Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Joe motioned toward the boot holding Kalugin’s hand in place on the pistol grip. “Can I have him remove his foot from your chest or are you going to be a problem?”

  Kalugin managed a weak nod of his head and the man released the pressure on his hand. Letting his arm flop to the side he said, “Our paths have crossed before, have they not?”

  “You had me dead to rights on that hilltop in Salkhad but chose to shoot the man I was dragging instead.”

  A coughing spasm caused blood to erupt from Kalugin’s mouth and he gasped for air. “In light of recent events, it would appear I made a mistake that day.”

  “I guess you did,” Joe agreed. The conversation was interrupted when a third man approached.

  Reporting on the Russian casualties, Chris said, “Five dead and two wounded.” Motioning toward Kalugin, he added, “Correction, make that three wounded, counting this guy.”

  “How bad?” Joe asked.

  Chris shook his head back and forth. “With the severity of their injuries and the remoteness of the location, there’s not much we can do other than give them something for the pain so they don’t suffer.”

  “Do it,” Joe said, and Chris disappeared into the darkness.

  “Thank you for taking care of my men,” Kalugin managed in between another blood-tinged coughing fit. “I can’t say I would have done the same had the roles been reversed.”

  “I guess compassion, even for one’s adversaries, is one of the fundamental differences between our countries, and our cultures.” Joe paused for a moment before asking, “How about you? Would you like something for the pain?”

  Kalugin shook his head weakly. “Don’t waste the meds on me. There’s a good chance you may be needing them yourself before the night is over.” Wetting his lips, he asked. “What time is it?”

  Thinking the statement sounded ominous, Joe pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and checked his watch. “Zero three thirty-five. Why?”

  Feeling he owed the American for showing empathy for his wounded men, Kalugin said, “I was supposed to check in five minutes ago. Missing my time hack automatically triggered the QRF.”

  Joe’s stomach fell. His textbook ambush was about to turn into a mad scramble for survival. “How big is the element?”

  The Russian didn’t answer right away. He was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness, teetering precariously on that razor’s edge between life and death. “A…a hundred men, give or take. Mostly Syrian army regulars, but they’re being supplemented by twenty-five or thirty Wagner mercenaries.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Ten minutes,” Kalugin exhaled as his head lolled to the side. “Fifteen, if you’re lucky.”

  Joe keyed his mic and raised the pilot of the Predator circling overhead. “I have an unconfirmed report of a large hostile force heading my direction. You seeing anything from up there?”

  “Roger that, Spartan,” came the pilot’s reply. “We’re estimating one hundred. Repeat, one-zero-zero hostiles. They’re moving in a combination of troop transports and gun trucks with mounted Dishkas.” He was referring to the Russian-made 12.7-millimeter DShK heavy machine gun, the same weapon that wreaked havoc on Joe’s team and cost Mike his leg in Salkhad.

  “How close are they?”

  “No more than ten minutes out.”

  Son of a bitch! “Is your drone carrying anything that can slow them down a bit?”

  “Negative, Spartan. This bird was re-tasked mid-flight to support your op. I’d already fired my ordnance on another target and didn’t have time to return to base to rearm. The best I can do is keep an eye on them and give you constant updates on their position.”

  The reply wasn’t what Joe was hoping to hear. He ordered the men to prepare for a hasty departure, and everyone except Kevin, who hung back to pull security for his team leader, sprinted for the vehicles pre-positioned in the woods.

  Keying his MBITR multiband radio, Joe hailed the duty officer in the operations center on the sixth floor of the headquarters building at Langley. He waited as patiently as possible under the circumstances as he was patched through to the person he was looking for.

  The soothing sound of Frank Copenhaver’s voice came through his earpiece, “Hey, Joe. What can I do for you?” Copenhaver, a retired pilot who worked as a liaison between the CIA and the Air Force listened intently as Joe laid out the situation and what he needed. “Got it. Now move your ass. I’ll call when I have something lined up.”

  Joe looked down and was about to say something to Kalugin but stopped himself when he saw the Russian’s lifeless eyes staring up at the stars. Realizing there was nothing more to be done for his adversary, he turned his attention to his team’s survival.

  CHAPTER 57

  The two Toyota Hi-Lux pickups were tucked into the trees on the southern ridgeline. Foster and his men had their own vehicle stashed on the western ridge and would be executing their own evac plan at any moment. Joe did a quick headcount, ensuring his team was whole, then stole a glance back over his shoulder.

  Headlights belonging to the vehicles carrying the Syrian and Russian quick reaction force illuminated the valley as the column made its way along the single dirt road. Roving spotlights swept over the safe house, then converged on a single area as their operators focused on the grizzly sight of wrecked bodies littering the ambush site.

  Joe keyed his radio, “They found the bodies. It’s time to go.”

  Before the mission, Chris had pulled the fuses that powered the trucks’ lighting in the hopes that staying dark would help with their escape. But there was nothing he could do to minimize the noise of the engines, and he cringed inwardly as he and Mike turned the ignition keys.

  While the QRF couldn’t see the trucks in the darkness, all heads turned as the rumble of engines reverberated into the valley. On orders from their commander, soldiers atop two of the gun trucks swiveled their Dishkas in the direction of the sound and opened fire. The other soldiers let go with long bursts from their AK-47s, and a fusillade of lead flew toward the Toyotas like a swarm of killer bees.

  Trees splintered and dark, rich soil kicked up all around the trucks as Chris put the pickup in gear and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The all-terrain tires spun for a few rotations before gaining traction, and with Mike falling in behind him, the two trucks crested the ridgeline. With the mountain shielding them from the barrage, Chris eased up on the gas and navigated his way down a path that was little more than a single-track mountain bike trail. He wondered for the briefest of moments if anyone in Syria rode mountain bikes but quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Reaching the end of the trail, Chris brought the truck to a stop ten meters from where it intersected with a dirt road. Joe hailed the Predator pilot for an update while the trucks idled in the darkness. Again, the answer was not what he wanted to hear. This guy was just full of bad news.

  “Looks like they split their forces, Spartan. A couple of the gun trucks are advancing from your left. They’re roughly five hundred meters from your position.”

  Doing a quick calculation in his head, Joe figured they could pull out in front of the convoy and use the twists and turns of the dirt road to stay out of sight. Then they could lose their pursuers in the maze of streets and alleys that crisscrossed the nearby town that, for the life of him, he could not remember its name. So far, the darkness, combined with the lack of lights on the Hi-Luxes, seemed to be working in their favor. That ended when a roving spotlight on the convoy’s lead vehicle flashed across the side of Chris’s truck as he pulled out onto the dirt road. When the Syrian soldier realized what he had seen, he snapped the beam back and locked onto the Toyota.

  “Five hundred meters, my ass,” Joe growled. “Go! Go! Go!”

  With a target illuminated, the Dishka gunner in the back let go with a burst from the big machine gun. Chris floored it and the truck shot out of the woods, its backend fishtailing back and forth on the dirt road before he gained control and increase
d speed to throw off the gunner’s aim.

  Mike matched the acceleration, and the move probably saved their lives as the Dishka’s heavy rounds tore ragged holes in the rear quarter panels of the truck’s bed instead of penetrating into the cab.

  The gunner continued targeting the trucks with short bursts, but the combination of their speed and his own vehicle bouncing around on the unpaved dirt road made it nearly impossible to put accurate fire on the fleeing Toyotas. Fueled by anger and adrenaline, the convoy of Syrian soldiers and Russian mercenaries raced down the road, eager to exact a measure of revenge on the men who ambushed and killed their comrades. Errant rounds whizzed by the fleeing pickups as a fresh volley of automatic weapons fire erupted from the gun trucks. The Dishka gunner resumed firing, and the big gun’s thundering booms drowned out the distinctive cracks of the AK-47s.

  Joe glanced at the GPS unit suction cupped to the dash, searching for a turnoff that would get them out of the line of fire. His eyes flashed back and forth between the unit and the windshield as he compared what was being displayed on the small screen with the reality of the terrain outside the vehicle. Finally, he saw an opening and said, “Take the next left! It should lead us into town.”

  “Got it,” Chris acknowledged. He slowed to make the turn onto the narrow track and was accelerating when a wooden fence filled the view through his night vision goggles. Keeping his foot on the gas, he yelled, “I’m assuming that wasn’t showing up on the Garmin?”

  Mike kept his truck tucked in behind Chris’s, and the two Toyotas burst through the fence, sending splintered two-by-fours cartwheeling through the air. The front end of Chris’s truck took the brunt of the damage and its right headlight was shattered by a section of fence post. No biggie, he thought. We’re not using the headlights anyway.

  In the passenger seat of the second truck, John heard a loud bang and felt the truck shudder. “What the…?”

  Instead of accelerating as expected, the Toyota refused to respond, even though Mike had the gas pedal pressed to the floor. John wondered what had happened to their otherwise perfectly good truck. Had a piece of the fence or a good-sized rock kicked up into the undercarriage and broken something lose? Or had the engine block taken a direct hit from one of the Dishka’s 12.7-millimeter rounds? Regardless of the cause, he knew their ride was done for as it continued to lose speed and coasted to a stop.

  John keyed his radio, “Joe, our truck is down. We need to bail.”

  Without a word, Chris slammed on the brakes and brought his truck to a skidding halt. He threw it into reverse and headed back to retrieve his teammates.

  Kevin and John were already out pulling security as Chris brought his Hi-Lux to a stop. Mike was lingering behind, and Kevin wondered what was taking him so long. “Come on, Mike. Shake a leg.”

  “So now we’re making leg jokes, are we?” the big operator said, as he exited the truck’s cab, then turned and threw something into the front seat.

  “Too soon?” Kevin asked

  Moments later the night was filled with a blinding, white-hot light as the thermite grenade began melting the bodywork. Realizing what was about to happen, John and Kevin turned and sprinted to Chris’s truck. They piled into the back seat as Mike hopped over the tailgate and dove into the bed.

  Chris took off just as the heat created by the grenade’s aluminum and iron oxide mixture contacted the fuel in the stricken truck’s gas tank. The explosion sent a ball of fire into the air, momentarily turning night into day.

  Consulting the GPS on the dash, and with the help of the Predator pilot’s voice in his ear giving turn-by-turn directions, Chris steered the truck into the town with the hopes of losing the soldiers and mercs in the warren of narrow streets and alleys. Feeling the building’s walls on either side of them, he breathed a quick sigh of relief, but the respite was short-lived when headlights filled the rearview mirror. “Damn, these guys are determined.”

  He continued a hundred meters on his current heading, then made a left and zig-zagged through what looked to be a shopping district. Moments later, they exited onto a paved road that looped around the town. The good news about being on the improved roadway was that he could accelerate and use the Toyota’s speed to their advantage. The bad news was that they were back in the open and exposed to the enemy fire.

  Without any obstructions to block his view or his field of fire, the machine-gunner in the lead truck resumed the assault. Rounds screamed past the Toyota, and those that didn’t pummel anything in their path, snapped and whistled as they ricocheted into the distance.

  One of the rounds demolished the truck’s side view mirror, sending shards of glass and plastic flying through the cab. Showered by the debris, Chris flinched and jerked the steering wheel, causing the truck to fishtail. The violent whipping motion caught Mike off-guard and sent him sliding across the bed. His right side took the brunt of the blow as he slammed against the inside of the rear quarter panel. Two more rounds penetrated the tailgate and exited through the opposite side of the bed, mere inches from where he’d been sitting a few seconds ago.

  “Enough!” Mike screamed into the wind. Having his fill of being shot at, he braced his feet against the wheel wells protruding into the bed and pushed with his legs until he was sitting upright with his back against the cab. Shouldering his MK 48, Mike thumbed the selector switch to auto and dumped a long burst into the lead gun truck.

  One of the headlights exploded and the patrol-car-like spotlight went out as well. Mike wasn’t sure but thought he might have seen steam spewing out of the truck’s grill. Feeling a little better about himself, he settled down and began firing one controlled burst after another into the truck’s windshield.

  The Syrian driver swerved back and forth across the road, trying to stay out of the stream of lead coming his way. While his tactic was somewhat effective at dodging Mike’s rounds, it was also working to the Americans’ advantage. The erratic driving was preventing the gunner from firing the Dishka. He was too busy hanging on for dear life to keep from being thrown out of the back of the truck.

  Mike felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see John’s face in the sliding rear window.

  “Here,” John said, passing his grenade launcher through the opening. “There’s an HE round in the chamber.”

  With the lull in Mike’s fire, the gunner could resume his barrage. But the driver had no way of knowing about the grenade launcher, or that his attempt to get the gunner a clear shot was going to be a fatal mistake, for all of them.

  Mike shouldered the weapon and pulled the trigger. The 40-millimeter round soared unseen in the darkness toward the oncoming truck. It punched through the windshield and exploded in the cab, ripping apart the driver and the rest of the truck’s occupants. The violence of the explosion knocked the gunner off balance, and he lost his grip on the big machine gun. His fingers grasped desperately, reaching for anything to help him remain in the bed, but he tumbled into the darkness and fell under the wheels of the next vehicle in the convoy. Unable to avoid his comrade, the driver grimaced as his truck rolled over the gunner, grinding his mangled body into something resembling roadkill.

  CHAPTER 58

  Still navigating, Joe said, “Take a right in a hundred meters. That’ll get us back into town and we can try to lose them on the back streets.”

  Chris made the turn and sped through an alley barely wide enough for the pickup. He had already lost one mirror to the Dishka and was sure a wall was going to claim the other any minute. The alley was too narrow for the military vehicles, so they diverted to the right. The drivers seemed to know the town like the backs of their hands and stuck to a larger road that paralleled the alley.

  Hidden from sight by the two and three story, flat-roofed buildings, Joe thought they might have lost the Syrians. But those hopes were dashed when the alley merged back onto the main road and they were greeted by the clattering sounds of multiple AK-47s.

  Joe yelled back over his shoulder, “Mike, di
scourage them from getting too close.” Mike complied and continued his harassing fire.

  As the road widened, the smaller vehicles made way for one of the troop transports to move up the center of the road. In the bed stood two Wagner mercenaries. Both were veterans of Russia’s Spetsnaz units who had made the jump into the world of private military contracting to cash in on their unique skillset. Each man had a rocket propelled grenade launcher on his shoulder and was taking aim at the Toyota Hi-Lux full of Americans.

  From his position in the pickup’s bed, facing back toward the vehicles, Mike had a front row seat to the action. At the sight of the twin RPG launchers, he yelled a warning to the other men in the truck, then found himself unconsciously inching lower and lower behind the tailgate as he continued the barrage with his light machine gun. With just his eyes and the top of his head peeking over the top of the tailgate, he resembled one of those Kilroy Was Here drawings made famous during World War II.

  The mercenary on the left was the first to fire but his aim was off, and the high-explosive projectile whooshed over the top of the Toyota, leaving a trail of gray smoke in its wake. The warhead hit a tree and exploded with a thundering boom, showering the truck with shrapnel and splinters the size of number two pencils. The second rocketeer mocked his partner for the errant shot, letting him know he would be expecting the bottle of vodka they had wagered when they returned to base. When he was done with the good-natured ribbing, the second Wagner man adjusted his aiming point based on his colleague’s miss and fired.