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  Praise for Sons of Valor

  “[A] solid series launch from Andrews and Wilson…Scorching action scenes and authentic technical detail…Military thriller fans will be pleased to have a new team to root for.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Sons of Valor delivered. I highly enjoyed this novel…If you are an established Andrews and Wilson fan you will enjoy Sons of Valor. If you are new to this author team (or looking for that next binge-worthy read) Sons of Valor is the way to go.”

  —Mystery and Suspense

  “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

  Books by Brian Andrews and Jeffrey Wilson

  Sons of Valor Series

  Sons of Valor

  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 © 2021 by Organic Machinery Media LLC and Jeffrey Wilson

  E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover 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 978-1-0940-9358-1

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-9357-4

  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

  Dedicated to the men and women of the Joint Special Operations Command—the Tier One operators, direct action support sailors and soldiers, leadership, and support staff who make possible the missions, rarely made public, that allow us to live safe and free.

  And for their families, who wait sleeplessly at home for their warriors to return, while the rest of us sleep in peace . . .

  Thank you.

  Note to the Reader

  A glossary of the acronyms, abbreviations, and military jargon used in this novel can be found at the back of the book.

  Prologue

  achin district of nangarhar province

  afghanistan

  september 28, 2016

  2030 local time

  At half past eight in the evening, the musicians played “hesta Bero,” prompting bride and groom to enter the wedding hall after hours of symbolic isolation. Qasim Nadar, along with the three hundred other guests, got to his feet and turned to watch the bridal procession. Round tables and high-backed chairs with white cloth covers filled the cavernous event space, leaving a wide central passage. Gold and maroon silk drapes hung from the walls and ceiling, tastefully hiding electrical conduits and other utilitarian architectural details. The facility was not opulent, but what it lacked in luxury was overshadowed by kinship and ambience.

  Qasim smiled at his sister as she walked past. Even the veil Saida wore couldn’t hide her radiance. He’d never seen her so happy. Today was a joyous day, a wonderful day . . . a perfect day. The groom, Eshan Dawar, was his oldest and most cherished friend. Qasim could not imagine a more perfect union—his twin sister marrying his best friend.

  Truth be told, he was a bit jealous.

  The trio had been inseparable since childhood, each of them filling a distinct role. Saida, the charming one with her infectious laugh; Eshan, the prankster with his brash bravado; and Qasim, the cool-headed, cerebral one who somehow always managed to keep them out of trouble—no small feat in Afghanistan. The scarred and turbulent country—plagued by war, opium trafficking, and terrorism—was no place for happy-go-lucky children. And yet, despite this, love, laughter, and community had found a way to persevere. The sons and daughters of war were growing up, and Allah willing, they would forge a path to peace and prosperity for their children’s tomorrow.

  Qasim watched the ceremony with tear-rimmed eyes and a dull, happy ache in his chest. When it was over, he hung back, waiting patiently while the couple made their rounds with the elders and guests of honor. When it was finally his turn, he embraced the grinning bridegroom.

  “Congratulations, brother, I am so happy for you.”

  “Thank you,” Eshan said, slapping his back. He stepped back to regard Qasim. “I would not have thought it possible, but you’ve got even taller while you’ve been away at university. You must be at least two meters!”

  “I still have a few centimeters to go, but I’m getting close,” Qasim said, cheeks flushing. At six foot four, he towered over almost everyone else in the room, including his father.

  Eshan, who stood a perfectly respectable five foot ten, pretended to take an imaginary jump shot. “Well, if you decide you don’t like engineering, you could always try out for the NBA.”

  Qasim chuckled at the joke, despite hearing it constantly from classmates. On that cue, Saida, who was perfectly matched to Eshan in more ways than height, joined them. She threw her arms around Qasim and let out a contented sigh.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, releasing her grip and considering him. “You look thin. Are they not feeding you at university?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. Everything you could ever want or imagine is available—except for Afghan food, of course.” He chuckled. “But you know me, when I’m lost in my work, sometimes I forget to eat.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve filled your belly tonight. Did you get some kaddo with yogurt sauce? Our aunt made it extra sweet, just the way we liked it as kids,” Saida said, her skin and eyes glowing.

  “Three portions, and it was delicious . . . Now, go dance and don’t worry about me.”

  “What’s that look for?”

  “I’m just so happy for you,” he said. Then, turning to Eshan, “For both of you. I just wish I could somehow be a part of . . .”

  When he didn’t finish, Saida pressed a fist to her heart. “Qasim, you are always with us in here.”

  “I know.”

  “And when you graduate and come back to Afghanistan, you can marry Diba, have children, and then we can be one giant, happy family again,” Eshan added with a sly grin.

  Qasim glanced at the pretty girl in the emerald-green gown and shawl who was trying not to get caught looking at him. Diba averted her eyes, but too late. They’d been playing this little game all night. Eshan was not wrong about her. She would marry him in a heartbeat if he asked her father for her hand. And Diba’s father had made it known on more than one occasion that a union between the families was something he g
reatly desired. Qasim had fantasized about bedding Diba because she was beautiful, but the girl had very little to say. After the novelty of physical intimacy wore off, he wondered if he’d find her intellectually stimulating enough to spend a lifetime with. Thankfully, he was in no rush to make that decision. He still had four semesters left at school, and there was a girl in the electrical engineering program who’d caught his eye. Maybe he’d end up with her instead. The future was impossible to foresee. A star could fall from the heavens tomorrow and change all their fates.

  “Time will tell,” Qasim said at last, then, taking a hand from each them, “I’m just so very, very happy for both of you. The ceremony, the food, the exchanging of vows—all perfect.”

  “Thank you, Qasim,” Saida said, squeezing his hand.

  “And on that note, I think it’s time to start the real party,” Eshan said. “We have a surprise.”

  Qasim cocked an eyebrow.

  “That’s right, we have a DJ,” Eshan said with a grin. “I can only take so much tribal music. It’s time to dance!”

  The next three hours were filled with dancing and laughing as the celebration continued well into the night, like all good Afghan weddings. Gradually, the older and middle-aged guests trickled out in pairs and small groups. Around one in the morning, Qasim’s father bade his children good night. His embrace with Saida lasted longer than usual while he whispered in her ear. When he finally pulled away, Qasim was surprised to see Saida laughing and crying at the same time.

  “What did he say?” Qasim asked once their father had departed. He’d left with two men that Qasim knew were Taliban elders. They’d not been on the guest list, but they had shown up regardless. He’d seen his father talking with them, and though he’d not heard the conversation, he understood from watching that an agreement had been made.

  Bribes paid in exchange for a bride’s safety, he thought. No point pretending. That’s the way things work in Taliban country.

  “He told me a story about our mother on their wedding day,” Saida said, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Something he’d never shared before.”

  “Can you tell me?” Qasim asked, his stomach suddenly in knots of emotion as he thought of their mother, who’d passed away nearly five years ago.

  “I think I should let him tell you on your wedding day,” she said, smiling and looking up at him with wet eyes. “It would be more special that way.”

  He nodded and went to hug her but stopped short when her eyes suddenly went wide. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh my God, I forgot to thank him,” she said, her hand going to her chest. “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she sprinted off.

  This ought to be funny, Qasim thought, striding after her.

  He stopped at the threshold of the wedding hall, smiling as Saida chased after the sedan in which their father was a passenger. She ran down the dirt and gravel road in her wedding dress and fancy shoes, waving her arms like a maniac. Brake lights flashed red, and the car glided to a stop a hundred meters away, well out of earshot.

  “What’s going on?” Eshan said, joining him. Voice ripe with sarcasm, he added, “I figured it would take at least a few days before she realized she made a mistake marrying me.”

  “She said she forgot to—” His voice cut off as a brilliant red-orange comet streaked down from the sky. A heartbeat later, the car erupted in a ball of fire.

  “Saida!” he screamed as burning debris arced in all directions. He was aware of Eshan running beside him, yelling something, but his mind couldn’t process anything beyond the abrupt and irreversible shift in his reality. Not two seconds ago, his sister and father had been right there—alive and full of joy—and now they were gone.

  Incinerated.

  Wiped from existence.

  “Turn away. Don’t look,” Eshan said, piercing the hysteria in Qasim’s mind.

  But he had looked.

  “Oh God,” he murmured. “It’s her leg . . .”

  Hands were pulling him back now, away from the heat and the carnage.

  The world was spinning. He felt dizzy. Time seemed to be passing in chunks. A crowd had gathered around him. Some people were screaming. Others were crying.

  “Qasim, brother,” Eshan said, grabbing him under his jaw. “Look at me.”

  Qasim blinked and Eshan’s face came into focus. He’d never seen his friend so pale. Tears ran freely down Eshan’s cheeks and the look in his eyes was all wrong.

  “She’s gone,” Eshan said. “They’re both gone.”

  “How?” he heard himself ask. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a drone strike,” Eshan said, his gaze tilting skyward. “The Americans did this . . . the Americans took our Saida from us.”

  Part I

  “You have enemies? Good. That means you have stood up for something, sometime in your life.”

  —Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER 1

  the arabian sea

  present day

  0315 local time

  Lieutenant Commander Keith “Chunk” Redman stared out at the pitch-black water as he and his teammates zipped across its surface in the series-7 Rigid Inflatable Boat. Navy SEALs were supposed to love the ocean. It was their strategic haven—a dark place from which a warrior could emerge to strike his enemies, then disappear into when the mission was complete.

  Yeah, well, Chunk didn’t love it. Quite the opposite, in fact—he hated it. He hated the salt and sand, he hated the way the cold mercilessly sapped his body heat, but most of all, he hated the countless toothy critters lurking in the invisible deep. Even growing up in Bishop, Texas—where chasing girls on spring break along the Gulf Coast was a way of life—he’d loathed wading out into the surf. The girls in bikinis, the bonfires with the bros, throwing back cold ones in the hot Texas sun . . . all fantastic. But hanging out in the surf, not so much. Given a choice between the beach and the woods, he’d pick the latter every time. Hunting deer, or even better, wild hogs—now that was his idea of heaven.

  Yet despite all of that, he’d been selected for Naval Special Warfare, gone through BUD/S and SQT, and become a SEAL. Which meant here he was again, about to take the plunge into the friggin’ ocean to go swimming with the friggin’ sharks. Why did that asshole Steven Spielberg have to make that damn Jaws movie? And why had he been stupid enough to watch it? And then there was Shark Week on the Discovery Channel . . . don’t even get him started. Some people might be tempted to label his condition a phobia, but that was preposterous because SEALs didn’t have phobias. Nonetheless, his emotionally unhealthy preoccupation with man-eating creatures of the deep was the most closely guarded secret of his professional career—something he’d never mentioned or confessed to any of his teammates.

  Thank God they don’t know.

  “You’re looking a little green, Chunk,” said Saw, the team sniper, who was sitting directly across from him on the RIB.

  “Ha ha. So do you, dude.” Chunk laughed, tapping his night-vision goggles.

  “No, that’s not it,” said Riker, a breacher with double sleeve tattoos he liked to flaunt by cutting his BDU blouse off at the elbows. “I think what he means is you look nervous, bro.”

  On that cue, Saw started humming a vaguely familiar tune. A few measures later, Riker joined in, adding lyrics.

  “ ‘Baby shark, doo-doo doo-doo doo, baby shark, doo-doo doo-doo doo, baby shark.’ ”

  Trip, who was seated next to Saw, started tapping his thighs and joined in. “ ‘Mommy shark, doo-doo doo-doo doo, Mommy shark doo-doo doo-doo doo . . .’ ”

  “Really?” Chunk said, looking back and forth between them.

  “Let’s eat Chunk, doo-doo doo-doo doo, let’s eat Chunk, doo-doo doo-doo doo, let’s eat Chunk, doo-doo doo-doo doo, let’s eat Chunk!” Riker keyed his mike, transmitting over
the open comms channel for all to hear.

  “You guys are such assholes,” Chunk said, laughing despite himself. “But I’m not afraid of sharks.”

  “Mm-hmm, we know,” Riker said.

  “Really, guys, I’m not . . .”

  “Right, uh-huh, sure.” Saw had straightened his right hand into a fin and was holding it at the crown of his helmet, while chomping his teeth audibly.

  This earned a round of hearty laughter, at Chunk’s expense of course.

  All this time and they knew, he thought with a shake of his head. Proof again that in the Teams there are no secrets.

  “Less than a kilometer, boss,” Riker said, checking the GPS on his watch, his demeanor serious now that it was time to get down to business.

  “Check,” Chunk said.

  Moments later the RIB slowed to a stop, the white, frothy wake catching up and sloshing against the sides of the boat. On this cue, Chunk’s hands flew over his kit—checking magazines, counting grenades, and validating he’d packed the blowout kit he stowed in his left thigh pocket. Satisfied with his loadout, he looked across the expanse of gray-green water at the brightly lit deck of a merchant ship anchored beneath a clear sky polka-

  dotted with stars. He flipped his NVGs up on his helmet and could see the ship’s distant lights fine without augmentation.

  “Not much light discipline,” he said.

  Saw shrugged as he tightened the ghost-gray McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle on his back and cinched the shorter MK18 CQBR assault rifle to his chest. “That’s because nobody fucks with them out here at anchor.” He slipped a pair of curved fins over his boots.

  “Nobody except us,” Riker said as he snugged his own MK18 and an H&K MP7 9 mm machine pistol to his chest. Next, he donned his fins and removed his helmet to lift his Aqua Sphere swim goggles off his neck and into position over his eyes before resecuring it. Riker bitched incessantly about the

  standard-issue SEAL dive mask, and he’d recently converted Saw and Trip to his goggles approach—but not Chunk. He hated getting saltwater up his nose more than he hated the bulky mask with its poor peripheral vision.