“Roger, copy,” Moore replied. Then on his radio, “Raven, this is Moore. Our hostage is heading toward you. Send some of your men down to grab him and then fire on the vehicle pursuing him.”
“Copy all.” The captain leading the Ranger team looked at Phillips. “Laurie, you’ve got the best optical sight. Let me know when he comes into view and then get eyes-on that vehicle.” Then turning to the closest man, he continued, “Take a few men and go down to the street and grab the man running toward us. The rest of us will take out the vehicle chasing him when it comes into sight.”
Three men ran down the several stories of the bombed-out building, their NVGs lighting the way. They had just begun moving north along the street when a man in a jumpsuit came into view. His hands were bound and he was gagged. The men grabbed him and held him upright.
“Lieutenant Bruner?” one of the men yelled as another one pulled the gag out of his mouth.
“Yes!” Bruner replied, relief lighting up his face.
“Sir, I have to ask you some questions. It’s hostage protocol.”
“Ask away!”
The Ranger paused, at a loss for words, and then said, “Sir, just what the fuck are you doing here, anyway?”
* * *
Al-Dosari was at the wheel of the truck, and al-Hamdani was in the passenger seat. The ISIS leader had picked up his number two as he drove after the escaping hostage. They were worried about IEDs and al-Dosari pressed the truck as close as he could to building facades, knowing the IEDs his men had seeded were placed more toward the middle of the street. He drove so close to the buildings that the passenger-side mirror had been torn off.
They heard the first “plink” on their truck before they heard the gunshot sound. Then more plinks, then the dirt of the street being torn up, and then automatic weapons fire. They looked ahead and couldn’t see the fleeing hostage.
Al-Dosari was no hero. He jerked the wheel to the left, and tires squealing, did a rapid 180-degree turn. Once pointed north, he picked up speed and sought the safety of the other side of the street, careening the truck against the front of buildings. Soon, fewer and fewer bullets were hitting the back of the truck.
* * *
Two blocks away, Master Guns Moore and his team were working their way south. They moved slowly, wary of IEDs.
“Raven, this is Moore.”
“This is Raven, go ahead.”
“We’re about four blocks from your posit, heading your way. We’ve cleared the compound. About two dozen EKIA. We didn’t get the package. Repeat, we didn’t get the package.”
“We have him here!” the Ranger captain shouted over the radio. “We have Lieutenant Bruner!”
“Is he okay, sir?” Moore asked.
“He’s been through the ringer, but otherwise all right. Get here as soon as you can. We need to withdraw in a hurry. Who knows how many fighters they’re trying to muster to counterattack.”
“Roger that, sir, we’ll be there in ten mikes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Near the ISIS Compound: Central Mosul, Iraq
July 24, 0315 Arabia Standard Time
A bit south of where most of the Rangers were clearing out of the bombed-out building and were waiting for Moore and his team to reach them, Volner and two Rangers were standing guard over their comrades whose Humvee had been hit by the IED. Volner had followed everything that had gone on over the tactical net.
The fact that Lieutenant Bruner had been rescued meant their mission was a success. And when Master Guns Moore had told him he hadn’t lost any of his men when they stormed the ISIL compound, that provided more good news. But none of that was enough to allow Volner to be joyful. He called Moore.
“Master Guns, I heard our Ranger escort, and I agree. We need to pull back fast and withdraw. I’m close to the downed Humvee. Once you and your men join up with the Rangers, meet me here.”
“Roger that, sir.”
* * *
While a few of the 75th Ranger Regiment men—along with Laurie Phillips—maintained overwatch positions in their building, scanning in all directions for a possible ISIL counterattack, the rest of the Rangers, as well as Moore and his squads, converged on Volner’s position. They all were worried about Dawson and Rodriquez.
Volner, now the senior man and the de facto mission commander, wasted no time. “Gents, gather ’round and listen up. We need to mount up and get out of here soon, so I’ll be quick.”
All of the men shuffled toward him until they were in a tight circle.
“First, well done on rescuing Lieutenant Bruner. Master Guns, you and your teams did a great job and I think we got him out just in the nick of time. One of the Rangers’ medics has him in a Humvee and is looking after him. He went through a hell of an ordeal, but he’s basically okay.”
Volner paused to frame his thoughts. “I know you’re worried about the men in the Humvee that was taken out by the IED. The driver and the JSOC trooper in the front passenger seat made it out with just minor injuries. But the good news ends there—”
The men surrounding him could tell Volner was struggling to control his emotions. “Mr. Dawson was pretty banged up and suffered a concussion. He’s been lapsing in and out of consciousness.” Then turning to the Ranger Regiment captain, he continued. “Your medics say he’s otherwise okay, but we need to get him to a field hospital ASAP. A fresh section of Little Birds are inbound to help with our extraction. We’ll be putting him, as well as Lieutenant Bruner, in one of the birds so we can get them to Baghdad as soon as possible. The other bird will ride shotgun for us on the way south.”
Volner paused for a long moment before delivering the news everyone there feared. “Men, we lost Hector. The captain’s medic did heroic things to save him, but the shrapnel from the IED that tore into him cut too many arteries and we couldn’t stop the flow of blood. He died quickly and he died a hero’s death.”
The men surrounding Volner reacted in various ways, but most were stoic; they’d lost good men before, and they’d probably lose good men on future operations. It was what made the brotherhood of arms what it was.
While the JSOC squad and the Rangers continued to process what they had just heard, one of Volner’s men said, “Roger that, sir. Are we going to destroy the Global Hawk before we pull out?”
“No, there’s no time, plus there still could be IEDs in the street. I’ve passed its coordinates up the chain. They’ll have to deal with it another way.”
“Questions?” There were none.
“All right, let’s mount up. Captain, pull your remaining men out of the building. Everyone will head south in the Humvees. When we get to a secure LZ, the Little Bird will medevac Mr. Dawson and Lieutenant Bruner.”
As the Rangers and the JSOC component moved out to carry out his orders, Volner walked a short distance away and punched a number into his Iridium satellite phone.
* * *
It was almost 0400 in Mosul, which meant it was 2100 on the U.S. East Coast. Volner didn’t expect Chase Williams to be in his office, and, as he anticipated, his call was routed to the Op-Center watch floor. The watchstander told him that Williams was at home in the Watergate. He asked to be connected to Williams’s cell phone and within a minute, the Op-Center director was on the line.
“Sir,” Volner began. “We have Lieutenant Bruner—”
“That’s fantastic news!” Williams interjected.
“Yes, sir. He’s been roughed up by his captors, but he’s otherwise okay. I’m afraid the rest of the news isn’t all good—”
Volner gave him a quick overview of the action, including the loss of Rodriquez. He knew how a loss like this would impact the Op-Center director, and he didn’t interrupt the extended silence as Williams processed what he’d heard. Finally, the older man spoke.
“Major, well done again. Please pass along my congratulations to your men as well as to the 75th Rangers. Do I need to ask General George for any additional assets to cover your extraction?�
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“No sir, but thank you. The Little Birds he sent have it covered, and the Rangers have a way to pull more assets up if we need them.”
“All right then. Safe travel south, and we’ll get you back to the States just as soon as we can.”
“Yes sir, Admiral. And sir, I’m sorry about Hector.”
“I know you are, Major; I am too. He was one of the best.”
* * *
Sitting in his Watergate apartment with only family pictures—including those of his late wife—Williams was alone in his grief. In his few years as Op-Center director he had lost both JSOC and CIRG heroes in conflicts but had not yet lost one of his core staff—someone he saw and talked with almost every day. Now he had.
Shake it off, Chase. This is a tragedy and something you need to process, but now isn’t the time. You have work to do.
Williams sat upright in his chair at his small desk in his condo. He scrolled through the contacts list on his iPhone and found Eric Oldham’s number. As he hit “Call,” he framed his thoughts.
“Oldham here.”
“Eric, it’s Chase. Are you still at the Bruners’ home?”
“I am.”
“I have wonderful news,” Williams continued. Once he had told him everything he knew he concluded, “Please tell Jay and Meagan how happy and relieved we are and that we’ll get their son back to the States as fast as possible.”
“I’ll do that,” Oldham replied. “And thank you, Chase. Thank you to you and your people.”
The next call he made was to the one person he needed to lean on in this difficult time.
“Sullivan here,” she replied to the ring on her Op-Center secure cell phone.
“Anne, this is Chase. We’ve had a loss and I need you. Can you be dressed in a half hour?” Williams began. He told her they had lost Hector Rodriquez and that he wanted—no needed—the both of them to drive to the Rodriquez home that evening and break the news to his wife.
“Absolutely, boss.”
EPILOGUE
Alerted by his 75th Ranger Regiment that they were in a firefight in Mosul and would likely be exfiltrating soon, the CENTCOM commander had sent a C-17 with a medical evacuation team to Al Muthana Air Base on the military side of Baghdad International Airport. The aircraft was there when the two backup Little Birds delivered Dawson and Bruner, and the medics immediately went to work on the two wounded men.
The Humvee convoy had sped south at top speed and arrived several hours later. Volner, Moore, and four of the more senior JSOC men carefully loaded Hector Rodriquez’s body onto the C-17 with quiet dignity. Within an hour of the convoy arriving, the Globemaster was heading west.
* * *
The USS Wayne E. Meyer (DDG 108), one of the Navy’s newest Arleigh Burke Aegis destroyers, steamed at bare steerageway in the northern reaches of the Arabian Gulf. Her captain had put her in the launch basket and only awaited the order from higher authority. Unknown to Wayne E. Meyer’s captain, the debate as to whether to alert Iraqi authorities had been intense and ultimately had to be adjudicated by President Midkiff. Finally, the order came.
The sound was deafening and the fiery flash intense as a single Tomahawk cruise missile leapt out of Wayne E. Meyer’s launch tube and soared into the night sky. The BGM-109D Tomahawk Land Attack Missile—or TLAM-D—armed with cluster munitions, unfolded its tiny wings and exposed its air-scoop seconds after it emerged from the ship. Ascending and heading north using inertial guidance, it soon picked up the GPS satellite signal. Minutes later, as the missile made landfall on the southern tip of Iraq’s Bubiyan Island, the Tomahawk’s terrain contour matching navigation system took over, comparing terrain contours built into the BGM-109D’s electronic brain with the route it was programmed to fly.
Flying at five hundred and fifty miles per hour, it took the TLAM-D almost an hour to reach Mosul. Once over the city, its highly accurate Digital Scene Matching Area Correlation system took over, providing terminal guidance as the missile homed in on its target. It hit the hulk of the Global Hawk with tremendous kinetic energy, but it was the explosive force of the 166 bomblet submunitions that ripped the downed UAV to shreds and made it unrecognizable and of no value to any enemy.
* * *
Chase Williams and Anne Sullivan sat in companionable silence in front of her Georgetown brownstone near Dupont Circle for a long time. Like Williams, she too felt the loss of one of their core staff in a profound and personal way. Finally, Sullivan spoke.
“Chase, this is the first time I’ve had to do something like this. I … I hope I was helpful. It was all I could do to keep from losing it.”
“I’ve done it more times than I care to remember. It doesn’t get any easier. You being there was important to me, and I could tell it was important to Mrs. Rodriquez.”
“She took the news so stoically; it was almost like she was expecting it.”
Williams paused a long moment before speaking again. “It takes a strong woman to be a warrior’s wife. They all hope the worst never happens, but if it does, they know they have to deal with it. Those with children focus on helping their kids get through it and worry about dealing with their own grief later.”
“I almost felt like she was consoling me.”
“She was. I’m certain she’s dealt with this before, helping the families of Hector’s comrades who’ve been lost in battle. Now she knows she has to deal with all the details this loss brings with it: notifying family, getting her adult children back home—they have six kids and they’re scattered all around the country—arranging the wake and the funeral service, even ensuring Hector is buried in his best dress uniform.”
“She said they attend Our Lady of Angels in Woodbridge.”
“They do,” Williams replied. “And we’ll all be there for his service; we can keep just a skeleton crew on the watch floor. And as soon as Brian gets back, I know he’ll want to take lead on this; Hector was his guy, and he’ll want to make sure everything is handled with class and dignity.”
“He’s done this sort of thing before I suspect.”
“You can bet he has. Sadly, our military—and especially our special operators—are good at this.”
After an extended silence, Williams spoke again. “There’s one bit of business I want us to attend to first thing tomorrow. Before that young SEAL we rescued returns to the West Coast, I want to have a talk with him.”
“I’ll see to it.”
They talked for a little while longer, and it was close to midnight when Williams walked Sullivan up the steps to her front door. For the first time in their professional association he hugged her and simply said, “Thank you.” Then he got back into his car and navigated his way through D.C.’s streets to the Washington Nationals baseball park.
Hector had been a huge New York Mets fan, while Williams rooted for the Nationals. They had taken in many Nats-Mets games together and their rooting rivalry was well known to everyone at Op-Center and was a source of constant chatter and ribbing between the two men. There in the shadow of the darkened ballpark, Williams reflected for a long while, and then he wept unashamedly.
* * *
Two days later, there was a somber reunion at the Bruner home in Springfield, Virginia. There were no welcome home banners or streamers or signs. Instead, there was just a profound sense of relief the five family members shared together. Williams and Oldham had intervened and ensured that Dale’s debriefing was expedited, and he was returned home without delay.
Late in the evening, when the Bruner women had finally gone to bed, father and son sat alone on their screened-in porch, each man holding a glass of Irish whiskey—the good stuff as Bruner senior called it. Even long after sunset, the July heat and humidity in Northern Virginia felt like a sodden blanket covering both men.
The elder Bruner knew what needed to be done, but it pained him to do it. He sat struggling to form the words, but they finally came.
“Dale, your heart was in the right place trying to come
rescue me, but at the end of the day, none of that’s going to matter—”
“I know,” he interrupted, “I know I screwed up big time, but I didn’t think the Navy was doing enough to save you.”
“I understand that, but you know how many regulations you broke and how you let down your command,” he continued. “And beyond that, Dale—” The older man paused before continuing to ensure his son was completely focused on what he was about to say. “You put men at risk, and one man died trying to rescue you. You have some serious questions to answer. I’ll support you one hundred percent, but at the end of the day, you will have to stand tall and take whatever accounting comes your way.”
“I know.”
“It pains me to tell you this, but I’ve made inquiries with some of my fellow flag officers. Even under these exceptional circumstances, your commanding officer is going to have no choice but to bring you up on multiple charges of violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice. This may even go to court-martial.”
The younger man was silent for a moment as he took a gulp of the Johnnie Walker Black.
“What should I do?”
“Look, I know you love the SEALs, but under the circumstances I think you should write your letter of resignation and fly to Coronado and deliver it to your skipper in person.”
“I will, Dad.”
* * *
At Op-Center, Chase Williams sat with his ops director. He was mindful that Hector’s death had affected Dawson even more than it had impacted him. He knew the former Green Beret needed to decompress, but sending the divorced Dawson to mourn alone in his condo in Tysons Corner wasn’t the answer. He allowed him to stay at Op-Center virtually around the clock while he attended to all the details of helping Gianna Rodriquez through Hector’s death.
Now it was business, and he needed his de facto chief of staff’s input on changes they needed to make in future missions. The two men agreed that when they sent their JSOC team downrange, it needed to have a bigger footprint and an on-call aviation component. Had the CENTCOM commander not had the Little Birds available in Baghdad, their mission would not only have failed—it would have failed spectacularly, likely with more loss of life.
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