“FM12-001. Two salvos-3 rds. 1st salvo, 2 bldg gun empls-1 rd, vehicle-1 rd. 2nd Salvo, 2 grnd gun empls-1 rd, vehicle-1 rd. TOF 141s. Ready.”
He reviewed the fire mission and highlighted “FM12-001” to bring up options on the screen. Without hesitation he selected “Fire.” Thirteen seconds later, his screen provided an update for the fire mission. “Rounds complete.” The console kept track of the timing and provided him with a countdown to the estimated Time on Target (TOT). He didn’t need the computer to keep track of the artillery rounds. The math was simple: Time of Flight (TOF) for the rounds was 141 seconds, and it took the artillery battery twelve seconds to fire a second salvo. Within 156 seconds, all mission-critical impediments would cease to exist.
There was no need to transmit voice data to any of the teams on the ground. All team leaders were equipped with a wrist-mounted Battle Feed console that relayed the same information. Carroll glanced at his teammate, Petty Officer Stanhope, who was focused on the scope attached to his suppressed Mk11 Mod 0 semiautomatic sniper rifle. Stanhope’s rifle utilized a uniquely effective sighting combination, attaching the AN/PVS-27 Magnum Universal Night Sight (MUNS) in front of a Leupold Mark 4 scope.
“One-four-one seconds to impact,” he whispered.
“Got it,” Stanhope muttered, remaining perfectly still behind the scope.
Several feet away, one of the Delta support teams lay motionless, preparing to eliminate any high-threat targets and provide suppressive fire for the assault groups. Each support team consisted of four Delta operators, broken into a machine-gun section and a sniper section. The two-man machine-gun section operated a night vision equipped M240B belt-fed machine gun, capable of accurately firing 950 rounds per minute at targets up to 800 meters away. The sniper/spotter duo fielded the M107A2 Barrett sniper rifle, which accurately fired the unstoppable .50-caliber 661-grain BMG round to ranges of 1,800 meters.
Five additional Delta support teams ringed the compound, each similarly equipped, bringing the total number of support weapons aimed into the compound to sixteen. In a pinch, Chief Carroll and the other SEAL spotters could pick up their rifles and join the fight, adding four additional guns to the mix. He very much doubted they would be needed. His role was to observe the entire compound and adjust ground-fire support to maximize the neutralization of targets. His weapon would be the AN/PED-1 LLDR, unless a real problem developed. Given the number of weapons concentrated on the terrorist force, and the six inbound 155mm artillery shells, he didn’t think the assault teams would encounter any resistance. There might not be anyone left alive in the compound. He glanced down at the JFSC console. One hundred and ten seconds until impact.
**
Master Sergeant Ethan McDonald pressed himself against the concrete foundation of the building and checked his Battle Feed wrist monitor. One minute and twenty-two seconds until impact, which he figured would be about one minute too long at this rate. The compound’s militia had reacted faster than any of them had expected, and started to arrive at positions along the rear fence line ahead of schedule.
Twenty minutes ago, his assault troop had breached the fence at the northwest corner and spread out among the five northernmost buildings along the fence line, lying flat and melting into the shadows. The troop consisted of eighteen Delta operators, split into three teams of six. Armed primarily with suppressed, night vision-equipped HK416 assault rifles, breaching shotguns and grenades, his troop’s mission was to clear the buildings of hostile personnel, starting from the rear of the compound and moving forward.
Mission planners had originally suggested two teams of six operators, figuring that the smaller group would have a better chance at remaining undetected. He agreed with that assessment, until he learned that they would be required to accept surrenders when practical. Taking prisoners would eat up his operators quickly, so he had opted for one more team than mission planners had suggested.
As the first wave of defenders trickled through the buildings to take up positions at the fence, he didn’t think they would remain hidden for long. Fortunately, most of them had braced their rifles against the raised berm and scanned the darkness beyond the fence. If one of them glanced back at the unusual dark clumps along the bottom of each building, they would have a problem. With over a minute left until TOT, he couldn’t risk detection and the possible discharge of an unsuppressed firearm. They would have to start neutralizing the defenders very shortly. He just wanted to wait until most of them had arrived.
Another terrorist jogged into the open and tossed a smoldering cigarette less than a foot away from McDonald’s right elbow. The man kept moving toward the fence without looking back at the orange glow that McDonald had crushed with his fist. They now had eight targets in the open, and he didn’t think there was any way their luck could persist.
“Take down in three, two, one…mark.”
McDonald raised himself to one knee and quickly leaned his rifle around the corner of the building, searching for any stragglers. He heard the suppressed snapping of his troop’s HK416 rifles as he sighted in on a pair of men less than fifteen feet away. One of the men spoke into a handheld radio as he walked, oblivious to the fact that his entire squad had just been neutralized. McDonald placed the EOTech holographic reticle in the middle of his face and waited for him to lower the radio. Less than a second later, he fired a single round through the squad leader’s nose, rapidly shifting his rifle to acquire the second man’s head.
Through the AN/PVS-14 night vision scope mounted in tandem with the EOTech sight, he registered a look of surprise before puncturing another skull with a single .223-caliber bullet. Both men instantly dropped to the ground, noisily spilling their rifles and communications gear. McDonald waited for three seconds before running forward and dragging one of the bodies behind the building. Without speaking a word, another Delta operator took care of the second body and the dropped equipment, handing the radio to McDonald when he rounded the corner. Other operators surged toward the fence, examining the individual heaps for signs of life. They still had over a minute left on the clock, and they didn’t need any surprises. He saw one of his men jam a hand against a terrorist’s mouth and stab him in the neck with a concealed blade. No surprises.
He issued hand signals changing their posture from defensive to offensive and watched as the troop formed up on the buildings, ready to move deeper into the compound. Right now, they were spread thinly among five structures, covering every approach to their area between the buildings and the rear fence. A few seconds before the artillery rounds hit, they would consolidate into three teams and move forward. Before advancing through the compound, each operator would activate a Pegasus infrared signaling beacon attached to their ballistic helmets. The infrared beacons had been preset to a specific sequenced flash pattern and synchronized to facilitate rapid identification by support gunners in the surrounding hills and inbound helicopter personnel. Machine-gunners would start with targets closest to his men and work their way forward, allowing Delta assault teams to move forward rapidly without fear of absorbing friendly fire.
He heard two snaps from a position near the northwest corner building. Before he could activate his radio, his earpiece came to life.
“Single tango. Male. Started wandering along the fence toward the northwest corner. We snatched his body without anyone noticing. He carried a radio. Possible leadership.”
“Copy. TOT in forty-two seconds.”
The presence of a radio on the man was bad news. They had neutralized two possible leadership positions assigned to the compound’s perimeter defense, which would certainly draw unwanted attention. Forty-two seconds until impact. A lot could go wrong in forty-two seconds.
**
Tyrell Bishop patted the woman gripping the M2 Browning .50-caliber machine gun’s trigger handle on the shoulder. She was sitting down with her legs extended forward, braced against the machine gun’s heavy-duty tripod. She looked oddly relaxed in this position, but Bishop could t
ell by the tension in her shoulder muscles that she was anything but calm.
The two machine gun positions had been placed several yards along the fence, on each side of the main gate, giving the gunners a clear field of fire that extended the entire length of the access road. The .50-caliber bullets, guided by intermittent tracer rounds, would start hitting the federal convoy as soon as it emerged from the forest. He couldn’t imagine the vehicles making it halfway to the compound. He considered holding fire until they had closed the distance, ensuring that there would be no way for the agents to withstand the withering heavy machine gun and rifle fire. He glanced at his watch and briefly chuckled. They had another seventeen minutes to get their shit together before the vehicles arrived. He had to hand it to himself. The compound reacted quickly and professionally under his leadership.
He’d received reports from all but one of his regulars. Good ole Buddy Tyler hadn’t passed on a readiness report from the rear fence. There was no real rush, since they had fifteen minutes to spare, but it still annoyed him that Tyler couldn’t muster a total of ten men, including himself, and move them one hundred yards from the barracks to the rear fence. There was a reason Tyler had been assigned to guard the opposite end of the compound. Despite his loyalty and enthusiasm, the man lacked a sense of urgency. He really shouldn’t have been surprised that Buddy would be the last to report, but he had just talked to him less than a minute ago, which made the situation even more unbearable. The guy had been “five seconds” out from the fence. How long could it take to count nine people and report back? He’d sent John Thibodeau from the western perimeter to check on his progress, but now he couldn’t raise Thibodeau. He knew what was happening. Buddy and John were arguing, while he sat on his thumb waiting for one of them to send a fucking report. He turned to Paul Thomas, who was squaring away the other machine gun position.
“Paul!” he yelled. “Can you run back and inform Mr. Tyler that I would like to receive a readiness report before the sun comes up!”
“I’m on it,” Thomas replied and took off running north through the compound.
Bishop felt bad sending Thomas on a 400-meter round trip just to deliver a message, but it appeared to be the only way to get anyone to report from the back fence. He’d be back in time for the main show. Thomas was a physical machine, who led daily calisthenics and physical conditioning at the compound. From what Bishop could tell, the man never slowed down. He watched the former recon marine run parallel with the western barracks along the edge of the parade field.
A massive explosion rocked the compound, obliterating the southern side of the barracks building. The point detonation of 23.8 pounds of TNT encased in high-fragmentation steel sent debris flying in every direction, along with a shockwave that lifted the loose soil from the ground nearby, instantly obscuring Bishop’s view of the barracks and Thomas. The .50-caliber machine gun behind him roared to life, but his gaze was still transfixed on the explosion. The smoke and dust thrown up by the explosion obscured the fact that a total of three Excalibur rounds had simultaneously hit the compound, neutralizing the two rooftop gun positions and the Road Warrior.
Someone grabbed his shoulder and turned him around to face the machine-gun position next to the gate. He could barely hear what the frenzied man was yelling at him over the ear-shattering sound of the heavy-caliber machine gun’s continuous blasts. Why the fuck was she firing? Tracers showered the distance, skipping skyward when they struck the ground. Still in shock, he stared at the light show for a brief second, before he regained enough sense to assess the situation. The woman he had just patted on the shoulder was missing the top of her head.
“Jesus. Get her off the gun!”
Nobody moved toward her, so he lurched forward and yanked the woman off the gun, splattering his face with blood and sticky matter when the rest of her head snapped backward. The gun fell silent, but he still heard machine-gun fire. The other rooftop gun must have engaged targets that he couldn’t see. Had the sensors missed an earlier convoy? Maybe the one he saw on camera was a backup team. Bishop had no idea what was happening. He remained upright as the rest of the recruits instinctively lowered their bodies in response to the gunfire. He saw a few of them stagger backward and fall to the ground, but couldn’t tell what had happened to them. The moonlight permitted him to see detailed shapes, but the rest of the picture remained washed out by the darkness. None of this made much sense to him.
Finally, the familiar snap and hiss of incoming small-arms fire reached his ears, propelling him back into his role as camp commander. He saw their situation with full clarity, as machine-gun fire raked the defenders stationed along the front fence. Controlled, staccato bursts of gunfire echoed across the small valley, making it perfectly clear to Bishop that they weren’t under attack by the FBI. This was something bigger. He could see flashes in the forested hillside. They were barely visible due to flash suppressors, but he could see them. He’d teach these federal sons-of-bitches a hard lesson about combat firepower.
Bishop tossed his rifle to the ground and swung the barrel of the emplaced heavy machine gun toward the forest. He perched his thumbs over the trigger and waited for another flash to appear. His wait was interrupted by the simultaneous arrival of three M982 Excalibur artillery rounds, one of which landed six feet away from his position.
**
Master Sergeant Ethan McDonald heard the second series of explosions and waited a few seconds for any shrapnel to pass. The Excalibur rounds had landed nearly 200 meters away, which was well outside of the typical 155mm high-explosive shell’s casualty radius, but he’d seen too many anomalies in his twenty-two-year career to discount the possibility of taking a wild fragment from any artillery strike. While waiting, he received a quick radio transmission confirming that all targets had been destroyed.
He passed a hand signal back to his team, transmitting the order to advance to the other team leaders through his helmet microphone. From this point forward, each team would work independently to clear structures and provide their own security. If they encountered any unusual resistance, he would consolidate teams into a larger group to handle the threat. Given the distinctive echo of .50-caliber sniper rifle fire, combined with uninterrupted bursts of machine-gun fire from their Delta brethren in the forest, he doubted very much that their work would be interrupted. He tapped the operator in front of him on the shoulder, and the entire team moved in unison through the gap between the buildings, shifting their weapons to cover every conceivable angle that posed a threat to them.
The troops’ plan had been hastily rehearsed at Dover Air Force base, on a cluster of buildings sharing a similarity with the compound layout. Hundreds of airmen had been evacuated from an isolated grouping of two-story barracks buildings, while McDonald’s team practiced the mechanics of the operation they would now execute. Based on details provided by DEVGRU surveillance teams, the five buildings situated along the rear fence should be empty of compound personnel. The center-most building, which McDonald brushed against rushing forward, had been identified as the armory. If the door was locked and couldn’t be breached by shotgun blasts, they would rig a claymore mine to detonate if the door was opened from the inside. A similar procedure would be followed by the teams flanking McDonald’s. Each of those teams was responsible for either clearing or booby-trapping the rest of the structures.
McDonald’s team would move to the next row of buildings as soon as the armory was neutralized. The headquarters building lay just ahead of the armory, and the SEALS hadn’t detected any side or rear doors. His team would have to go in through the front door, exposing themselves to the vast parade field. They would be exposed to fire from a 180-degree arc while crossing the front of the building to reach the entrance. He heard the deep thumping of rotor blades in the distance, which signified the arrival of two MH-53J Pave Low III helicopters, carrying twenty-four DEVGRU operators. The helicopters should be overhead in a matter of seconds and would present a serious problem for anyone tr
ying to fire on his Delta troop.
He flipped down the AN/PVS-14 night vision scope mounted behind his EOTech holographic sight and stacked up with three members of his team on the armory door. Another operator rushed forward and fired three Hatton breaching rounds from a short-barrel, pistol-grip shotgun into the door handle. The soldier in front of McDonald kicked the door with the bottom of his boot, smashing the door inward on its hinges before rushing inside.
McDonald entered behind him and peeled off to the right, immediately clearing the “fatal funnel” created by the doorway. In room-clearing situations, most bullets funneled into the breach as defenders instinctively tried to plug the gap. Normally, they used a diversionary device to briefly incapacitate defenders and allow the team to clear the “fatal funnel” unhampered. They had decided against the use of flashbangs in the armory for one primary reason: mission intelligence suggested the presence of recreational muzzle-loading rifles and cartridge reloading equipment in the armory. Gunpowder and the magnesium-based pyrotechnic substance used by the M84 stun grenade didn’t play well together, especially within confined spaces. He had been nervous enough about the limited amount of kinetic sparking created by the Hatton rounds upon hitting metal.
They activated powerful rifle-mounted flashlights upon entry and scanned the armory. Most of the racks stood empty. He quickly spotted several flintlock rifles and a variety of bolt-action World War II-era rifles. A shorter rack held at least twenty submachine guns, mostly Uzi’s and MP-5 variants. Upon initial visual inspection, he didn’t see any conceivable hiding place for an adult. The racks sat flush against the wall, and the oversized wooden workbenches stood tall enough to easily scan underneath. He swept the darkened room one more time with his flashlight.
“Form up,” he said to the team, taking a moment to pass on a situation report through his headset.
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