostly obscured what they were up to, but it was easy enough to see that Gil took them both out with a single shot.
“Now, damnit, that’s one of our people!” Couture insisted, getting back to his feet. “Cynthia, give me a tight in-shot, as tight as you can get.”
The Air Force lieutenant zoomed in on Gil as he hopped the wall and bolted for the trees west of the farm plot.
The UAV was not directly above the target, but the angle was too acute for a positive ident. Still, it was good enough for Captain Metcalf to be confident he was witnessing one of his SEALs in action. He looked over at the general’s aide-de-camp with the dual Glock pistols. “Major, would you please call the MPs at Jalalabad Air Base and tell them to locate Master Chiefs Shannon and Steelyard?”
The major looked to General Couture for permission to carry out the request.
“Do it,” the general said. “And tell them to add Captain Crosswhite to that list.”
The major left the room. Couture said to Metcalf, “The MPs aren’t going to find any of them, are they?”
Metcalf shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, sir . . . but it’s a hunch.”
“Sirs!” An intelligence officer with the CIA pointed to the screen. Gil had just taken out the first sniper from seventy-five yards.
They turned and watched as he eliminated the other two. When Gil shot the third sniper in the side of the head, his plate of food went flying.
A short time later they watched as he took out a pair of roving sentries at fifty feet with a model 1911 .45 from the prone position.
Metcalf drew a breath and let it back out. “That’s Master Chief Shannon. I’m sorry, General. It is one of mine.”
Couture looked at Metcalf, then back at the screen and then back at Metcalf. “The SEAL who jumped into Iran? How do you know?”
“Because he’s too stubborn to give up his 1911 for a higher-capacity forty-five.”
Couture smirked and held his hand out to the screen. “The way he shoots . . . it doesn’t look like he needs one.”
“That’s exactly what he said to me,” Metcalf muttered.
They continued to watch as Gil popped the sniper on the roof, and then held their collective breath when the door opened and the villager emerged to investigate the commotion . . . everyone except General Couture, who griped, “Now you’ve done it, Shannon!”
But the villager went back inside.
“He’ll wait to see,” Metcalf said. “Then he’ll go in after him.”
It happened as Metcalf predicted, and they all waited again, breath bated, while Gil was inside with the Tajik. At last, he reemerged dressed in the heavy mountain garb.
“Who the hell is that?” the General asked. “Is Shannon dead?”
The Air Force lieutenant tightened the shot so they could see Gil’s mono
cular sticking out from beneath the hood.
Couture looked at Metcalf, pointing at the screen. “That son of a bitch is going to give me a heart attack.”
Metcalf couldn’t help the sardonic grin that crossed his face. “Perhaps you shouldn’t watch, General.”
“T-yeah, right,” the General smirked. “Everyone listen up! For the duration of this exercise, everything—and I mean everything—you people see and hear is to be considered beyond top secret. Is that clear?”
The room was filled with “Yes, sirs.”
“We will now treat this as if it were a sanctioned rescue operation,” he went on. “That means I want a pair of Predators in the air and loaded with warshot. Cynthia, get on the horn to Creech and make that happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Couture glanced at Metcalf. “The nautical term was for you there, Captain.”
Metcalf gave him a wink. “I thought as much, sir.”
“Major Miller!”
“Yes, General.”
“Get the president on the horn. If this is going to be our last hurrah, by God, we’re doing it by the numbers.”
Within three minutes, the President of the United States was on the line.
“Mr. President, this is General Couture. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“What is it?” the president said, his voice anxious.
“Mr. President, at this time we’re looking at a live infrared UAV feed from over the Panjshir Valley. Though it remains unconfirmed at this time, sir, we are witnessing what appears to be an unauthorized mission to liberate Warrant Officer Brux from the enemy.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!” the president snarled.
Couture’s reply was crisp. “No, sir.”
“Exactly what the hell are you seeing?” the president demanded.
Couture described what they had witnessed so far and that the unidentified shooter had just shot another sentry dead from beneath a donkey cart.
“Who the hell is it?” the president wanted to know.
General Couture watched as Gil hefted the body from the road onto his shoulder, dumping it into the donkey cart and covering it with a tarp. “Though his identity remains unconfirmed, Mr. President, we believe it may the same operative who carried out Operation Tiger Claw.”
There was an extended silence at the president’s end, so Couture continued. “Sir, I’ve ordered a pair of Predators armed and into the air in case we end up having to assist him in bringing Warrant Off—”
“You just said you don’t even know who know who the hell it is!” the president hissed.
It was at this moment Couture realized the president wasn’t assessing the situation from a rational point of view. “Mr. President, allow me to be clear, sir . . . confidence is quite high that this operative is a member of DEVGRU.”
“General, here’s what you’re going to do,” the president said, his aggravation clear and evident. “First, you’re going to keep those drones on the ground where they belong. Second, you’re going to continue to monitor this situation and keep me apprised. You are to take no direct action of any kind. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“If this hero manages to bring that woman out of there alive, we’ll have no trouble playing the success of the mission to our advantage. If he fails, then he’s disavowed, simple as that. That was the deal in Iran, was it not? These SEALs seem to be comfortable with that arrangement, so let this hero’s fate be a lesson to the rest of them. Understood?”
Couture eyed the screen as Gil ducked into a long building with a dozen horses standing beside it in a stone corral. “Mr. President, with respect . . . this operative is very good—possibly the best we have. With our help, he stands a legitimate chance of success.”
“Do you even know what his plans are, General?”
“No, sir, not specifically.”
“Well, suppose we do get involved and that poor woman dies anyhow?”
Couture didn’t immediately respond.
“I asked you a question, General.”
Couture glanced at Metcalf and shook his head in resignation. “I see your point, Mr. President.”
“I thought you might,” the president said. “This isn’t your doing, General, and it sure as hell isn’t mine. I see no reason either of us should swing for it. Now, I’ll ask you this: are you in a position to stop him without wiping out that village in the process?”
“Not at this time, sir, no.”
“Then we’re not responsible for his actions, are we?”
“Not in a manner of speaking, sir, no.”
“Very good,” the president said. “Keep me apprised through the normal channels.”
The line went dead. Couture hung up the phone. “Shit.”
“What’s the bottom line?” Metcalf asked quietly.
Couture dry-wiped his mouth, glancing at the screen where Gil was yet to reemerge from the stable. “Master Chief Shannon—if that’s who we’re watching—has been disavowed.”
48
AFGHANISTAN,
Panjshir Valley, Bazarak
Inside the stable, Gil felt comforted by the familiar smell of horses and manure. He found the sorrel-colored mount he was looking for near the back, a few hands higher than the other animals and with stronger flanks. He needed the strongest horse he could get for what he had in mind, and after watching this particular horse carry its rider through the grueling paces of an entire buzkashi match during the day, he believed it had more than enough endurance. The trouble would be getting the animal to Sandra undetected. He sure as hell couldn’t bring Sandra to the horse, carrying her over his shoulder, fighting a running gun battle all the way.
He slipped a coarse wool blanket over the animal’s back and pulled one of the buzkashi saddles from a pile in the corner. It had metal stirrups, and both pommel and cantle were higher than those of a Western cowboy saddle, creating a deeper seat designed to help keep a buzkashi rider from falling off.
“It’s not exactly a Hamley Formfitter,” he muttered to himself, cinching up the single girth strap, “but it’ll have to do.”
The door opened at the other end, and Gil instantly faded into the corner, drawing the Ka-Bar from the sheath strapped to his thigh. He watched the man through infrared, noting the AK-47 barrel slung up over his left shoulder. The horses began to fidget in their stalls, tamping at the floor and snorting. Gil realized they were smelling his sudden adrenaline dump.
“Achmed?” said the interloper. “Achmed!”
Gil guessed that Achmed must be the dead guy outside in the donkey cart, so he grunted a response and began coughing as though he were trying to hack something up from deep in the back of his throat.
The interloper came straight toward him in the darkness, unable to see Gil except for the faint silhouette of the mountain cloak. “Achmed,” he said, followed by a bunch of harsh-sounding gibberish that Gil didn’t understand.
When the unlucky fellow came within arm’s reach, Gil grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and rammed the Ka-Bar up through the bottom of his jaw to penetrate so deeply into the brain that the tip of the blade scraped against the top of the skull. The Pashtun was dead on his feet, though his body hadn’t quite gotten the message, twitching spasmodically as Gil lowered him to the dung-covered dirt floor. He cleaned the knife on his victim’s jacket and jammed it back into the sheath.
He got up and stood on the body to peer out the gap between the roof and the top of the mud wall. Seeing the strobe flashing in his infrared viewfinder farther up the hill, beyond another cluster of buildings, he estimated the distance to Sandra’s quarters at ninety yards. This was too far to walk the horse without better knowledge of the layout. Besides, he wanted to make a careful reconnoiter of Sandra’s quarters before moving in to take it over. At least, he had to consider the possibility that Forogh had been caught and forced into helping the enemy to set up a trap.
The God of War is a fickle son of a
bitch, his father had always been fond of saying. Don’t ever trust his ass.
Gil folded the body into a corner and piled it over with saddles before slipping back outside. He backtracked his route for a short distance south, then turned west for the river. Having memorized the sentries’ sectors during his long vigil from on high, he felt confident that he’d cleared the southwestern corner of the village. There were no guarantees, of course, but his instincts told him that he was safe for the moment. After moving north along the river for fifty yards, he turned east again toward the back side of the building where he had dumped the sentry into the donkey cart. As the infrared strobe continued to illuminate the night sky with its intermittent flashes, Gil found it eerie to flip up the infrared monocular and see only darkness over the rooftop where he knew there was light. He glanced farther up at the stars, wondering if the strobe had been picked up by an Air Force UAV yet, guessing that somebody somewhere was probably having themselves a shit hemorrhage by now. He also wondered idly whether the MPs had been sent to his quarters to look for him.
He stood on a rain barrel and crawled onto the roof of the building, setting the .45 beside him. If any innocent Tajiks came snooping around this close to Sandra’s quarters, he’d have to shoot them dead without a thought. From this height, he could just see the windows and doorways to Sandra’s cluster of buildings over the rooftops between there and where he was. He brought up the sniper rifle and sighted on the open doorway next to Sandra’s. Four men with blankets over their shoulders sat at a table playing teka—an Afghan card game—by candlelight. Either they had only recently lit the candle, or the light of the flame had been too dim for his optics to detect from high on the slope.
The door to Sandra’s place suddenly swung open, and Ramesh stepped out. Gil immediately recognized him as the brute who had cut off her finger. In the moments before the door closed again, Gil saw her, and a sense of urgency swept through his veins. She was lying on the bed, doubled up beneath heavy blankets with a man and a woman sitting beside her in the warm glow of an oil lamp. They seemed to be caring for her.