Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Realizing the magnitude of his decision, Director Sloan gave the order personally. “Approval granted. You are a go.”

  From their hide inside the Syrian farmhouse, Ron Foster checked the flags atop the building through his spotter’s scope one last time. “No change in conditions. Send it when ready.”

  Placing the crosshairs of the scope’s reticle on the back of Teplov’s head, Shannon slowed his breathing even more and began taking slack out of the trigger. Just as it was about to break, the Russian suddenly pushed back from the desk and stood. Shannon released the pressure on the trigger and watched as Teplov crossed the room and opened a safe. He retrieved a couple of items before closing its door and returning to the desk.

  With his target back in place, Shannon muttered under his breath, “Let’s try this again,” and began re-applying pressure to the trigger. He was so focused on his breathing and the other variables involved in long-distance precision shooting that the actual shot came as a surprise. Muscle memory took over, and in a move rehearsed thousands of times on the range and in real-world situations, Shannon worked the bolt to chamber a fresh round and regain his sight picture as the three hundred grain Sierra Match King bullet sped toward its target at twenty-eight-hundred feet per second.

  Finished with his planning session, Teplov logged off and closed the laptop’s lid. Thoughts of spending his days on a warm, sandy beach somewhere in the South Pacific or Caribbean ran through is head moments before the images were erased by the high-velocity round fired from Shannon’s rifle. The Russian’s brain matter and skull fragments covered the far wall, causing the sniper to almost feel sorry for the next unfortunate bastard to enter the office looking for their boss. What they would find would be the headless body of Vadim Teplov slumped forward into the growing pool of blood spreading across his desk.

  “Target is down,” Shannon transmitted as he sat up and stretched the tired muscles in his back. Then, without an ounce of regret, he unloaded the rifle and made it safe before going about the task of breaking down the site.

  CHAPTER 54

  Colonel Konstantin Gusarov sucked on the filter of his cigarette until he felt the embers’ heat begin to singe the skin on the inside of his fingers. Having inhaled everything it had to offer, he snuffed out the butt in an overflowing ashtray then immediately reached for the crumpled pack next to it and lit another.

  Under the best of circumstances his mood could be described as surly. But with recent events, namely the lackluster performance of his men against the unknown American adversaries, he was even more volatile than usual. As the commander of all Alpha Group units in Syria he was unaccustomed to failures on the battlefield. Maybe his men had been in country for such an extended period that they were starting to perform down to the level of their competition. The phenomenon was a common occurrence in sports where a team with superior talent will take the victory for granted and lose to a lesser opponent. Perhaps the long stretches of combat against a horde of rag-tag rebels and religious fanatics had reduced his men’s effectiveness when it came to encounters with highly trained counterparts like the Americans.

  A knock at the door disturbed his quiet contemplation. The interruption, even though he had personally summoned the individual on the other side of the door, only exacerbated his already bad mood. Gusarov sucked the fresh cigarette to the halfway point before bellowing, “Enter!”

  Captain Gennady Kalugin stepped through the door and closed it behind him before crossing the room to his boss’s desk. He offered a crisp salute, then said, “You wished to see me, sir?”

  “Sit,” Gusarov growled, ignoring the salute.

  Kalugin cringed inwardly at the old man’s tone and did as he was told. Realizing that anything he said at this point would probably only make matters worse, he chose to remain silent and let the senior officer initiate the conversation.

  Gusarov polished off the cigarette and reached for the pack once more as he exhaled the smoke into the low-hanging cloud that obscured the ceiling of his office. Leaning forward, he pushed a manila folder across the desk, then slouched back in his chair and thumbed his lighter while giving Kalugin a moment to look over the contents.

  Finally, Gusarov broke the silence. “The signals section has intercepted communications between one of the rebel group’s scout elements and their headquarters.” Pointing to the folder with his nicotine stained fingers, he continued, “The transcript is on the third page.”

  Kalugin’s demeanor became more energized as he read the printout of the conversation. One of the scouts had made the mistake of mentioning a meeting with a CIA team who had been training and arming the group. His first mistake was having the conversation over an unencrypted cellular network. Discussing the location of the CIA safe house was his second.

  Looking up from the printout, he asked, “Do they think it’s the same team that attacked the airport?” Kalugin would like nothing more than to have a chance to redeem himself against the Americans who killed his men in the operation to rescue Tariq Kabbani.

  Gusarov waived his hand dismissively, “Does it really matter whether or not it’s the same team, Gennady? Don’t let your desire for revenge cloud your judgement. The key takeaway here is that in light of the Americans’ involvement in thwarting Moscow’s plans in the Middle East, we’ve been given the opportunity to start targeting their CIA and Special Forces outposts directly. The attacks will start small and be attributable to Assad’s forces for plausible deniability, but make no mistake, we will be the driving force behind the attacks.” He paused to take a long pull on his cigarette. Exhaling the blue cloud of smoke, he continued, “I’m giving you the chance to lead this initial assault…if you’re up to the task.”

  Ever since the firefight in Salkhad, the Americans had gotten the best of him at every turn. Kalugin would do his job in a professional manner, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take some degree of pleasure in his work if he happened to come across those same men at some point in the future. Ignoring the not so subtle dig he flipped through the rest of the material in the folder. Impressed with what he saw, Kalugin had to admit the folks in the intel shop had put together a solid target package.

  “Hand pick your team, then come back and see me this afternoon. I’ll be expecting a briefing on your ops plan before you launch.”

  Taking his cue that the meeting was over, Kalugin stood and gathered the material, stuffing it back into the folder. He offered another crisp salute, then turned and headed for the door, anxious to get on with selecting his men and planning the mission. Going up against the Americans would be a challenge, but it was one he knew they were up for.

  “Gennady…” Gusarov called as Kalugin reached for the doorknob.

  He stopped and turned to face the colonel. “Sir?”

  “If your entire team is wiped out again, you had better be counted among the dead. Run from a fight a second time and I’ll put a bullet in you myself.”

  *

  Looking down on the small house from the ridge north of the valley, Kalugin pressed the push-to-talk button attached to the front of his plate carrier. “Anything new?”

  The helicopter crew had inserted the team far enough from the target that the sound of the rotors wouldn’t alert the unsuspecting Americans. But there was always a trade off, and tonight’s was an arduous march through the An-Nusayriyah Mountain range which lay approximately twenty miles to the north and east of the air base at Bassel al-Assad International Airport.

  Touching down just after midnight, the men had been on the march for the last few hours before finally reaching their layup point. In a practiced routine, they set up a secure perimeter before taking a moment to grab a snack and suck down some water from the bladders incorporated into their rucks. It was from here that they would make their final checks of equipment, communications, and intelligence prior to advancing on their target.

  Even though the temperature was in the low-forties, Kalugin had worked up a sweat humping the roughly seve
nty-five pounds of gear he carried for the mission. But now that they had stopped moving, the combination of a damp uniform and the cool night air sent a shiver through his body as he waited to hear from the crew of the Ilyushin Il-20 reconnaissance plane orbiting above.

  “Looks quiet,” came the reply from the flight crew. “Nothing out of the ordinary to report. Thermals do show the house is warm so I would assume it’s inhabited.”

  “Good copy.”

  Thinking back to the overhead imagery he had reviewed during the mission planning, Kalugin was surprised the Americans had chosen this spot to set up their base of operations. There was only one way in or out of the valley, a poorly maintained dirt road by the looks of it. Not exactly a recipe for a quick getaway if the location was compromised. Perhaps the men from the CIA were counting on the remoteness and clandestine nature of the site for protection. Not a terrible strategy, he thought. But if he were the one picking the site, he would want more than one exfil option. Kalugin had already proven his ability to find and attack sites the CIA wanted to keep hidden. Just ask the personnel running the drone base in Jordan. Oh, that’s right. You can’t. Because he killed them all before making off with the Reaper.

  He took one last swig of water from his drinking tube then gave the order to move out. The men appreciated the short break, but it was time to do what they came here for. The point man led the way off the ridgeline and each member of the eight-man team fell into a patrol column as they headed into what would soon become the valley of death.

  CHAPTER 55

  Surrounded by tall evergreens, the patrol fanned out and each man took a knee, scanning their individual sectors. The sounds of the branches rustling in the breeze masked any noise the squad made while moving to their objective. But the rustling cut both ways. It would also conceal the sound of anyone tracking the team or setting up an ambush, so the men were hypervigilant while pulling security.

  If tonight’s mission was simply to kill the Americans, it could have been completed easily enough by dropping a bomb through the roof of the safehouse, Kalugin knew. But this was about more than that. It was a test, a test of his leadership and continued ability to accomplish the missions assigned to Alpha Group. And he could not fail. The outcome of this operation would determine his fate, one way or another.

  Reaching the edge of the wood line, Kalugin checked in with the crew of the Il-20 one last time while scanning the area through the night-vision device attached to his helmet. Confirming there were no changes at the target location, he gave the order, and once again the point man led the way as the Alpha assaulters emerged from the forest and advanced single file on the safe house. The men moved at a brisk pace, covering the distance quickly to minimize their exposure crossing the open ground.

  As the point man closed to within fifty meters of the house, Kalugin was feeling more confident with each step that they had managed to maintain the element of surprise. Moments later, that confidence was shattered as he heard what sounded like the ignition of a rocket motor somewhere in the distance to his right. He turned his head just in time to see the glow of the solid-fuel engine break through the wooded canopy and streak into the sky. He was about to yell, “Incoming!” thinking they were coming under indirect fire, but he held off as his eyes followed the projectile’s trajectory. “What the…,” he muttered under his breath. Then it dawned on him. The Ilyushin! He was reaching for his radio to warn the aircrew but was interrupted by a brief flash that lit up the valley. It was immediately followed by an ear-splitting explosion that enveloped the operator leading the column. Blood and bits of what was once the point man blew backward, covering the next man in line with his remains.

  *

  Joe looked on through the green hue of the night-vision scope mounted atop his rifle, as one by one the Russians emerged from the woods north of the house. He counted eight, the same number of men he had with him. It would be a fair fight then. Well…almost, he thought. Joe wasn’t really into fighting fair. No, he was more into winning. And in this game, winning meant killing the enemy before they had a chance to kill you.

  Captain Gennady Kalugin, the man leading the patrol in the valley below, had inflicted irreparable damage on CIA operations of late. His list of transgressions was impressive and began with the trigger pull that killed Greg Jacobs during the attack in Salkhad, the same attack that had resulted in the grievous injuries to Mike McCredy and Kevin Chang. He personally ordered the execution of every man and woman on the drone base in Jordan and conducted the brutal interrogation and torture of Tariq Kabbani. And those were the only operations the Agency was aware of. There was no doubt in Joe’s mind that Kalugin had done similar things to numerous people in the past, and if left unchecked, would do so again in the future. He was not going to let that happen. Kalugin would die tonight, and Joe was more than happy to be the one to do it.

  Taking his eyes away from the patrol for a moment, Joe switched to the scope’s thermal mode and traversed the ridgeline across the valley, looking for snipers or maybe a small fireteam left behind in an overwatch position. Seeing none, he keyed his mic, “Take the shot.”

  To his left, at a spot on the west ridgeline with an opening in the trees, Chris Ryan emerged from under an insulated tarp designed to hide the body’s heat signature from thermal imaging. Standing to his full height, he hefted a five-foot-long, dark-green tube onto his right shoulder. Chris activated the battery pack and powered up the integral sight and IFF antenna, then aimed the FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missile at a point in the sky. Once the tracking system had acquired its target, he pressed the trigger on the pistol grip and launched the missile toward the unsuspecting Russian reconnaissance plane.

  The Stinger’s warhead struck the underside of the Il-20’s starboard wing between the two turbo-prop engines and there was a bright flash as the explosives in the missile’s nosecone detonated. The initial blast was followed immediately by a much larger explosion as the fuel stored in the plane’s wing tanks ignited, ripping the wing apart and shearing the engines from their mounts. It wasn’t long before the rest of the doomed plane followed the debris in a death spiral toward the earth.

  Chris threw the spent launch tube to the side and went prone behind his HK416 rifle. Shrugging off their tarps, Ground Branchers Ron Foster and the Lurch-like Abrams were positioned to his left, each with their own rifles at the ready. Ivy, the thickly muscled former Green Beret and third member of Foster’s team, was to Chris’s right with the stock of an FN MK 48 MOD 1 light machine gun tucked into his shoulder. The titanium legs of the bipod were extended and a two-hundred round belt of 7.62x51-millimeter armor-piercing ammo in the box magazine was locked and loaded. He was ready to send some hate downrange.

  With the Russians distracted by the missile launch, Joe set off the claymore to initiate the ambush. The point man was the closest to the mine when it detonated, and never knew what hit him. His body disintegrated as hundreds of steel ball bearings passed through flesh and bone. The second man in the patrol column was down as well, writhing on the ground in pain, screaming something in Russian Joe couldn’t understand.

  Mike McCredy leaned into the stock and opened up with his own MK 48, firing controlled bursts into the valley below. Through his NVGs, Joe watched the classic ambush unfold as tracers from the machine guns burned holes through the Alpha operators or skipped off rocks and ricocheted into the night. John Roberts, who never went on a mission without his trusty grenade launcher, lobbed a 40-millimeter high explosive round into the men’s midst, sending deadly shrapnel flying in every direction. And Kevin Chang was firing away with his rifle, calm and collected as if it was just another day on the range.

  Hearing the same devastation emanating from Chris’s fireteam echoing through the valley, Joe almost felt sorry for the Russians caught in the buzz saw of the ambush. Still on thermal mode, Joe angled his scope down into the valley. Men who were still alive registered white against a dark background. The glow of dead or dying men faded as the
ir core temperatures dropped and their bodies cooled. There were a few Russians who appeared to be alive, but he couldn’t imagine they were in any condition to fight, so Joe called for a cease-fire over the radio. The valley fell silent except for the sound of metal on metal as his men took advantage of the pause in the action to reload their weapons.

  Leaving Ivy and Mike in place to provide overwatch, Joe gave the order, and the two fireteams left their positions and converged on the kill zone.

  CHAPTER 56

  Kalugin lay flat on his back in the cool grass, looking up at the brightly twinkling stars. He knew he was severely injured but was surprised by the lack of pain. Perhaps it was due to a heavy 7.62 round that had hit him in the stomach just below his body armor. Had it severed his spinal cord? Was that why he didn’t feel anything from the chest down?

  As he lay there waiting for death, Kalugin replayed the last few minutes in his mind. This whole mission had been nothing more than an elaborate trap set up by the CIA men he was sent there to kill. He appreciated the elegance of the plan, but his thoughts kept going back to Colonel Gusarov’s last words as he left the office. “If your entire team is wiped out again, you had better be counted among the dead. Run from a fight a second time and I’ll put a bullet in you myself.” Had Gusarov suspected this was a trap all along and willingly sent him here to die? He would never know the answer to that question.

  Movement to the left caught Kalugin’s attention, and he groped around in the grass for his weapon. It had fallen just out of reach, the sling severed by the bullet as it passed through his torso. Instinctively, he reached for the pistol secured in the holster on his chest rig. But just as his fingers wrapped around its familiar grip, a booted foot pressed down on his hand, preventing him from drawing the weapon.

  He heard an American voice say, “Don’t even think about it, Ivan.” Paralyzed and lacking the strength or energy to continue the fight, Kalugin relaxed and laid his head back on the cool grass. Standing above him like the Grim Reaper, the man called out, “Over here, boss.” Moments later, a second man approached and knelt beside him. Locking his night-vision in the up position, the man removed his Ops-Core helmet and set it in the grass beside them. In the moonlight, Kalugin could see the man’s dark red hair, and his thoughts went immediately to the firefight atop the citadel in Salkhad. With everything that had happened since, the engagement seemed as if it had taken place a lifetime ago.