by Ronie Kendig
“This isn’t about chicks.” Sergeant First Class Salvatore “Falcon” Russo—the meanest guy on the team—snarls. All bark, but I’m not sure he has much of a bite. Must’ve had a bad childhood or something to be that grouchy all the time. But he is a top-notch soldier. Holds his own. Watches out for his team. I guess that makes him an asset. The team’s Italian Stallion studies the documents on the table.
And with a twitch of this dial and a flick of that one, I zoom in and join them studying those documents. That’s what I do after all—study what they study.
Ah. Readiness profiles. Good to know.
“We have to assume these identities, the new roles in moving out of being Green Berets, out of liaising with villagers and into black ops.”
“It’s not about us.” Captain Watters leans forward, his fingertips pressing to the table. “This is about freedom, about securing innocent lives. Doing violence on their behalf.”
Cue the American national anthem. Or should that be anathema? Aren’t Americans pretty much eating their young back on their own soil?
“Think this is right?”
See? This guy I like—Sergeant First Class Mitchell Black. Which is weird—he’s not black. He’s as white as they come with some good ol’ sun bronzing, compliments of the Afghan deserts. They’re calling him Hairier. Wait. Scratch that. Harrier. Birds of prey. Not hairy men—even though his thick, light brown hair is longer than most of the guys on the team. But look at him—picture of calm assurance sitting in a chair, his elbows on the table as he takes in the documents. You wouldn’t guess that since the guy had only joined the team in the last six months. Next to the captain, I think this guy could be the biggest threat. What’s the phrase—it’s the quiet ones?
“I mean, can we do this?” Black looks at the others. “Can we shift our specialties and work on a level we’ve never fully executed before?”
“We have,” Russo says as he folds his arms over his chest. “We did it with the MWDs and handlers.”
I grab my pen and scratch out a note to self: Research MWDs.
“Harrier wasn’t with us then,” Hawk says. “They stole one of our best guys out from under us.” Bledsoe huffs as he drops into a squeaky office chair. I think the dude could bench-press an oil tanker if he tried with the way his muscles tear at the desert-camo sleeves.
“No, terrorists did that”—Captain Watters the purist, the patriot—“when they blew his leg off.”
“Yeah,” Bledsoe says. “And that’s when they saddled us with the Aussie newb.”
“Oy, mate.”
Laughing loud doesn’t alert anyone to my presence, and that makes me laugh louder. Bledsoe is not afraid of anyone. And Aussie—I grab my notebook and flip back a few pages and find his name: Eamon “Titanis” Straider—is nobody to sneeze at. They call him newb mostly because he’s not American. That guy is as tough and rugged as they come. I mean, check out the black high and tight. Strong jaw and eyes that don’t miss a thing. He’s a close equal to the captain, but I’m not quite sure he’s there yet. Still, nobody in his right mind would refer to Australian Special Air Services corporal as “newb” to his face. Except Bledsoe.
Lifting my cup of tea toward the staticky screen where Bledsoe stands tall at six foot, I toast him. “Your funeral, not mine.”
“Mate, I’m not your enemy.” Ferocity laces the words of the Aussie, who’d received two Victoria Cross medals. Three if you count the one inked over his left pec—not that I’ve seen it myself, but that’s what his dossier says. That Oz native is as hardcore as they come.
“There is opportunity here,” Straider goes on. “To act swiftly and do justice. You’re a fierce fighter. Focus that energy on the combatants, Bledsoe. Not on me.”
Electric tension crackles through the command center and the static—but only I notice that part.
Because it’s a feed.
Nobody hears the feed. Except me … cuz I’m here in this tin can of a trailer.
Bledsoe comes to his feet. “I don’t take orders from you, newb.”
“Oh. Oh!” I lean forward and set aside my tea. The two are ready to go to blows. A match, right here on Sub-base Command Live Feed? Be still my beating heart!
“Enough.” Watters saves the day. Again. And makes my duty here boring. Again. “Straider’s right.”
“Why is he here anyway?” Bledsoe asks. “We were fine on our own.”
“Were you?” Straider hasn’t earned his nation’s respect and devotion by being afraid of confrontation. And he clearly isn’t going to start today.
“Come on, c’mon.” With a fake left cross, I beg them to duke it out. “Give him a what-for, Straider. Level the guy. Teach him a lesson.”
“Do you want to run through the AAR with me on that?”
Watters straightens, his shoulders squaring as he plants his hands on his tactical belt. “Look. This is a change, but it’s right up our alley. Right where we were headed. We’ve been in field long enough to know what needs to be done. It’s second nature.”
With a huff, I slump back in my chair. Disappointing. They always have to be so civil. Rules of engagement and all that. Well, Raptor team needs to hang up their raptor wings. Playing fair wouldn’t bring a win. It’d bring death.
I smirk. “I’ll make sure of it.”
CHAPTER 3
Balkh Province, Afghanistan
01 May—1423 Hours
Bloody and angry, the sun dipped into the horizon, overtaken by the darkening day. Crimson clouds stretched their long, thin arms over the village. Dean shifted, staring down the optical of his M4 Carbine at the huddle of tents peppering the rugged landscape. Years of fighting scarred the land and its people. Evidence of the 115-degree heat warbled around the structure pocked from withering heat and bullet holes.
Grape huts.
Dean resisted the old urge to curse. Had to be a grape hut—a structure made of mud and stone. Even worse, complicating matters—the back had been built on to. Intel stated hostile combatants held Raptor’s objective there. An American journalist. The killer was the two-foot-thick walls with narrow slits. Perfect for snipers.
Raptor team had a sniper, too, but if they didn’t proceed with extreme caution, they’d get picked off like vultures. Two hours in position and they’d verified location, number of hostiles, and likelihood of taking fire: 100 percent.
Sweat dropped into Dean’s eyes as he peered through his reticle, tracing the scraggly trees and shrubs. Then back to their target location. “Colonel, what do you think?”
Colonel Ismail Sidiq of the Afghan National Army’s Regional Command, North peered through binoculars. “Definitely mujahideen.” The curl of the man’s lip could be heard in the way he spat his response. “A thorn in my side, Captain Dean.”
That the muj were Islamic fighters, many of whom the U.S. would declare terrorists, Dean didn’t need the colonel to tell him. He’d had one encounter too many with the vicious fighters. “Think they have our package?” That was the question—had they tracked the right group of muj?
“Yes.” Rocks crunched against dirt where Sidiq lay. “There is Azzam.”
Dean lifted the thermals from his pack. Seeing Azzam, a fierce muj fighter, was yet another confirmation they were in the right place.
“That middle hut. See the blue pakol? That is him.”
Scanning the unique hats, Dean pinned down the position. Staring through the sight, he eyed the grape hut again. Six or seven muj loitered near the door, one visible only by a leg that stretched into the light. One propped against the retaining wall. Two reclined on the ground, legs crossed. Another in a chair.
They’d seen two others enter the structure twenty minutes earlier. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Dean had to ask. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Afghan native. He needed to make sure the colonel understood what they were about to unleash on this campsite and people. Death. If he had any doubts, now would be a great time for t
he colonel to speak up.
Dean looked to his left. “Let’s do it.”
Falcon gave a sharp nod. As team sergeant—or “team daddy”—he held a fierce dedication to ensuring the safety and protection of the team. He’d led the team, inspired them, on those missions when Dean had to liaise with the brass.
Dean keyed his mic. “Mockingbird,” he said in a low tone, “this is Raptor Six Actual. Do you read?”
“Raptor Six Actual, this is Mockingbird,” came a tight, controlled female voice through the radio. “I read you loud and clear. Over.”
“We are in position, targets sighted.”
“Copy that, Raptor Six. We have you on Halo Three, over.”
A weird buzz flickered down the back of Dean’s neck. Being watched from thirty-thousand feet—and knowing they could see the pakols just as clearly—would unnerve most men. For him, it meant an added layer of insurance. And that’s where the payload would launch from.
“The eyes that see but don’t get seen,” Falcon said with a toothy grin.
“Glory One, this is Raptor Six Actual.” Dean spoke to the Black Hawk that should’ve left Camp Marmal and headed their way by now. “What’s your ETA for extraction? Over.”
“One-four minutes. I repeat, one-four minutes. Over.”
“Start the extraction on my mark.” Dean pressed a fingered glove against his watch. “Three … two … one, mark.”
“Mark. See you in one-four, Raptor Six Actual. Over.”
“Okay, let’s move.” Dean glanced over his shoulder to Eagle, their weapons expert and, at thirty-four, the oldest member of Raptor. An irony that never lost its humor on Dean since the guy had him by a mere four years. “Eagle, paint that truck,” he said, thumbing down the slope toward the rusted-out vehicle beside the hut where the pakols bobbed in and around buildings. “Once we’re clear, call it.”
Shoulder supporting the stock of his M24 Sniper Weapons System with its Leupold scope, Eagle gave a firm nod. “Roger, Captain.” Protective Oakleys shielded eyes that Dean had come to read like words on an after-action review. A reddish-blond beard could not hide his set jaw.
After slapping Eagle’s shoulder, Dean pushed up and skirted the ridge they’d taken cover behind. With Raptor team and the colonel’s half-dozen ANA soldiers, Dean had a small army with which to snatch back the American journalist held for ransom.
Light seeped from the sky, yielding its power to the stars as their team descended with stealth. Adrenaline heated his gut and back as he inched closer. Sounds roared though only a whisper. The thud and crunch of boots seemed to shout. Crazy since the sound should be indecipherable with the wind and din coming from the camp.
As the steep path gave way to a small knoll, Dean went to a knee and held up a fist. Carbine at the ready, he eased his head to the side, exposing his face only as much as necessary, to peer around the lip of a rocky edifice. He scanned the mujahideen. Still talking. Laughing.
Clock ticking, Dean lowered his chin toward the stock, taking a bead on the closest fighter. He signaled the colonel to the other side and forward. As the team followed the colonel, Dean covered.
Adrenaline jacked, danger breathing down his neck, Dean never felt more alive.
Once the team was clear, he rushed left to join them. Bound and cover. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. With two fingers, he sent Harrier forward. Dean covered his six, walking backward, knowing they covered the front.
A shout stabbed the thick air.
Dean swung right.
Wide brown eyes bulged.
A hand clamped around the man’s mouth as steel glinted. Blood chased the blade in a broad stroke along his neck. He breathed his last and crumpled back against an ANA soldier, who lowered the dead fighter to the ground.
Dean puffed out a stale breath—the one that could’ve been his last had it not been for Sidiq’s soldier. Dean nodded his thanks then rushed around the corner.
“Captain, you have trouble.”
Eagle’s words held him fast. Dean waited, tension knotting at the warning. Trouble. And he stood within line of sight on the hut.
“Fighters pouring out of a tunnel a hundred yards to your seven.”
Dean keyed his mic and whispered, “Copy.” His gaze struck Falcon, who’d stepped into the role of his team sergeant when Candyman lost part of his leg in an ambush last year. Was that happening again—an ambush?
Falcon lifted a flash-bang from his vest.
Dean nodded.
After he plucked the rings, Falcon nodded his readiness.
To his left, kneeling behind some brush, Harrier stood ready with another canister. Dean lifted his own. After a quick check of the remaining men under his command to ensure they were prepared, Dean mouthed, One … two … go!
Leaning back, Falcon flung the flash-bang through a window.
Harrier lobbed one to the other side.
Screams knifed the merriment. Shouts. Thuds of boots.
The door flung back.
Dean rolled his flash-bang right under the gap in the makeshift door. He spotted another fighter just outside the threshold.
Boom! Crack!
Light flashed through the camp.
Boom!
Smoke and gas plumed through the air, dancing in victory. Panicked mujahideen bolted, tripped over their own feet. Clapped hands over their eyes. Screamed. Stumbled on top of each other. Fell. Coughed.
He counted. Worked it in with the recon they’d done. That hut should now be empty.
ANA fighters offered suppressive fire as Raptor whipped into the open, fast and furious. Dean locked on to his goal: retrieve the objective. He rushed toward the hut. He stepped in, a vacuum of darkness and haze swallowing him as he swept his raised weapon along the corners and shadows.
“Clear,” he called into his coms as he hurried forward to the rear room. There, he shouted, “U.S. military! Jeff Bain. Jeff Bain!”
A man sat bound in a chair, coughing. “Here …” Gagging. The sound was wet, soft.
Dean took a knee beside Bain, who hauled in a greedy breath of oxygen.
Hawk appeared at the man’s side and knelt, going to work with his combat medic skills. Darkness hid a lot, including the man’s less-visible injuries, but no chances would be taken.
“Mr. Bain,” Dean said. “We’re getting you out of here, but I need to verify your identity.”
The hostage nodded, his chin banging his chest as he coughed.
Dean used his KA-BAR to cut loose the cables. “Can you tell me the name of the first paper you worked for, Mr. Bain?”
“Star News.” The cords slumped to the ground.
Dean worked the leg ties. “What is the name of your sister’s dog, sir?”
“Diamond.” His voice was stronger, even beneath the muffling of the mask.
“Let’s get you home, Mr. Bain.” Dean gripped the man’s bicep and helped him to his feet.
Bain stumbled.
Harrier hooked an arm around the man’s waist and hoisted him onto his toes. Air ripped a hot trail past Dean. The tiny explosion in the wall registered just as he felt the primal scream of the bullet. Felt another year of his life shave off. Directly in front of them, Falcon covered their egress.
They slipped out the front and to the right, hustling Bain away, his feet barely touching the ground. Thunder roared in the distance. The helos were closing in. It felt like hours had passed since leaving the relative safety of the ridge with his team and the ANA.
Bain went limp.
“His heart’s weak,” Harrier shouted.
“He’ll make it,” Dean said through clenched teeth. Sweat poured down his back, neck, and temples. We’ll make it. We better. “Not losing my life for a journalist.” Even one who’d spent weeks as a hostage. Having been in the man’s shoes, Dean had more sympathy for him than he probably would’ve for a nosy journo.
“You and me both,” Hawk said, as he and Falcon took Bain.
They escaped the small cluster and rushed to a sm
all slope. Dean keyed his mic as they half dragged Bain to safety, to the extraction point. “Mockingbird, this is Raptor Six Actual, we have the package. En route to extraction.”
Hawk and Falcon kept moving with their objective.
“Copy that, Raptor Six. Glory One is relieving herself.”
On a knee, Dean stared back at the small encampment and village as shapes emerged—the rest of ODA452 and four of the ANA soldiers. He stilled. Shadows flitted and danced beneath flames in the village. Puffs darkened. Wait… Too many.
Dean snatched his Beretta and took aim as his men slid to cover beside him.
A fighter lunged into the open with a spray of bullets.
Another came from the right. Dean twisted and angled, firing as the scene went hot again.
“Wanna tell your friends to back off?” Hawk shouted, providing additional cover fire as the team raced for safety. “We already won this fight.”
“My friends?” Dean growled past a smile as the crackling and popping of weapon fire was drowned by the inbound chopper. “Don’t you remember?”
“That’s right,” Hawk yelled over the rotor wash as Harrier moved in and applied a butterfly stitch to the journalist’s temple. “You don’t have any.”
“If the Army thought I needed friends—”
“They’d have issued them. Yeah, I know.”
Dean shot a glance to the Black Hawk as the wheels touched down. He stepped aside as two Marines jogged over, loaded Bain onto a litter, then hurried him back to the bird. Trailing them, Dean climbed into the jump seat and let out thick breath. Boots skimming the warm Afghan air as they sped back to the base, he eyed the horizon. They’d retrieved the objective. His men were alive and uninjured. The ANA’s team was with them, though a couple now sported extra holes. Another mission. Another deadly mission. Another deadly successful mission.
So why do I feel empty?
Kohistani School, Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan
25 May—0845 Hours