Violence of Action Page 2

  In Chunk’s mind, tonight’s mission was a mixed bag.

  On the plus side, Watts had a high degree of confidence that Gonzalez was alive. Proof of life was three days old, but that didn’t worry Chunk. The terrorists wanted their jihadi brothers back and would keep Gonzalez alive as long as necessary to achieve that goal. Tonight Gold Squadron wouldn’t be hitting a dry hole—of that much he was certain.

  In the minus column sat precedent. When you’ve been at war with somebody for twenty years, you learn a thing or two or a hundred about the other side. America and the Taliban, who no doubt aided al-Qaeda despite their public rhetoric, understood each other intimately—motives, tactics, and policy. Both sides continued to run their rhetoric engines at redline, pumping out clouds of verbal exhaust, but the leadership on both sides saw through the smog of war. The Taliban and their al-Qaeda friends knew Special Warfare was coming for Gonzalez . . . maybe not when, maybe not how, but they knew, and that made tonight’s mission all the more dangerous. Chunk didn’t have to remind his guys of this fact. They understood it, and the underlying tension in their movements was proof.

  The drop zone was in the middle of a dry riverbed, a snowmelt-fed tributary that dumped into the Kabul River. It snaked along the foot of a five-mile-long, low mountain ridgeline on the east side of the valley that ran directly past the target compound. Chunk’s team moved silently, in two modified arrowhead formations, up either side of the dry riverbed. All the ass-grabbing and verbal bullshitting ceased the instant boots hit the ground and every SEAL became a stone-cold professional warrior. They advanced north, each man scanning his sector, communicating only with hand signals. Twenty minutes passed in a blur of total concentration before Chunk held up a closed fist. Each of the SEALs took a knee and scanned for threats in their respective sectors.

  “Asgard, Thor is Zephyr,” Chunk said softly into the boom mike at the corner of his mouth.

  “Show you at Zephyr, Thor One,” came the reply from the TOC, Watts’s voice cool and professional. As a former analyst from NCTC with no field experience, she’d come a long way in an incredibly short time at the Tier One. Coordinating mission packages from a TOC and interfacing directly with operators was a far cry from writing briefs at a desk inside the Beltway. “No new intel to report.”

  “Check.”

  With no change in the tactical picture, Chunk split the team at waypoint Zephyr as planned—sending Bravo element northeast to take the high route in the mountains while his Alpha element doglegged northwest across the farmland in the valley. Both approaches afforded cover, albeit by means of wildly different terrain. Chunk’s element had waist-high crop cover in the fields and a stand of trees directly west of the compound. Way better than the highland element, led by Lieutenant Spence, who would be forced to hike to a secondary ridgeline to the east to have any cover on the final approach.

  While Alpha crossed the riverbed and hit the compound from the west side, Bravo would take the crest and assault from the tactically superior high ground on the east. Prior to kicking things off, the team sniper, Saw, would peel off from Bravo and provide overwatch from a hilltop three hundred feet southeast of the compound—a position that gave him the necessary height and angles to fire over the perimeter wall at each of the five different buildings that made up the complex.

  Ten minutes later, as they moved swiftly through the brush, Chunk whispered into his boom mike, “Asgard, Thor One—sitrep?”

  “One, Asgard—I count fifteen thermal signatures in and around the compound. Two roving watches walking the perimeter outside the wall, maintaining one-hundred-and-eighty-degree offset and moving counterclockwise. Building One, south and outside the main compound wall, has two signatures—likely the patrol shack with relief watch—both horizontal, presenting as sleeping. Five signatures in Building Two, the target. Four are seated around a table, and one presents horizontal—presumably, this is the package. Building Three, just north, has five signatures. We’re not exactly sure what’s going on in there, but they appear to be awake.”

  “Copy. What about the fifteenth signature?” Chunk said, doing the math in his head. “That was only fourteen.”

  “Number fifteen is inside what looks like a bathroom and, um, he appears to be . . .”

  “Appears to be what, Asgard?”

  “Masturbating,” she said.

  Chunk shook his head. “Wonderful, thanks for sharing.”

  “You asked.”

  Chunk picked up the pace, leading his four-man element of Riker, Antman, and Trip in a lopsided diamond formation across the field toward the grove of trees that would be their final staging point. Quickstepping in a tactical crouch on this final hundred-meter stretch, his thighs protested with that old familiar burn—the CrossFit equivalent of doing lunges in the gym until your legs give out. Upon reaching the grove, the fire team spread out and pressed up to the tree line, each man sighting over his rifle at the compound.

  “Alpha is Ragnarök,” Chunk said, really hating these call signs as he reported that his element was in position.

  “Copy,” Watts said in his ear. “Bravo is still half a click out.”

  This news did not surprise Chunk, as Spence’s team had to make a double ascent, traversing not one but two ridgelines. He pictured the satellite imagery of the region in his mind and tried to imagine the most likely position of the four SEALs still making their grueling infil.

  “Bravo is over the second ridge, heading north,” Spence said in between heavy breaths. “Ten mikes from calling Ragnarök.”

  Chunk double-clicked his acknowledgment and shifted in his kneeling stance, grateful that Spence had volunteered for the highland approach.

  Nothing to do now but wait . . .

  As he scanned the compound, he had to remind himself that he was still viewing the world through NVGs. The full-color photo-realism almost made him forget this was a middle-of-the-night operation. His teammates must have been experiencing the same feeling because Chunk noticed them actually smiling as they scanned over their rifles. Certain camouflage elements that an enemy might use were difficult if not impossible to detect in monochrome night vision. Digital cammie uniforms and camouflage netting were perfect examples—the human eye could parse them in daylight, but they disappeared into the background under low-light monochromic amplification. That wasn’t an issue with these X27 NVGs.

  After what felt like ten minutes burned, Chunk checked his watch and confirmed his internal clock was still properly calibrated. A moment later Spence radioed in.

  “Bravo is Ragnarök,” Spence called from two ridgelines over. “Eight is climbing to his perch.”

  “Check,” Chunk replied. He’d keep them in position until Saw was settled in as overwatch.

  “Asgard, this is Eight,” Saw whispered a minute later. “Do you hold me on thermal?”

  Chunk picked up the tension immediately and felt his jaw tighten. Now what?

  “Roger, Eight,” Watts came back. “We see you climbing all by your lonesome to the top of the bowl-shaped rock.”

  “I think I see something,” he said. “Are you detecting a secondary thermal up here with me?”

  “Hold, One . . .” Watts said.

  “That’s a negative, Eight,” said a new voice on the line, belonging to Petty Officer Yi. “What do you see?”

  “I think there’s a sniper up here. It looks like the Talies built an earth-covered sniper nest up here, blocking thermals from above with camo webbing draped over the open sides. Alpha, continue to hold—the second you step out of that tree line, he’s gonna cut you down.”

  “Copy all,” Chunk said, turning to look at Riker, who gave him a “looks like we dodged a bullet” thumbs-up.

  “Eight, Five—are you going to try to take him yourself?” Spence asked, the exact question on Chunk’s mind. “Or do you want a wingman?”

  “My goal is to take this dude with stealth, without waking up the neighborhood,” Saw said. “So, I could definitely use a second.”

  “Roger that,” Spence said. “Sending Six up to join your party.”

  “Typical,” Edwards chimed in with his trademark ill-timed comic relief. “Always looking to get me capped since I’m better with the ladies than you.”

  “Check,” Saw came back. “Holding for Six.”

  This new development got the wheels in Chunk’s mind spinning. If it was true that this compound was protected by a dedicated sniper using thermal blocking and camouflage to protect his nest against drone surveillance, then it meant the terrorists were ready and waiting for this rescue attempt. It also meant the Taliban were providing direct support to the al-Qaeda terrorists, who wouldn’t have access to the stolen technology without them. The sniper could even be Taliban himself. What other tricks did the enemy have up their sleeve? Watts’s last sitrep seemed to indicate that twelve of the fifteen thermals in the compound were awake. Why else would they all be up unless they were expecting to boogie?

  “Asgard, One—did you catch all of that?” he said into his mike.

  “Roger, One, we heard it,” Watts said. “We’ve asked the drone pilot to drop to a lower altitude and circle west to see if we can get a better angle to analyze the sniper nest.”

  “Any vehicles driving around in the area we need to know about?”

  “Negative.”

  Chunk switched his radio from VOX to PTT so he no longer broadcast to the group and turned to Riker, who was on a knee beside him, scanning his sector over his rifle. “If they’re covering the western approach, then that means they understand our tactics. They know this grove is perfect staging cover.”

  “Yeah, s
o their sniper cuts us down in no-man’s-land when we cross that dry riverbed. That’s a hundred and fifty feet of wide-open nothing we gotta traverse.”

  “And what if the sniper isn’t their only defense? What if they’ve got IEDs buried along the riverbank or just outside the perimeter wall?”

  Riker nodded. “There’ve been five roadside IED explosions in Surobi over the past month. Which means we’ve got an active maker in town. It’s certainly possible.”

  Chunk lowered his rifle and hung it from its sling while he retrieved a compact tablet computer from his left thigh cargo pocket. He flipped up his NVGs and powered on the tablet with the lowest illumination setting. It revealed a bird’s-eye view satellite topography of the compound and surrounding area.

  “We’re here,” he said, pointing to the middle of the trees. “Bravo element is here,” he added, pointing to a position east of the compound. He traced his index finger over the riverbed, which formed a one-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc around the compound. “That oxbow is probably eight hundred feet from east to west. It’s big, but not too big to load up with IEDs . . . Maybe we shouldn’t cross here.”

  Riker scratched at his beard. “I wouldn’t want to cross up there to the north, in case they have a QRF staged or a second sniper in one of those huts on the west side of the river. That would put us in a crossfire.”

  “Agreed. Which leaves only one choice, which is to backtrack south and cross here,” Chunk said, pointing at the screen. “We hump it over this first ridge and assault from the south and reposition Bravo element fifty yards farther north. We swap primaries. They hit Building Three, we hit Building Two.”

  “I like it, but what about Building One? I know it’s only two guys, but I don’t want to get shot in the back trying to breach Building Two if those dudes wake up.”

  Chunk tapped one of several grenades fixed to the front of his kit. “We hit it en route.”

  “We’ll lose our stealth,” Riker said.

  “Yeah, I think we’re gonna lose our stealth when Saw and Edwards try to take the sniper.”

  “Ye of little faith . . .”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “It’s a good plan, boss. Let’s do it.”

  Chunk switched his radio back to VOX and said, “Eight and Six, hold on taking that sniper. Alpha is going to reposition first.”

  A double click in his ear, presumably from Saw, served as a stealthy acknowledgment.

  With hand signals, Chunk motioned for his element to follow him as he backpedaled deeper into the grove and then retraced their tracks south. As he did, he gave a quick recap of the revised plan to Spence, as well as Watts and Yi back in the TOC. Nobody challenged his logic, and their exfil bird had plenty of fuel to absorb the slip in the timeline. Once they cleared the grove, Chunk picked up the pace, traversing the field in a hard run. He directed his formation an extra hundred yards south before crossing the dried-up riverbed, just to be safe. Then he led his team up and over the four-hundred-foot incline of the first ridgeline, before vectoring north.

  Chunk felt his breath come in long but fast, deep pulls of cool night air. He signaled his teammates with a closed fist and a sweep of his hand to take cover behind a rocky outcropping forty yards from Building One—the sentry hut and southernmost structure of the compound.

  “Eight, One—you in position to take that sniper nest?” he said into his boom mike.

  A double click in his ear served as confirmation.

  “Asgard, sitrep?” Chunk said to Watts.

  “The two roving sentries are at the nine o’clock and one o’clock positions, walking the perimeter. You should be able to see the south sentry any minute. No change to personnel activity inside the compound. You’re still the night,” Watts said. In the short time she’d been with the unit, she’d already picked up the operational lingo and cadence of an operator. Most importantly, however, she’d learned when not to talk. The days of her babbling to fill the void were, blessedly, only an annoying memory.

  “Check,” he said and brought his suppressed SOPMOD M4 up. He steadied it on top of the boulder he was crouching behind and sighted up the valley, waiting for the roving sentry to walk into view. Then, an idea came to him. “Eight, One—stand by. I’m going to take Sentry One and that will be your signal. It should give you a moment of confusion to capitalize on when you take your tango out.”

  A double click came back from Saw.

  Chunk moved his index finger inside the guard and applied tension to the trigger. With his left hand, he switched on his target designator and watched it appear in full color on his X27 night-vision goggles, a green laser streaking across the valley. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

  A second green targeting laser materialized, streaming west from the rocks above but quickly swiveling toward Chunk’s position. A decade of operational experience, combined with finely honed operator reflexes, took over and Chunk dropped into a crouch behind the boulder. A heartbeat later a sniper round whistled past overheard and slammed into the rocks behind him.

  “Oh shit,” Riker said, looking at him. “That dude was fast.”

  Chunk glanced up and saw the enemy sniper’s infrared beam, green in the world of NVGs, sweeping overhead for a target. “Yeah, and that asshole is wearing NVGs because he saw my fucking IR.”

  Two suppressed rounds, fired sequentially, echoed from the ridgeline . . . followed a moment later by a third.

  “One, Eight—enemy sniper is neutralized. Repeat, enemy sniper is KIA. I’m taking his roost,” Saw reported.

  “Roger,” Chunk said. “Bravo team, reposition north to breach Building Three.”

  “Check,” said Spence in his ear.

  “Thor, Asgard,” Watts said, her voice tense. “You’re blown. The fighters inside are scrambling and repositioning to defensive positions.”

  “Shit,” Chunk growled through clenched teeth, his mind churning through the most likely scenarios of how things would play out. Breaching an alert and actively defended compound was a much different operation than assaulting with the element of surprise. The officer in him wanted to abort the op; the SEAL inside said, No friggin’ way.

  “Eight is Odin,” Saw said, announcing to everyone that he was set as overwatch and ready to go to work.

  “This op is blown, boss,” Riker said, his back still pressed to the boulder, shoulder to shoulder with Chunk. “What do you want to do?”

  “Odin, you’re cleared to engage,” Chunk said, giving Riker his answer.

  “Check,” Saw said, and Chunk immediately heard the burp of his suppressed sniper rifle going to work. “South sentry’s down.”

  “Dude, there’s a lot of Tali-supported al-Qaeda in this city. In ten minutes this place could be swarming with fighters. And I’m not talking a QRF, Chunk. I’m talking about a whole army of assholes here on top of us,” Riker said.

  His LCPO’s warning resonated with Chunk, because of all the SEALs in Gold Squadron, Riker had the highest risk tolerance.

  “So what are you saying? We just leave Gonzalez here?”

  “Either that or we escalate really fast.”

  “Building One is clear. Two tangos down,” Saw reported, his voice cold iron; he was in the zone now. “Only the north sentry remains, and I don’t have eyes on him.”

  “Five, One—change of plans,” Chunk said, his voice ripe with frustration. “Alpha and Bravo are hitting Building Two. Repeat, Alpha and Bravo elements hit Building Two.”

  “What about Building Three?” Spence came back.

  “Asgard, Thor—we need you to put a Hellfire in Building Three,” Chunk said into his boom mike, answering Spence’s question for everyone.