Sunday, January 24
Ramstein, Germany
Ramstein Air Base
1517 Hrs
The jet bounced hard as it landed at Ramstein.
The men stood and stretched as the aircraft taxied to an isolated area. A fuel truck followed and refilled the jet. Within twenty minutes, the pilot announced that the team would be departing shortly and asked the men to return to their seats.
“Hey, Derek, when you going to sack up and get into this card game?” called Randy.
Derek laughed. “I'll play a bit once we get in the air. There should be just enough time for me to take your money before we need to discuss our plans.”
“Oh, it's on, brother.”
Randy was a big-time gambler. Everyone in the intelligence community had a pet vice. For most, it was alcohol, and some preferred both alcohol and gambling, a nasty combination.
The jet took off. At this point, the mission was only seven hours away. What the hell is wrong with us? Derek wondered as he watched his men joking mercilessly with one another as if they were about to hit up a bar on Friday night.
It wasn't as though Derek was lacking a healthy level of anxiety, and there was little doubt that most of the men were nervous, but they had all learned over time to just be confident and trust themselves and their teammates. Operating nervous only got people killed. Things would work out; they always had.
C H A P T E R 6
Sunday, January 24
Turkmenistan
40,000 feet
0130 Hrs
The jet glided above the desert and mountains of Turkmenistan. The team was now a little more than two hours out.
Derek threw down his cards and said, “Eat that, bitch.”
Randy's face looked shocked. Derek had dropped four jacks, easily beating his full house. Derek reached across the table and pulled in his winnings.
“I hope you have that kind of luck on this mission, man, because I will be in your hip pocket the whole time,” joked Randy.
“Me too. OK, time to get serious. Everyone listen up. We are getting close, so let's get together back here and go over this stuff.”
The men gathered in the rear of the plane.
“It's 0135 right now. We should be jumping at approximately 0320 according to the crew, so get your minds right. The rock-star fight is over; it's time to get ready to do our job. We all know where we are jumping. It's not pretty. It's extremely unlikely that we'll avoid resistance, so stay focused, and let's all look out for each other. Remember, we are not here to fight these guys, we don't want to. That's not our job. Leave that to the Pakistani military. Our objective is to get to Kabul and set up camp for a few days. Perhaps we will be back in the FATA to play at some point, but step one is find a home and wait for our next objective. Understood?”
The men nodded as Derek continued, “Now, we packed light for a reason. We don't plan on being here too long, and we need to be mobile. So if there is anything in your pack you don't need, take it out and leave it here. Cool?”
The men nodded again.
“I know we are doing it no matter what, and that's cool,” said Grimes, “but why, again, are we jumping into the FATA, if our objective is to get to Kabul?”
“We can't land in Kabul. Te agency and military know everyone who lands there, and we have no explanation for why we are here. Te FATA has no US presence and far less visibility than anywhere in Afghanistan. I can't answer beyond that because I tend to agree with you. I am not 100 percent certain as to why it's being done this way. My only guess is we will get hands-on experience in the FATA, something hardly anyone has, and we may go back there for something. Who knows?”
Randy chimed in, “So wait, back to the packing, do I need my bathing suit or not? I am confused.”
Derek stared at Randy, trying not to laugh. “Yes. Bring it. Alright, let's get ready.”
The drop zone was in a snow-covered, mountainous region. From past experience Derek knew that while certain regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan got extremely hot in the summer, Afghanistan was rife with steep hillsides and towering mountains. The Hindu Kush mountain range, home to K2, the world's second highest peak, ran through the region.
The team dispersed and began to open their packs and put on the necessary gear. The majority of the men put on their tactical rigger's belts, which housed the drop-leg holsters for their Maverick Series Glock 22 .40-caliber pistols with Tim-berwolf frames. However, a couple wore their pistols on their chest rigs. In order to maintain plausible deniability, the Maverick Program had procured its own custom weapons systems through commercial venders, vice the agency's armory. Their kits, or plated vests, had a webbing system that accommodated several extended Maverick Series magazines for their Maverick AR-15 assault rifles. While the traditional AR-15 magazine holds thirty rounds, the Maverick version held fifty-five for sustained combat situations. Each member had a medical kit on his person in addition to a knife, chemical lights, a Garmin GPS, a strobe light for emergencies, and communications gear. Their heads were outfitted with light ProTec helmets that included night-vision goggles and earpieces for their radios. The only thing missing was their chutes. They moved to the jet's exit point and began getting rigged up for the jump. They would need a substantial bit of time with their oxygen masks on before the jump to avoid getting sick. Breathing the pure oxygen from their masks would remove the nitrogen from their bodies and help prevent them from getting the bends during the fall.
Time crawled by as the men sat quietly in their gear, waiting for the signal. At last, the flight attendant approached Derek and gave him the signal for two minutes.
Derek returned a thumbs up and turned to forward the message to his men. They got up and moved to the ramp.
The door began to open. An onward hand motion came from the flight attendant, and the first man was out the door, speeding at nearly two hundred miles per hour toward the FATA.
As the team hurtled through the pitch-black sky, Derek thought to himself how crazy he and his men must be to go along with such a mission. War zones were intense enough with a vast combat and logistical support system in place; Derek and his team would have no such thing. They just had each other and their instincts, which he hoped would be good enough to help them survive.
When Derek touched down, he tumbled for a few feet and finally stopped. It was a rough landing, and it didn't help that the surface, like much of the region, was the base of a hillside.
The rest of the team hit the ground, with many having the same results. Derek quickly released himself from his chute and readied his weapon. The men took cover and waited for instructions.
The team was dressed in local garb over their helmets, vests, and weaponry, and most had grown their beards to fit in with locals, at least at first glance.
In Derek's experience, when on an operation, adapting to the local surroundings often gave you the precious few seconds needed to avoid being caught in a difficult situation. It took fractions of a second for spotters to identify Westerners driving high-end SUVs wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses or sports caps.
All team members were equipped with their suppressed MS AR-15 assault rifles, a version the team members had designed and modified themselves, and an assortment of other weapons and gear. Carson and Randy had M203 grenade launchers fixed on their rifles for a little extra punch. Derek's eyes adjusted and he scanned the area through his night-vision goggles for any unfriendly company. Nothing moving. All he could see was the breath of his men feathering out on the cold, dark night. A few hundred meters away, scattered lights illuminated what seemed to be a small village, but they had most certainly landed out of sight. Still, to be on the safe side, Derek stood and motioned for his men to follow. If they had been seen, it wouldn't be long before enemy fighters would be on their trail.
The men fell in behind Derek, keeping a three-meter spread between them as they started their ascent up the first of what would be many hillsides.
The men cautiously c
limbed the hill, stopping every so often to survey the area ahead and to be sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Their elevation was increasing with each step, and so was the difficulty of the terrain. As they ascended further, the ground was covered with snow.
Much of the year, the hills and mountains in the region were snowcapped at higher elevations, while a more dry and austere environment plagued the low ground.
Derek came to an abrupt halt and hit a knee, signaling the others to stop. He peered ahead carefully. Voices began to emerge from the silence of the night, and he motioned for his team to take cover.
Fifteen meters ahead, a father walked with his young son along the hill, chatting.
The men remained silent and crouched in their cover, hoping the two would pass without noticing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the two had moved along without discovering Derek and his men. The team slowly stood and continued up the hill.
Derek whispered into his throat piece, “Stay sharp, guys. That boy was just as likely to open up on us as anyone else here.”
Grimes chimed in. “That's what makes this place so special. Even the kids try and kill you.”
The team was in a place where hatred toward Westerners was preached fervently at local madrasas and mosques. Children learned to hate Americans, or infidels as they were usually called, from an early age.
The men continued on for nearly an hour before they reached another small village.
Derek signaled the men to move forward to a small compound where a few vehicles were parked. Randy and Grimes scurried on and silently secured a four-door Toyota Hilux truck while the rest of the team set up a perimeter.
Little time had passed before Randy flashed his infrared light to the rest of the team, signifying the vehicle was ready. One by one, the men converged on the vehicle and piled in. Because of their heavy equipment load, three men piled into the cab of the truck, and Miller and Carson lay prone in the bed.
They took of toward their destination, the border of Afghanistan. They were close, but sunlight was rapidly approaching. If they were lucky, they would have another hour—an hour and a half, tops.
They cruised, mostly of road, for forty-five minutes before reaching their first obstacle, a checkpoint. Derek grabbed Randy's arm and told him to slow down. “We have a checkpoint ahead.”
Randy eased up on the pedal and notified the men in the back of the truck via his throat piece, “Three, this is Two. Be advised we have a checkpoint up ahead. Keep your heads down. Will advise of any further actions. Over.”
“Two, this is Three. That's a good copy. Standing by.”
The rules of engagement, as described by Carlisle before leaving, were weapons free on Taliban or other enemy fighters. However, they were only to fire if fired upon when encountering government officials, whether Afghan or Pakistani. It was too early to tell who was manning the post ahead. The problem in this case was that Americans were not supposed to be on Pakistani soil without the express approval of the Pakistani government.
From afar, the checkpoint didn't seem to be overly formal. Taliban, thought Derek. He grabbed his throat piece and spoke. “Weapons hot, boys. This doesn't look official.”
“And if it is?” asked Grimes.
“Well, I don't believe this can be a documented stop, because we aren't here.”
“Hey boss, I actually think it is official, Pakistani military.”
“What are they doing out here? I thought they had left this place. Alright, slow up even more for a second.”
The vehicle slowed.
“Gonna have to go with plan B here, guys. Make it look good,” uttered Derek. “Miller, roll off and wait for my order.”
Miller rolled of the back of the vehicle into the darkness before they were too close and scurried to the side of the road. The vehicle continued ahead, and Randy dimmed its lights as they approached the checkpoint.
“Be sure to let us know who you are looking at, Miller!” Randy hissed into his throat piece.
The vehicle crawled for the last forty meters, which only made the Pakistani soldiers more anxious. Derek and his men could now hear yells from the soldiers as they drew their weapons down and aimed at Derek and his men. One of the soldiers ran ahead, ordering them to approach the checkpoint, and fired a round into the air.
“Miller, what's your status?” asked Derek.
“Working here, boss. Give me thirty seconds,” whispered Miller.
It had appeared, though it was hard to tell, that there were about six soldiers at the small checkpoint.
As the team pulled up in the truck, the man who had screamed and fired into the air approached the vehicle from the front.
“Ready. Eyes on the tango approaching your vehicle,” whispered Miller.
“Roger. Carson, when I get out, you send these boys a care package. Miller, strike on our go.”
Derek exited the vehicle with his hands in the air. Just as he did, Carson stood and lobbed a flash-bang into the group from the truck bed as Miller's shot ripped through the approaching soldier's head. The remainder of the soldiers were blinded and eliminated within seconds. Carson quickly approached a downed Pakistani and took his weapons. He had been working in Special Operations with the SEALs for eighteen years and brought the most tactical experience to the team. While Randy and Miller brought great talent, they had far less experience. He handed the Makarov pistol to Randy and kept the AK-47 for himself. “We are keeping this shit, right?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” replied Derek. “Take what you can, and let's get going.”
“Hey, man, thanks for the Makarov,” joked Randy as he tossed it to the side. “I'm not keeping that shit.”
“I'm here for you, brother,” laughed Carson as the men piled back into the truck.
The vehicle sped off toward the border with the sun beginning to rise behind them.
“We going to see any more checkpoints at the border?” laughed Miller.
“No, I think we are good. We weren't supposed to see that one, though, so stay focused. Imagery shows a clear path into Afghanistan from here,” replied Derek.
“Hell, we may even be in Afghanistan now. There aren't any Welcome to Afghanistan signs,” exclaimed Carson.
“True. We are close. What do we have on the GPS, Grimes?” asked Derek.
“Says we are going to cross the border in about two clicks.”
C H A P T E R 7
Monday, January 25
Kabul, Afghanistan
1636 Hrs
The team's vehicle rolled into the outskirts of Kabul.
“Listen up, guys. Drop me off at Massoud Circle. I'm gonna go on foot for a bit. You move ahead and keep eyes on. Our contact is not hostile.”
“So who is this guy, boss?” asked Carson.
“He is one of our sources. A guy named Shafi. I used to work with him. I trust him, and he has arranged somewhere for us to stay.”
The vehicle sped around the traffic circle and dumped Derek near a produce stand before continuing around. Randy stopped the Toyota and the men positioned themselves about fifty meters down the road.
Massoud Circle was one of many traffic circles in Kabul. This one in particular was a tribute to the Great Massoud, a legendary Northern Alliance fighter who united the Afghans in the fight against the Taliban but was later assassinated by two al-Qaeda operatives posing as journalists.
Derek navigated his way through the small but crowded bazaar. The smell was just as he remembered it. In the winter, Afghans burned tires and whatever else they could find to warm their homes. Firewood was a luxury, and not all people could afford enough to sustain their homes through the colder season. Needless to say, the aroma that filled the Kabul air was memorable, but not for a good reason.
Derek pulled a few Afghanis from his pocket and purchased some fruit from a young child running his father's stand. He hoped to buy some time as he waited for Shafi but knew if he didn't humor the kid with a purchase he would have a lot of attention on him
real fast. Children in Afghanistan assumed a Western face meant you were rich and in Afghanistan for charity. The only way to shut them up was to pay them or buy what they were selling.
Derek was still dressed in man-jams, the American term for a shawwal khamis, but ultimately, his beard and garb would disguise the fact that he was Western only for mere seconds. He had appeased the kid, but his time was getting short. Although Westerners were becoming more common here, they still were always threatened, and being out and about for long durations was never wise. Fortunately, Derek had his team close by and Shafi was supposed to arrive any second.
The Maverick Experiment Page 6