Afghan Sunset: A Jackson Pike Novella

by Patrick Adams

  The circumstances had certainly changed.

  Below me stood several large trucks idling as men loaded cases of what I could only assume to be weapons into the vehicles. I signaled to Mike. There were likely close to forty heavily armed men in the plaza.

  Over the next several minutes, the remaining four members of our team reached the rendezvous point.

  I turned and walked to the center of the rooftop, where the men awaited instruction.

  My voice was a whisper. "There are approximately forty heavily armed enemy combatants in the plaza below. They seem to be loading most, if not all of the weapons stored at this facility into trucks. They are a force of at least five times our strength. We have two options: we can head to the extraction point, or engage."

  It was Martinez that was the first to speak, shaking his head in the darkness. "If we leave, those weapons will be used to kill American soldiers. We came here to do a mission. I for one want to see it done."

  The Chief grunted.

  I nodded, scanning the semicircle of crouched Navy SEALs that surrounded me before smiling slightly.

  "Well, gentlemen let's get to work." I said.

  I mapped out a quick and simple strategy that would allow us to engage a force much larger than our own.

  It was a variation of a simple tactic that special operations forces had used for years in similar circumstances; split your force into small, mobile units, strike quickly and with maximum devastation, cut off the ability of the enemy to retreat, and move quickly between fall back ambush positions.

  It was classic guerilla warfare stuff and the men all nodded in response as the Chief split them into teams once more.

  "You heard the LT. Fall out."

  The Chief and I would remain on the roof of the mosque, while the other men scattered throughout the facility in teams of two.

  We stepped to the low abutment of the concrete roof, where the Chief and I crouched and loaded the rocket launchers affixed to our M4 carbines. We'd take out the first and third trucks, trapping the men below. That would be the signal for the rest of our team to engage.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Chapter 4:

  I don't know how they knew where we were.

  But they did.

  The Chief and I barely escaped the low concrete abutment than ringed the mosque's rooftop as a rocket propelled grenade sailed past us and into the concrete building and sent a shower of concrete and steel raining down upon us.

  "Engage." I said as calmly as possible into the radio as the Chief and I almost simultaneously fired the grenade launchers attached to the muzzles of our M4 carbines into the compound, destroying both the lead and trailing trucks.

  The resulting explosion was devastating.

  The grenades must have detonated whatever explosives and ammunition had been loaded into the trucks. The blast sent a concussion through the entire compound and left smoldering heaps of twisted metal aflame in the center of the compound.

  Peering from the rooftop, I could see the small pockets of resistance and hear the successive concussions of small arms fire that indicated our two man guerilla SEAL teams moving about the compound.

  Unfortunately, most of these small teams had not made it into position before the enemy had engaged. They were still on the move, darting for whatever cover they could as the enemy did the same.

  The enemy forces moved much more judiciously and with a great deal more precision and leadership than I'd ever seen in resistance fighters. The men were well trained. Coordinated.

  I crouched behind the low concrete abutment.

  The reports were coming in.

  We'd sustained two casualties so far. My eight man team was scattered throughout the compound. All stations reported engaging a large and highly trained enemy force.

  "Roger. Fall back to our previous position," I said, hoping that the roof of the mosque would offer us at least the tactical advantage of elevation as we engaged the superior force.

  "Chief and I will cover the retreat through the courtyard. Move out." The radio crackled to silence.

  I nodded to Chief Jones and we both went to work, our weapons sweeping carefully through the compound, the burning trucks offering all the lighting we needed to pick off what enemy forces dared to venture into the open.

  My men trickled in.

  Two were carried on stretchers. Petty Officer Turner, our demolition expert. And Petty Officer Stone, our newest member.

  "What's the status of the wounded?" I asked Martinez, our field medic.

  "Turner is dead, sir. Stone is unconscious. He took the brunt of that concussion when the two trucks exploded."

  "OK. Let's call for the MEDEVAC helicopter and tactical air support. I'd say our efforts at stealth are no longer required."

  I turned to the remaining five ambulatory members of our Team. "Make that courtyard a killing field."

  The men went to work. For the next hour not a man moved from cover in the courtyard below without falling dead to the dusty pavement.

  But it couldn't last.

  The force below began to advance on our position, RPGs firing from the rooftops and darkened windows around us as sniper fire echoed from the shadows.

  Martinez took a bullet to the throat. There was no saving him.

  The Chief was next. A round ricocheted into his upper thigh and he went down, leaning his broad back against the crumbling concrete of the low barrier around the rooftop. I knelt beside him.

  The round had hit an artery.

  "Shit." I said.

  I removed my belt and instructed Mike to tie a tourniquet.

  We needed air support immediately.

  I collapsed heavily against the low concrete wall that separated our team from the sustained small arms fire from the compound below.

  Between the ricochets of gunfire from the remaining two ambulatory team members, I spoke into the transmitter of my satellite radio.

  "Position as follows." I stated, a strange calm in my voice. "North 34-49.122, East 69-47.244; request immediate close air support.

  I coughed. The air was tinged with the odor of blood still seeping from the Chief's wound. A haze of cordite, smoke and death hung in the dry mountain air as I leaned back and shook my head.

  "Cease fire!" I called. "Take cover."

  We crouched low against what remained of the crumbling waist high wall of the mosque's roof. Our breathing was still as the F/A 18 pilots read back our position over the satellite radio.

  "Trident Six," Read back the aviator after confirming the coordinates. "Inbound at this time."

  As always, the sound of rapidly approaching combat aircraft brought most of the sustained enemy small arms fire to a halt. As we lay on the dusty and blood soaked concrete, the sound of the F/A 18 fighter jets became louder, until a deafening explosion rendered the world dark.

  Chapter 5:

  "What the fuck?"

  Those were the first words that escaped from my lips when I awoke, not in the blood and ash of an Afghan weapons depot, but staring at the white ceiling of a military hospital.

  The first thing I did was raise my head from the soft pillow and check my extremities.

  They were all there. Two arms and two legs.

  I leaned back once more against the fluffy pillow supporting my neck and shoulders. My head ached like I'd been hit by a train, and I could feel the tightly wrapped bandages spun around my hairline.

  "Good morning, LT." The voice belonged to a young nurse walking the concrete floor, her feet falling lightly as she stepped towards me.

  "Where am I?" I asked, pressing myself closer to a sitting position as she approached.

  The hospital was set up like a barracks, with beds spaced every ten feet or so. Most were unoccupied.

  "You are in a field hospital at Bagram Air Force Base." She said.

  "You were hit in the head by a piece of flying debris. Your helmet likely saved your life. You've been unconscious for a few hours."

&
nbsp; "My team?" I asked, looking around the ward.

  "I'll get the doctor." The young Air Force nurse shook her head, and stepped down the long passageway.

  They were dead. I knew that already. Her eyes told the whole story; she just wasn't authorized to tell me.

  I clenched my fists on the itchy hospital sheet and waited.

  My head was spinning as I closed my eyes and stilled my breath.

  "LT Pike?" The voice was in stark contrast to the twenty-something nurse who I'd spoken with moments ago.

  It was rough and gravely, the voice of a man who's seen too much suffering.

  I opened my eyes and looked up. An Army doctor stood above me in green scrubs.

  He held a chart and was flipping through the pages.

  I nodded. "I'm LT Pike."

  The doctor cleared his throat. "I'm Dr. Smith. You've already met LT Taylor," he said, indicating the young nurse from moments ago.

  I nodded again. Behind the doctor stood two men in dark suits, still unidentified by the doctor.

  The Captain must have noticed my curious gaze.

  "The gentlemen standing behind me are agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

  He cleared his throat before continuing.

  "Medically, you suffered a head injury which resulted in a severe concussion, loss of consciousness and a minor skull fracture. You'll need to be observed for the next week or so, following which we will order a battery of tests to determine the amount of damage that may have been done."

  "I understand." I said, all the while staring at the men who stood behind the doctor with expressionless eyes.

  "It is also my duty to inform you that this mission resulted in the loss of six American lives. All members of your team. You and one other member survived." He looked down at the chart once more. "A Chief Petty Officer Michael Jones."

  He nodded. "I'll let the agents fill you in on the bulk of the details."

  The doctor stepped away, the young nurse close in trail as they continued their rounds of the near empty medical facility.

  The two men in suits stepped closer, the first clearing his throat as he pulled a note pad from his jacket and clicked a clear, government-issue blue pen.

  "LT Pike," he began. "As the doctor stated, last night's mission resulted in the loss of six American lives."

  He looked at the other agent before looking me in the eyes. "But that's not why we are here."

  I nodded. Waiting.

  "LT Jackson Pike, he said. You are being charged with violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, article 113 for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and article 118, premeditated murder."

  I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Murder?

  I finally stammered something unintelligible, followed by a mumbled question "Murder?"

  The taller of the two agents, who had been silent until now finally spoke. "LT Pike, you have the right to remain silent..."

  I tuned out the rest of the litany of Miranda rights. My head was spinning. I laid back on the uncomfortable hospital bed and did just what the men had recommended.

  I remained silent.

  Chapter 6:

  Day was breaking and my legs ached as we stepped down the cargo ramp of the C-130 at Marine Corps Air Station, Oceana, VA.

  It had been a week of tests and observation in Afghanistan. Once I was medically cleared, we had departed for the United States.

  I turned one last time and looked into the cavernous cargo bay of the huge aircraft, which had been occupied by only three men. It had been only me and the two NCIS agents who were escorting me to the Naval Brig in Norfolk to await trial for the premeditated murder of twenty Afghan civilians.

  Although it had been more than a week since I was read my Miranda rights, I'd still said nothing. To be honest, I was struggling to comprehend the accusations.

  It was all over the news.

  A rogue Navy SEAL Team had destroyed a mosque and school in the mountains outside of Kabul, killing more than twenty children in the boarding school nearby before calling in an airstrike on the facility.

  At least that was the story that was being broadcast on the airwaves around the world.

  And I'd be the first to admit, that's what it looked like from the outside.

  Only my team and I knew the truth.

  And all but one member of my team was dead.

  The props of the C-130 aircraft thudded to a stop as the agents escorted me further down the cold metal ramp of the cargo plane and to a waiting black SUV that would bring me to the Naval prison colloquially known as "The Brig".

  I climbed into the vehicle; my body exhausted from the more than 20 hour flight from Afghanistan, my mind racing as the reality of my situation sank in.

  Al Jazeera International had covered the story from the very beginning.

  The images were disturbing, to say the least. The charred bodies, the blood, the destroyed school, and only a few armed and fully grown men distributed throughout.

  It was a far cry from the estimated forty armed men who had set upon us the night of the mission.

  And what was worse, there had been no enemy arms store located at the facility. The trucks had been destroyed, whatever weapons remained burned beyond recognition by the air strike that had saved my life but killed my team.

  The engine of the black government vehicle turned over and the Petty Officer outside the rear of the vehicle tossed the agents' luggage unceremoniously into the vehicle. He slammed the metal doors shut, saluting smartly as the driver pulled away from the huge gray airplane.

  We crossed the ramp to the main drive of the base, where an escort of two police cars awaited our arrival.

  They took up position in front of and behind the black suburban and we rolled down the road, other vehicles moving to the side as the flashing of police lights drove them from our path.

  The need for the escort became obvious when we passed the fading gray sign that read "Drive Safely" and indicated the exit of the Naval facility.

  Outside of the gate, reporters and protesters alike waited.

  Though the driver maneuvered easily through the crowd, held back from the road by Marines, I was staggered by the size of the crowd.

  The tale of the "rogue" Navy SEAL had gone international.

  It seemed trials these days were tried less in court and more in the court of public opinion, and in that courtroom my team and I seemed to be losing.

  I sighed and pressed my head wearily into the leather back seat of the Suburban.

  The agents were silent, as was I... As I had been since I was read my rights.

  I would be assigned an attorney here in Norfolk.

  The SUV was on the interstate now, proceeding rapidly past vehicles that pulled to the side as the police escort's lights flashed in their rear view mirrors, the unaware drivers probably thinking me some kind of dignitary.

  I almost smiled at the thought, the handcuffs digging into my sore wrists as I tried to ignore the discomfort.

  I was definitely no dignitary.

  I was also definitely no murderer.

  Chapter 7:

  The past few days had been surreal.

  Like walking through the smoke of battle, constantly reminded by the reality of the situation and yet yearning to wake, as if from a bad dream.

  When the thick metal door of the Brig's cell closed and the lock slid into place, reality was as harsh as it had ever been.

  The locking mechanism clicked three times.

  My lawyer would be here in the morning.

  Until then, there was nothing to do.

  I lay on the gray bed, folding the hard and lumpy pillow into some semblance of a headrest.

  My eyes slowly closed and the image of the cracked concrete ceiling of the prison cell faded from my vision, replaced by thoughts of my family.

  Images of my wife Leigh and daughter Clementine danced through my mind as I lay in a state far from asleep but not quite awake.


  I was sure they'd seen the news.

  I wish the agents had let me call them, to tell them that I was alright.

  I shifted on the hard bed and rolled onto my side.

  They would know I was innocent of the charges. That's all that mattered.

  That thought gave me more peace than any of the past few days, and I let my thoughts drift as I laid my head on the lumpy prison pillow and finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

  When I woke up, I was covered in sweat and my heart was racing.

  Images of the night my team had been killed cascaded through my memory, mixed with the photos that had been broadcast across Al Jazeera and even the American news networks.

  I shook my head. It was rapidly getting to the point that even I didn't know what was true anymore.

  I sighed, pushing the doubt from my mind and surveying my surroundings.

  I had never been to prison, but this one was not what I would have expected.

  A heavy metal door with a small window at face level sealed me into the solitary cell.

  The furnishings were Spartan. An uncomfortable bed, a metal toilet and sink in the far corner of the small room. Solid concrete walls painted an odd shade of gray.

  It was a far cry from the image I'd pictured in my mind. I guess I'd expected the classic cell from Western movies; thick metal bars, and a little metal cup to clink against the heavy steel gate.

  Least they could have done was give me the little metal cup to clink, I thought, trying to smile.

  I glanced at my wrist.

  They had taken my watch when I got here.

  Being in a world with no indication of time was a strange feeling for a Navy SEAL.

  For years, my life had revolved around being in a certain place at a certain time. In the SEALs, time was everything.

  Time was life and death. It was the difference between being at an extraction point in time or being in enemy territory when the airstrike came.

  I shuddered and rolled over on the bed again, staring at the ceiling.

  The airstrike.

  The flight of FA/18 aircraft must have dropped the bombs long.