Violence of Action Read online

  Praise for

  the Sons of Valor Series

  “Delivers on all cylinders . . . This book is a must-read for fans of covert-ops thrillers, and the authors are looking like the next Preston and Child.”

  —Library Journal (starred review) on Sons of Valor

  “Want a look into the shadowy world of US special operations? Sons of Valor puts you on the front lines. Nobody does action like Andrews & Wilson!”

  —Jack Carr, Navy SEAL sniper and New York Times bestselling author of The Devil’s Hand, on Sons of Valor

  “As a veteran, thriller-writer, and fan of the genre, the Sons of Valor series is as good as it gets. If you liked Tom Clancy’s John Clark, and if you like Brad Thor’s Scot Harvath, you’ll devour the Tier One series.”

  —Andrew Watts, Navy veteran & bestselling author of The War Planners

  “Action, suspense, and intrigue . . . the Sons of Valor series is Andrews & Wilson at their absolute finest!”

  —Jason Kasper, former Green Beret and USA Today bestselling author of the Shadow Strike series

  Books by Brian Andrews and Jeffrey Wilson

  Sons of Valor Series

  Sons of Valor

  Sons of Valor II: Violence of Action

  Tier One Series

  Tier One

  War Shadows

  Crusader One

  American Operator

  Red Specter

  Collateral

  Tier One Origins Novellas

  Scars: John Dempsey

  Books by Alex Ryan

  Nick Foley Thriller Series

  Beijing Red

  Hong Kong Black

  Other Titles by Brian Andrews

  The Calypso Directive

  The Infiltration Game

  Reset

  Other Titles by Jeffrey Wilson

  The Traiteur’s Ring

  The Donors

  Fade to Black

  War Torn

  Copyright © 2022 by Organic Machinery Media LLC and Jeffrey Wilson

  E-book published in 2022 by Blackstone Publishing

  Series design by K. Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-9355-0

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-9354-3

  Fiction / Action & Adventure

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Bonnie & Peggy

  For making us who we are

  NOTE TO THE READER

  We’ve provided a glossary in the back of this book to define the acronyms, military lingo, and abbreviations used herein.

  PROLOGUE

  women and children’s hospital

  ramadi, iraq

  september 2006

  Zain al-Masri leaned into the padded cheek riser fixed to the buttstock of his suppressed Dragunov sniper rifle. Closing his nondominant eye, he sighted through the Russian-made PSO-1 optical sight and scanned the streets of Ramadi from his rooftop hide on the Women and Children’s Hospital. It was the perfect location to engage the infidels because it was one of the few places in the city that was off-limits to drone strikes. Oh, how the Americans loved raining hellfire down from above—dealing death from UCAVs circling so high they were all but invisible to the naked eye.

  But not here, not today . . .

  Targeting a civilian hospital—even one housing jihadis—was something even the unapologetically brazen Americans would not dare do. The optics simply would not permit it, even if the collateral damage was minimal. Which meant Zain could fire with relative impunity from the rooftop without fear of being targeted by air-to-ground missiles from above or RPGs from below. But today’s mission was not entirely without risk. The Navy SEALs were deployed in Ramadi and conducting daily raids, and Zain felt positive he was on their kill list.

  “I have a Humvee,” his spotter, Ahmed, said beside him. “To the west, fifteen degrees south of where you’re looking.”

  Zain didn’t say anything, just shifted his scan to that location and saw the American Humvee stopped in the middle of an intersection, parked at an angle with armed, uniformed personnel milling about. Using the slope-shaped stadiametric rangefinder in the bottom left corner of his sight, he picked a target—an American Marine—at six hundred meters. Whoever designed this scope was both a pragmatist and a genius, because the simple little reticle tool took all the complicated calculus out of ranging. Just line up the target’s head with the bottom of the slope line and then multiply the corresponding number by one hundred meters and you had the range.

  He turned the elevation turret two clicks clockwise to compensate for bullet drop. Next, he placed the targeting chevron dead center on the gunnery sergeant’s helmet. Senior enlisted personnel were his target of choice. They were the soldiers with the most combat and leadership experience, which was why his boss, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, paid bonuses for killing E-7 personnel and above. If he executed this shot successfully, it would be Zain’s seventh kill and his third bonus. But for him, it wasn’t about the money.

  With every kill he logged, the name Juba—a celebrated Iraqi sniper who moved like a ghost about the city, murdering American soldiers at will—gained power and esteem. In reality, Juba was fiction. He was not a gifted, lone-wolf sniper as al-Qaeda’s propaganda machine suggested, but rather the combined effort of three jihadi snipers all working for al-Zarqawi. With six kills under his belt, twice as many as his brothers, Zain was the undisputed star of the trio. Many of the younger fighters had even taken to calling him by the Juba legend, a practice Zain did not discourage.

  What is Juba without me? he thought, applying tension to the trigger. Someday the truth will be known that I, Zain al-Masri, am the one and true Lion of Ramadi.

  The Dragunov burped and he watched the gunnery sergeant’s head snap back violently as the 7N1 variant 7.62×54 mm round punched a hole through the man’s helmet. The American warrior dropped like the sack of shit that he was. Zain scanned left, looking for a second target as the Marines scrambled for cover. He worked quickly, sending a bullet whistling into the back of another Marine, striking him between the shoulder blades. The man pitched forward and writhed in agony a few seconds before going still. Zain swept his targeting reticle right, around the front of the Humvee, looking for a third target crouching at the bumper . . . but all the Marines had retreated to the opposite side of the vehicle now. He reversed his scan, dragging his chevron over the passenger side windows.

  Finding no new targets inside, anger flared in his chest.

  Damn it, I should have been able to get three, he thought, silently chastising himself as he finished his sweep.

  “Pull back,” Ahmed said. “It’s been five seconds.”

  With a grudging exhale, Zain heeded his spotter’s advice and dropped below the half-meter-tall concrete ledge that surrounded the rooftop. He rolled onto his back and, clutching his Dragunov to his chest, stared up at the cloudless blue sky.

  “You got two,” Ahmed said, grinning from where he lay propped up on his elbows, clutching a pair of binoculars.

  Zain didn’t reply.

  “Was one of them an officer?
”

  “Gunnery sergeant,” Zain answered, his voice all business.

  “You’re going to get another bonus!” the young man said, making no attempt to contain his enthusiasm.

  “You can have it, Ahmed,” he said.

  “Are you serious?”

  Zain nodded. “Yes. You have been a loyal and skilled spotter. We are a team, and as my brother in arms, you should share the reward. I am generous to those who are loyal.”

  “Thank you, Juba,” Ahmed said reverently. “I will follow you anywhere.”

  Zain turned to look at him—a boy not older than fourteen whose right cheek was marred by a crescent-shaped scar stretching from eye socket to jaw. Seeing the adoration in Ahmed’s eyes, epiphany struck. Teamwork, purpose, reward, and recognition . . . these were the keys to building a truly motivated and powerful army. Al-Zarqawi understood this, but the al-Qaeda leader’s brutality and sadistic nature undermined most of his efforts. Too many in their ranks feared for their own survival, worried more about losing their lives to the whims of his temper than to the Americans in battle.

  Vicious zealots made terrible generals.

  Someday, I will lead an Army of Allah. Like Saladin, I will be a noble general . . . a warrior tactician who leads from the front with a gleaming sword instead of from the rear by pointing a rifle at the backs of my soldiers.

  “I accept your pledge, but in order to serve me,” Zain said, seeing his own destiny clearly for the first time, “I must first teach you how to kill . . . how to kill as I do.”

  PART I

  “No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his body, to risk his well-being, to risk his life, in a great cause.”

  –Theodore Roosevelt

  CHAPTER 1

  mh-60m helicopter designated hammer one

  over the surobi district

  kabul province

  afghanistan

  present day

  0121 local time

  The Special Operations helicopter beat a methodical rhythm across the night sky as it cruised toward the drop zone. For Lieutenant Commander Keith “Chunk” Redman, who was riding in the cargo hold with his team of Tier One Navy SEALs, it was a rhythm steeped in irony. Sometimes, the melodic thrum was a potent lullaby, soothing him into a drowsy stupor. Other times, it was a battle drum, summoning his inner warrior.

  It is definitely vector-based, he thought with a smile.

  On infil the rhythm stoked his fire.

  On exfil . . . sleepy time.

  He glanced at his LCPO, Senior Chief Riker, the toughest and luckiest damn SEAL he’d ever had the privilege of serving with. He often joked that Riker’s momma must have dipped his naked, redneck baby ass in the River Styx because the dude has walked away from every engagement without injury—like a modern-day Achilles. Chunk had lost track of how many times Riker had been blown up, shot at, or nearly drowned. Further cementing his golden reputation, Riker had been the only one to walk away without a scratch or broken bone from their helo crash in Pakistan while pursuing Hamza al-Saud and a band of al Qadar terrorists on the very first deployment of the newly reconstituted Tier One SEAL Team. God only knew how many times the senior chief had saved Chunk’s life over the years, both while they were operating with the white side teams and now at the Tier One. Riker probably had no idea either, because in the teams it wasn’t about keeping score or IOUs. In the brotherhood, they always had each other’s backs.

  Riker looked up while tightening the Velcro straps on his tactical gloves, perhaps feeling his brother and commander’s eyes on him. Channeling Ron Burgundy, the senior chief lowered his chin, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do,” Chunk said, playing along.

  Riker flashed him a cheesy smile. “I don’t know how to put this, but . . . I’m kind of a big deal.”

  Somehow, this bit between them never got old. “Really?” Chunk said.

  “People know me . . .”

  “Well, I’m very happy for you,” he said, trying not to break character and laugh.

  “Listen, can I start over?” Riker said, getting serious.

  “Sure.”

  The SEAL leaned in and squinted at Chunk. “I wanna say something. I’m gonna put it out there. And if you like, you can take it. If you don’t, send it right back . . . I wanna be on you.”

  At this, they both busted up laughing. Was it childish and ridiculous? Yes, it was, but everyone on the team had Anchorman memorized. Chunk and Riker could have kept it going all the way to the LZ, but one of their teammates interrupted them.

  “Dude, Chunk, have you looked outside with the new NVGs?” Trip flipped up his night-vision goggles and swiveled to face Chunk. “It’s frigging unbelievable. This tech is a game changer, bro—it’s like daytime viz. You gotta take a look.”

  Chunk looked out the open starboard slider door at the darkened mountain range to the north. The infils were painfully long now, since the US had abandoned Afghanistan, and more dangerous. But he supposed that was part of the job. Adapt and overcome. Afghanistan still harbored terrorists and it was still his job to capture or kill them. He tipped his NVGs down over his eyes and watched the landscape transform from night to day. Gone was the typical greenish-gray monochrome with the high-contrast ghosting and pixelated graininess he was used to. In its place, these new NVGs used special optics and an advanced processor to render a high-definition, full-color view of the battle space. If that wasn’t badass enough, both the visible and infrared spectrums were also processed, to aid in discerning friend from foe.

  Chunk turned back to look inside the Blackhawk, scanning down the row of his fellow Gold Squadron operators. “Be the night” was a favorite team expression not because SEALs liked operating in the dark, but because of the supreme tactical advantage of operating under conditions where they could see the enemy but the enemy couldn’t see them. Now, with this new rig, Chunk and his boys gained the ability to see color details that were lost to them with traditional NVGs, further upping their game. He looked at Trip.

  “And bonus,” he said. “I can see that chunk of bacon stuck in your teeth that I totally would have missed otherwise.”

  Before Trip could clap back at him, the Blackhawk pilot jumped in.

  “Thor, Hammer—five mikes out,” the Army captain said over the comms channel.

  “Roger, Hammer,” Chunk replied. Then he switched channels and relayed the message to analyst Whitney Watts and Petty Officer Michelle Yi, who were manning the Tactical Operations Center at their new JSOC FOB in Tajikistan. “Asgard, Thor—five mikes.”

  “Thor, Asgard—check,” Watts replied. He could practically hear the cringe in her voice at the Marvel-inspired call signs selected by Jamey Edwards—the team’s comedian and comic book expert in residence.

  “Any changes at the target compound?” Chunk asked.

  “Negative. Still looking very sleepy. We have good eyes with Munin in orbit at twenty-five thousand feet.” The mythological Nordic raven was the call sign for the Reaper drone circling above them.

  “Check,” he said.

  Beside him, Saw, the team’s sniper, lifted the silver cross he wore on a chain around his neck and pressed it to his lips before disappearing it back inside his shirt. Chunk watched the man’s mouth move in silent prayer, and he was pretty sure he read the names of Saw’s wife, Ellie, and his son and daughter on his lips. Across the aisle, Riker ran his hands over his kit, checking his gear by feel and seemingly finding everything in place. Chunk followed suit, checking his own loadout, while Trip bounced his heel up and down against the deck in anticipation.

  “Sixty seconds, Thor,” the pilot said.

  “Check.” Chunk scooted to the edge of the canvas bench seat next to one of two massive green bags that held a three-by-three-foot block of coiled rope with one
end clipped to an overhead stanchion just inside the door. “All right, fellas, just like we briefed. This is a quick in and out. We’re not here to take crows or collect intel. We know who these assholes are already. Our only objective is to get our man out of this Taliban hornet’s nest before he has a very bad day.”

  “Hooyah, let’s get some,” Riker said and slid into position to act as rope master and direct traffic.

  Chunk felt the Blackhawk flare into a static hover.

  “Hammer is Bifrost,” the helo pilot reported, calling the drop zone waypoint. Chunk pictured the Army captain rolling his eyes as he said it.

  Riker shoved the starboard-side rope bag—aided by a kick from Chunk—out the side of the helo. Chunk immediately slid off the bench and into a seated position on the deck, his legs dangling in the air as the bag tumbled toward the ground twenty-five feet below. He grabbed the rope with both gloved hands, twisted them inward to tighten his grip, and pinned the line between the arches of his right and left boots. Then, with a scoot of his ass, he dropped out the door and into the night.

  Controlling his rate of descent with pressure and friction, Chunk landed on the hard-packed, dusty earth mere seconds later. He quickly stepped clear of the rope and moved left, bringing his rifle up to scan for threats. Behind him and three meters to his right, SEALs touched down with alternating precision and synchronicity on the port and starboard ropes in the middle of a swirling cloud of dust thrown up by the Blackhawk’s rotor wash. When the last member of the eight-man strike force had landed, the Blackhawk dropped the ropes and bugged out—heading south, where it would loiter until exfil.

  One by one, his seven teammates called, “Clear.”

  Chunk checked the compass on his Suunto wristwatch, then chopped a hand north. The terrorist compound sat two miles away in the Surobi valley, located south of the Kabul River, which was dammed a few miles east. That’s where the intel geeks believed that an American serviceman, PFC Louis Gonzalez, was being held. Al-Qaeda were using Gonzalez as a bargaining chip to broker the release of ten al-Qaeda fighters held in a detention center in Jordan by the US government. Three of the terrorists were particularly dangerous fighters who had been rounded up by US Special Operations Forces over the last three months before the fall of Kabul and whose release was simply nonnegotiable. The Taliban, who now ran the country, were predictably no help. And so, it was time for the Tier One SEALs to do what they did best: recover the hostage and kill some bad guys to make them think twice before grabbing another American.