Violence of Action Page 3

  “Thor, Asgard—say again?” Watts came back, her voice suggesting she’d heard him perfectly but disagreed with the order.

  “You heard me, Asgard,” he said. “I wanna put a Hellfire in Building Three. We don’t have time to screw around.”

  “One, Five—Bravo team is clear for the strike. Ready to assault Building Two on your mark,” Spence reported.

  “But what if the package is in Building Three?” Watts protested. “Don’t you want to put eyes on before you—”

  “I guarantee you the package is not playing cards with his captors. All the imagery data strongly indicates Gonzalez is in Building Two,” Chunk said, cutting her off. “In less than ten minutes these hills are going to be swarming with Taliban. We have one and only one shot at this. Do it now.”

  “Roger, Thor,” she said, her voice going flat. “Issuing the kill order to Raven’s Nest.”

  “Copy, and when you’re done, get Hammer heading our way. Exfil in seven minutes.” Chunk glanced at Riker, popped to his feet, and chopped a hand forward toward the compound. “Let’s go get our man.”

  CHAPTER 2

  al-qaeda compound

  surobi district

  kabul province

  afghanistan

  0242 local time

  Chunk’s breath came in pants as he surged his team forward. Upon reaching the corner of the sentry shack, he stopped and glanced around the corner to the south wall of the compound.

  It’s now or never, Raven, he thought, tightening his grip on his rifle.

  “Thor, this is Raven’s Nest,” the drone pilot said on the comms circuit, reading his mind. “I see y’all on thermal. Be advised you are danger close to the target.”

  “Copy, Raven’s Nest. Understand danger close. This is Thor One—you are cleared hot,” Chunk said.

  “Roger, Thor. Missile away.”

  Chunk looked up and watched a streak of orange carve a line across the night sky. Instead of whiting out, his NVGs rapidly compensated for the new light source and processed the imagery. To Chunk, the Hellfire missile looked like it would have during the day—the rooster tail of flame, bright but far from blinding. He watched it streak all the way to the target, turning his head just before impact. The explosion shook the ground and sent a rumble through the mountain canyon that was certain to be heard for miles. A fireball belched skyward as chunks of wood, rock, and earth rained down in a forty-meter radius around the smoking hole that had once been a building with five enemy shooters inside.

  “Target destroyed,” the drone pilot reported. “Scanning for survivors . . .”

  “Five, One—go,” Chunk ordered, directing Bravo team to hit Building Two from the east while his element entered the compound from the south.

  Legs pumping and boots crunching rock underfoot, Chunk led his three teammates across the open gap between the sentry shack and the earthen perimeter wall.

  “Mother, threat assessment?” Chunk said, dropping the annoying Asgard handle for the one he preferred. As Watts spoke, he imagined the bird’s-eye heat map imagery she stared at on a wide-screen monitor in the TOC.

  “Four KIA in Building Three. One figure is crawling from the wreckage, but he looks to be in a bad way. The north sentry squirted when the Hellfire hit. He’s running down the ridgeline northwest, heading for civilization. Three of the four shooters in Building Two have taken defensive positions at the south, east, and west walls. The fourth is holding a gun to another person’s head—presumably the package.”

  “Odin, how are your lines on Building Two?” Chunk asked.

  “I have a good line on the east window and the south courtyard inside the wall,” Saw said.

  “Bravo is holding on the east wall outside the perimeter,” Spence reported. “No gate on this side.”

  Chunk’s mind churned like a tactical computer, reworking the breach strategy. The original plan had his element entering the compound via the west wall, where imagery indicated the only perimeter gate was located. But he didn’t dare risk going in that way, having convinced himself the west approach was booby-trapped with IEDs. This unusually stout earth-and-stone perimeter wall was too thick for the breacher charges they carried to blow holes in, which meant they’d have to go over the top and face enemy fire from the window shooters.

  A suppressed sniper round from the east echoed over the air.

  “Fifth tango from Building Three is dead,” Saw reported.

  “Check,” Chunk said and then added, “Bravo, sweep north around the corner. Maybe that Hellfire knocked down the wall on the north side.”

  “Bravo,” Spence came back, signaling acknowledgment.

  “Thor, we have a problem,” Watts announced. “Two trucks just pulled up to the cluster of houses on the northwest side of the riverbed. Looks like QRF fighters.”

  “See, I told you that spot was trouble,” Riker said, running his tongue between his teeth and his bottom lip where he normally packed a dip.

  “How many heat signatures?” Chunk asked.

  “Eleven,” Watts said. “And one of the trucks looks like it has a technical in the back.”

  “Shit,” Chunk said.

  “One, Five—north wall is intact,” Spence reported. “But there’s a pile of rubble up against it now, so climbing over is going to be easier.”

  “Bravo, toss smoke over the wall to feint entry, but reposition to the northwest corner and cover down the mountain. Let’s not make it easy for that Tali QRF to get that technical into position.”

  A double click in his ear served as acknowledgment and Chunk yanked a smoke grenade from the front of his kit. He pulled the pin and tossed it over the wall into the courtyard. Riker, Trip, and Antman did the same and four sequential pops followed as the grenades lit off. A few seconds later, billowing tendrils of dusty-gray smoke began to creep up into view above the wall as the courtyard filled with a tactical haze.

  “I got this,” Riker said to Chunk, nodding at the top of the wall, conveying his intention to be first over and lead the charge.

  “Of course you do,” Chunk said.

  “Odin, One—Alpha is going over. Give ’em something to think about.”

  “Check,” Saw came back as Trip and Antman clasped hands to form a foot sling and boosted Riker over the seven-foot-tall wall.

  Covering fire from Saw’s sniper rifle punched loud, ringing holes in the building’s corrugated metal roof as Chunk got boosted onto the top of the wall next. Glass shattered and AK-47 gunfire cracked nearby as he flung himself over. He landed hard and off balance, but he rolled out of the fall and up into a kneeling firing stance, sighting at where he guesstimated the south-side window was located. Even their new badass night vision couldn’t see through smoke, however, and Chunk didn’t have a target.

  “Oh, fuck you,” he heard Riker growl somewhere ahead, followed by the familiar sound of a double tap from Riker’s Sig P229, which Chunk imagined his LCPO fired through the window at close range.

  A heavy thud to Chunk’s left announced the landing of Antman or Trip—probably Trip since Antman could scale walls and defy gravity like, well, an ant.

  “Thor, Hammer,” the Blackhawk pilot’s voice said in his ear. “Hammer is eight mikes out.”

  The prompt got Chunk thinking. The Taliban sniper had seen his IR designator earlier, so he had to assume there could be more than one set of NVGs in the bad guys’ hands. They’d left millions of dollars worth of tech in the country during the chaotic withdrawal and it was naive to think the Taliban hadn’t shared the bounty with their al-Qaeda friends. Normally, he might consider popping strobes now, but in this case, he couldn’t risk making themselves easier targets.

  “Copy Hammer, LZ is at the southeast edge of the compound. Be advised, enemy QRF is approaching from the north. Will need a little bird to snatch up Odin when we’re clear. Odin and assault team will strobe on your arrival, but not before.”

  “Roger, Thor,” the pilot acknowledged.

  Chunk felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Trip beside him. “You ready, boss?”

  Antman materialized in the haze an instant later.

  “You two with me. We’re breaching the front door,” Chunk said and took off in a tactical crouch toward the west side of the building.

  “Second sentry down, One,” Saw called in his ear.

  Six bad guys left . . . but another dozen just a few minutes out. We need to be gone before then.

  A burst of fire that his brain identified as coming from an AK-47 echoed to his left, from the side of Building Two. Two cracks of 5.56 rounds answered and Trip said, “Tango down.”

  Chunk sprinted through the haze toward the building entrance, where he found Riker pressed against the wall. Chunk fell in on the opposite side of the door in a mirror-image posture and they locked eyes. Riker summoned that famous dumbass grin of his and everything suddenly felt right as rain. Chunk nodded and held up three fingers, ready to count down the breach.

  “Bravo, if you have any targets at the north window, shoot them on my call,” Chunk said into his boom mike.

  Spence answered with a double click.

  “Dead guy by the shitter,” Saw announced, reporting another enemy KIA.

  That leaves three bad guys in here with our package and two others still at large in the compound, Chunk thought, updating his mental count.

  “Let’s do this,” Riker prompted.

  Chunk nodded and counted down with his fingers. On reaching one, Riker positioned himself in front of the door to breach.

  “Now, Bravo,” Chunk called.

  Riker kic
ked a booted foot against the door at the same time gunfire erupted from the inside. Splinters of wood and sawdust exploded around Riker in a cloud as tracers ripped through the wood slab in a scattershot pattern. Chunk’s heart told him to rush to his friend—who he assumed was riddled with bullets—but his officer’s mind held him back. The first rule in combat was to kill the enemy and remove the threat before rendering aid. With gritted teeth, Chunk tossed a flash-bang through the gap into the building. Like lightning and thunder in a bottle, the grenade detonated a second later, and he barreled through the door. He moved and cleared left while Trip followed behind, clearing right. A target popped up from behind an overturned table. Chunk put a red dot on the bearded face and squeezed twice; the Pashtun-style cap blew off the man’s head, full of bone and blood, and the fighter fell. Chunk swiveled right, sighting across the room to where a gray blanket hung in a doorway.

  He was just about to surge forward when an unexpected and irate voice behind him shouted, “You did not just try and shoot me through the door, motherfuckers.”

  Consecutive three-round bursts from Riker’s SOPMOD M4 flared in Chunk’s peripheral vision as Redneck Achilles rushed up the middle and took out a fighter charging from the other room.

  “Dude, are you okay?” Chunk asked with a quick and disbelieving sideways glance.

  “Five by,” Riker replied with a pissed-off grin.

  How the hell does he do it?

  They took either side of the doorway as Trip and Antman checked the three dead terrorists on the floor before setting up defensive positions to cover the windows and doorway behind them. Chunk repeated the same three-fingered countdown, then together they moved through the blanket-covered opening to the back room where he predicted Gonzalez was being held. Chunk moved left and Riker right, keeping low. A bullet tore a chunk of stucco from the wall just above Chunk’s head as he entered the room. At reflex speed, he sighted on the head of a terrorist fighter, who was standing beside a serviceman dressed in Marine Corps BDUs. Chunk was about to order the man to release the hostage and put down his weapon, when a crack from Riker’s weapon from beside him ended the negotiation and the fighter pitched backward and slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood and gore in his wake.

  “Don’t shoot,” the American Marine shouted, his arms flying up over his head. “I’m American.”

  “We got ya, son,” Chunk said. “We’re here to take you home. Tell us your name.”

  “Private First Class Louis M. Gonzalez,” the young Marine replied, his voice loud but cracking.

  “Where’d you go to high school, PFC Gonzalez?” Chunk asked as Riker checked the terrorist dead behind the young man.

  “Uh . . . ummm . . . Rosa Christa High School.”

  “Your first car?”

  The young Marine seemed to relax, memories of his training now kicking in.

  “Same as now,” he said and lowered his arms. “Nissan 370Z. Got it right out of basic. I love that fuckin’ car.”

  Riker nodded and moved to check the Marine for injury while Chunk made the call.

  “Asgard, Thor One—Thor is Valhalla.”

  “Roger, One. Understand you are Valhalla,” Watts said, her voice tense but clearly relieved to hear the checkpoint call indicating they had recovered Gonzalez. “Thor, be advised the enemy trucks will be at the north end of the compound in under two mikes. ETA for Hammer One at the LZ is three mikes.”

  “Roger, Asgard. Stand by.” Chunk approached the Marine as he continued talking. “Alpha and Bravo, Thor One—fall in south of the target building. Dust-off in three mikes.”

  The QRF with heavy machine guns—probably American weapons—made Hammer’s approach risky as hell, and he always assumed that terrorist fighters had RPGs. American forces had lost far too many brothers to RPG fire on approaching helicopters and he wasn’t about to repeat that mistake. The safest option was to shift the LZ, but that would depend on their package.

  “What’s your status, Gonzalez? Can you move? Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “They beat the shit out of me, and I think my left collar bone is broken or dislocated, but I’ll sprint all the way back to the States if that’s what it takes.”

  Chunk nodded and called Watts. “We’re assembling behind Building Two, Mother,” he said, deciding never to say Asgard again. “Merge on channel three.” Chunk flipped a small switch and then spun the dial on his MBITR radio on the front of his kit, merging channels one and three. “Hammer, Thor One . . .”

  “Hammer, go,” the pilot said.

  “Hammer, be advised you have a QRF of enemy fighters arriving at the north side of the compound. Recommend you redirect your approach or we move the LZ east, clear of fire.”

  “Hammer One, roger that. Asgard already advised. I’ll be approaching the LZ from the south for pickup. Hammer Three, if you could lay some fire in front, we should be good to go without relocating.”

  “Oh yeah,” the MH-6 pilot replied, delight in his voice. “Hammer Three is in and hot in one mike. Clearing the path for you, Hammer One.”

  Chunk moved PFC Gonzalez behind the building and then pressed against the corner in time to see the headlights of two trucks tearing up the dirt road from the north. Before they even slowed down, the gunner in the lead truck fired what looked to be an American-made M240 machine gun. Cement and wood exploded into the air and fell like rain behind them.

  “We gotta move,” Chunk shouted and chopped a hand back the way they’d entered. He surged forward, with Gonzalez following behind and Riker bringing up the rear. Chunk ripped the blanket down as he passed through the doorway into the neighboring room where Trip and Antman were ready and waiting. Their four-man team, plus the rescued Marine, charged out of the target building toward the rally point where Spence’s Bravo were waiting.

  “Hammer Three is in and hot,” came the MH-6 pilot’s call not a moment too late.

  An instant later, the night sky lit up as a half dozen 70 mm Hydra 70 rockets found their targets. Chunk could hear the screams of men on fire as the MH-6 little bird streaked past overhead.

  “Thor, Hammer One—thirty seconds,” the Blackhawk pilot radioed in.

  “Move, Thor,” Chunk called. He fired a few bursts at the wall of flames where the trucks had been, in case someone might still be there to take a potshot at his back, then led the team at a full sprint south, toward the LZ.

  “Hammer Three in and hot,” the MH-6 pilot called again, and this time Chunk heard the long belch of the M134 Minigun strafing across what was left of the al-Qaeda QRF.

  Then he was at the wall, hauling his stocky frame over and clearing left, just as the sound of the MH-60 Blackhawk’s rotors reached his ears.

  “Odin, Hammer Three—stand by for pickup,” the MH-6 pilot called.

  “Hooyah,” Saw replied from his overwatch position three hundred meters away. “Thanks for a great show, brother.”

  While the little bird banked and swept around to pick up Saw, the rest of the team—seven SEALs and the rescued Marine, PFC Gonzalez—crowded into the Blackhawk. Seconds later the burning compound disappeared below and behind them, as the Blackhawk pilot maneuvered at high speed along the twisting ravine. After putting distance between them and the compound, the pilot popped up to altitude, pressing Chunk and his SEAL brothers into the deck with the high G maneuver, before slipping over the ridgeline and disappearing into the night.

  “Hammer Three has Odin. We’re clear,” the attack helo pilot said, confirming Saw’s exfil.

  Chunk exhaled with relief and checked in with Watts in the TOC. Then he dropped his NVGs into place and looked Riker up and down for crimson stains. He spied a bullet hole on the outside thigh of his teammate’s unmarked BDU pants, but no blood to speak of.

  He shook his head.

  Talk about one charmed son of a bitch.

  “I swear, Chunk, if we ever use these dumbass Marvel call signs again, I’m quitting the team,” Riker grumbled.

  “We never will, I promise,” Chunk said with a laugh.

  “You guys suck,” Edwards said in his ear. “Those were the most epic call signs ever.”

  “Sorry, bro, we disagree. Your call sign picking privileges are permanently revoked,” Spence said in their headsets.