Sons of Valor Read online

  “God, One, you got a line on these guys?”

  “Negative,” Saw said, “but if they pop up over the ridgeline I can take them.”

  Chunk tapped his index finger against the trigger guard of his rifle. He could send two guys to eliminate this threat now, but that would take time—during which any number of other threats could arise, namely additional fighters from the building to the south. The likelihood of completing the op without these two guys being alerted to their presence was extremely low. One volley of return fire from an AK-47 was all it would take to send these guys scrambling to the ridge, where they would be able to rain down lead from above. In that case, his only option would be to pray that Saw was good enough to take them out or provide covering fire until exfil.

  He looked at his watch. We’ve been too long on target already. “Four, One—hover the drone over the compound.”

  “Check.”

  “Two, One,” he said to Spence, “we’re moving in. Be ready to rope down when we engage.”

  “Roger, One,” came Spence’s reply.

  Chunk led Riker, Trip, Georgie, and Morales down the steep eastern slope, careful not to kick loose rocks that would alert the sentries to their presence. The descent was slow and painful, with his thighs burning after only a few minutes. At the bottom, Chunk took a knee with his teammates behind him, each man scanning his sector. Ten meters away, the two sentries stood inside the padlocked front gate, laughing and unaware of the shadow of death closing in from just beyond. Chunk got nods from his teammates, signaling they were ready. If they did this quietly enough, they could breach the perimeter without alerting the two shooters over the west ridge or waking the sleeping fighters, who might summon their QRF. As tempting as it was to light up the sentries from outside the fence, Chunk pointed at Riker and Morales, then at the two men by the gate, and drew a hand across his throat.

  Both men nodded and moved silently toward the fence line.

  Through his NVGs, Chunk watched Morales take a knee, scanning over his rifle at the base of the fence. Riker, using his teammate’s bent leg like step, catapulted himself over the wire-topped fence, dropping to the ground with a thud that sounded soft, even in the amplification of the Peltors on Chunk’s ears. Inside the perimeter and concealed by the darkness of a moonless sky, Riker took a knee and sighted over his rifle on the sentries. Morales cleared the fence a heartbeat later, pivoting on his chest against the concertina wire as he swung his legs over and dropped to the ground. But this time, the chain-link fence shuddered, and the sentries stopped talking and turned. Morales and Riker had instantly dropped prone on the ground, the targeting lasers of their rifles trained center mass.

  One of the guards motioned for the other to stay put and began walking cautiously toward the fence. This was it, the moment that would decide how it all went down. Riker was up now, his crouch so low he could have dragged elbows on the ground. His rifle was slung on his chest, and though Chunk couldn’t see it from his angle, he knew Riker’s hand was holding a bowie knife. It felt like watching a leopard stalk an unsuspecting gazelle. The SEAL moved closer, ready . . .

  A flashlight beam clicked on.

  Morales’s heavily suppressed rifle coughed out a round and the guard farther from Riker snapped back his head and crumpled to the ground, the flashlight rolling in the dirt. The guard closer to Riker froze, confused at first, before turning to run. But Riker was already on him, a hand over the man’s mouth, dragging the knife across his throat. The SEAL silently lowered the body to the ground, sheathed his knife, and turned to sight his rifle on Building Two.

  Chunk held position, waiting for an alarm to wail, lights to go on, or gunfire to erupt.

  “Clear,” came the report from Riker. “God?”

  “No movement from the west ridgeline,” Saw answered.

  “Five and Six, move to cover Building One,” Chunk commanded as he led Trip and Georgie to the fence. “Two, begin the descent. One and Seven will hit the front of the target building when you call it. Eight, join Five and Six at Building One.”

  In seconds, Chunk, Trip and Georgie were over the fence. Georgie went left to join Riker and Morales at the bunkhouse—the next immediate threat—while Trip shadowed Chunk as he vectored toward the building where the hostages were being held. They arrived at the door and, finding it closed but slightly ajar, knelt on either side. Chunk looked up in time to see Spence, Edwards, and Antman speeding silently down the north face of the crater.

  “One, God—we’ve got company.” Saw’s voice was tight but controlled. “I have lights coming up the road behind you from the south camp. Looks like a QRF is inbound.”

  Shit!

  “How many vehicles?” he whispered nearly inaudibly.

  “Can’t tell yet. Just see the lights. Two, get off the ropes.”

  Beyond the roofline, Chunk saw the three SEALs rappelling down the cliff wall increase the speed of descent, then disappear behind the building.

  “Single vehicle, but looks like four guys . . . maybe five,” Saw reported.

  Time to breach. Come on, come on, come on . . .

  “Two in position,” Spence’s report finally came.

  Chunk looked at Trip, who nodded back.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Chunk whispered, keeping a controlled cadence despite the stress of the approaching vehicle. On the zero beat, Trip pushed the door open and Chunk followed behind him. Trip cleared right, while Chunk cleared left. At the same time, a whump, followed by the sound of breaking glass, echoed from the rear of the building as Spence’s team breached the wall with a small charge.

  Gunfire erupted from the back room.

  “One KIA, male hostage is secure,” Spence announced in his ear. Then came the curveball, “Female hostage is missing.”

  Chunk grinned tightly. He’d expected there would be something unexpected at this point, and here was at least the first one. He surged forward with Trip covering his six, and he heard shouting and the click of the door straight ahead being locked. He increased his speed, lowered a shoulder, and plowed into the wooden slab. The door came off its hinges as he tumbled through the doorway. Ahead, a muzzle flash lit up the hallway as a pistol cracked. Coming out of his roll, Chunk snapped into a kneel, sighting over his rifle. He put his holosight targeting dot on the forehead of a bearded man pointing the pistol at him. The fighter was using the female hostage as a human shield. Tears streamed down her face, and her entire body was trembling beneath the thick forearm latched across her throat.

  The man screamed in Arabic as he swept the pistol left to right and back again, shifting his aim between Chunk and Trip.

  “Put down your weapon or you die,” Chunk shouted in Arabic.

  The man shook his head and pressed the muzzle into the sobbing woman’s right temple. Chunk frowned and pulled the trigger.

  “Hostage two secure,” he announced, as the kidnapper collapsed.

  “Shooters coming through the gate,” Saw announced. “Scratch one,” he said as he began taking out the arriving fighters from his hideout.

  Gunfire echoed outside the building—both MK18 and AK-47 rounds being exchanged—as Riker and his fire team engaged the fighters in Building One.

  “Three KIA in Building One,” Riker reported when the gunfire stilled as abruptly as it started.

  “God, report on the west ridge,” Chunk said, his mind on their exfil as he sighted on the female hostage, who was now on her knees and wailing. He surveyed her closely to make sure she wasn’t wired up with a suicide vest or concealing a weapon.

  “West ridge still clear,” Saw said.

  Satisfied his hostage wasn’t a booby trap, Chunk raised his rifle and advanced within arm’s reach, upon which the woman collapsed against him, hugging his leg. He introduced himself using a NOC and the standard hostage rescue litany.

  “Courtney Tindley—I’m Tom. We are the United States military, and we’re here to take you home.”

  “Home?” she sobbed, looking up at him.

  “Contact left, contact left—QRF just breached the front gate,” Riker reported in his ear. Chunk pictured the scene outside, where his men were taking fire from the vehicle at the gate.

  “Moving back toward Building Two. They got a .50 cal,” Morales said. “Find cover.”

  “Yes, home,” Chunk said to the hostage, raising her to her feet with his left arm, keeping his voice soft and soothing. “Can you tell me the name of the elementary school you attended, Courtney?” he asked. He needed to confirm her identity so they could get the hell out of there.

  “My school?”

  “Keep him off that machine gun, God,” Riker hollered in his ear.

  More gunfire.

  “What was the name of the school where you went to first grade, Courtney?” Chunk pressed.

  “Oh . . . yes . . . um . . .” She shook her head and wiped tears from her dirty cheeks.

  He waited.

  “Um . . .”

  “Machine gun neutralized, but we have more lights coming up,” Saw reported.

  “Thomas Roberts,” she said.

  “Fire from the ridgeline.”

  “I’m on it—tango down.”

  She smiled at him. “Thomas E. Roberts Elementary School.”

  Chunk smiled back. “That’s right.”

  Spence, Edwards, and Antman entered from the back room, dragging a dazed and haggard Caucasian man. The guy could barely walk, and Edwards was holding him up, arm around his back, gloved hand under his armpit.

  “We’re confirmed,” Spence told Chunk, moving past him and taking a position at the o
pen door, scanning the compound.

  “Five is wounded,” an unfamiliar commanding baritone announced over a megaphone. “Gunshot wound to the left leg. Unable to walk due to fracture. Hemodynamically unstable.”

  Of course, and they had to pick Riker.

  “Second shooter neutralized,” Saw announced immediately after. “West ridge is clear.”

  Add a couple of minutes while the bad guys sort out what had happened here. Maybe we can make it, with air support . . .

  “Mother, this is Popeye One,” Chunk said. “Popeye is Destin. Say again, Destin. Get that little bird in tight orbit, as we may need hot extract for some personnel.”

  “Roger, One,” came the acknowledgment from the TOC.

  “God, hold overwatch. Everyone else up the hill and over the ridge to extract. Four—SITREP on Five?”

  “Got a tourniquet on the leg,” Morales replied.

  “Conscious but in shock,” the amplified baritone voice projected over the megaphone from somewhere out of sight.

  “From the Almighty’s lips to our ears,” Edwards commented.

  No one laughed, but it was pretty funny.

  “I can carry him out. Might need help up the hill to make it fast, though,” Morales said.

  “Meet you over the fence,” Chunk barked. “Let’s go, Popeye.”

  In moments, they were helping the hostages awkwardly over the fence, just as Morales arrived with Riker in a combat carry. He was moving almost effortlessly despite the hefty load. Riker looked at Chunk from under tipped-up NVGs and rolled his eyes.

  Chunk shook his head in admonition. Play along.

  As the rest of the team—save for Saw, who was still in his hide—scrambled up the hill with the hostages, Chunk slung Riker’s left arm over his shoulder as Morales did the same with his right, splitting the load. Each man then took a leg, making a human palanquin of sorts for the wounded SEAL. They huffed and puffed up the hill at full speed and were still short of cresting the ridge when they heard the thrum of the approaching helicopters rising from the valley on the other side.

  Then came the bad news from Saw. “Inbound enemy vehicle is in the open and approaching the gate.”

  Well, of course it is.

  “Popeye One,” came the calm voice of Mother from the TOC. “Do you want the little bird to engage?”

  Chunk weighed his options as they struggled the last seventy-

  five yards up the steep rise. This second wave of bad guys finding missing hostages and dead teammates was still fully deniable, but if he sent an American combat helicopter to overtly engage, it could be a geopolitical problem. No, it was better to hold off, so long as they didn’t get shot in the back.

  “Negative, Mother. Have the little bird loiter just north of the exfil to grab God in two mikes. God, engage the tangos in the approaching vehicle to cover our exfil. Just need another minute.”

  “Check,” Saw replied.

  “How much do you fucking weigh, dude?” Morales grumbled, Riker’s weight beginning to take its toll as they huffed up the hill.

  “Two hundred and ten buck naked,” Riker answered, grinning.

  “Great mental picture,” the SEAL medic grumbled in reply, but he was smiling.

  “Don’t drop me, dude. I don’t want to get my cammies dirty,” Riker added, as they crested the ridge.

  Chunk exhaled with relief as they joined the rest of the team who’d surged ahead. The SEALs spread out on the steep cliff side, holding security in all directions.

  “Stalker, we’re ready for exfil,” Chunk called and watched as the two MH-60s rose from below until they were hovering parallel to the cliff’s edge, rotors lifting up shale and dust. Together, the SEALs and hostages piled aboard. “God, drop down the east side and your ride is waiting,” Chunk said, following the last of his men into the helo. To the north, he watched the smaller MH-6 hover to exfil Saw. “Stalkers, stay below the ridgeline,” he called, but it was unnecessary—the pilots of the Army’s 160th Special Operations Air Regiment were the most elite aviators in the world. They knew the drill.

  Seconds later the helos were descending into the valley at a stomach-lifting speed.

  “God is clear,” Saw called, the unmistakable warble from the MH-6 evident in his voice.

  “Exercise is now complete,” announced the same humorless baritone that had called out Riker’s injury, except this time the voice came over the comms channel. “Secure the drill.”

  Morales leaned back from pretending to work on his “wounded” teammate and smacked Riker on his perfectly healthy leg. “Get your ass up off the floor, bro,” the medic said.

  “Nah.” Riker crossed his legs at the ankles. “This is pretty cozy.”

  Chunk kicked his Senior Chief in the side.

  “Okay, okay,” Riker said and scrambled onto the canvas bench seat.

  Across the aisle from Chunk, the woman who’d played hostage Courtney Tindley was wiping her face with a hand towel. With a weary sigh, the CIA simulation coordinator reached behind her and pulled a pair of David Clark headphones from a hook and slipped them on.

  “Two hostages rescued, no lost blue members, and one wounded,” she said, meeting Chunk’s gaze. “Well done, Commander. Our team will do a forensic sweep of the site to see what evidence of an American presence may have been left behind, then we’ll review the film with Commander Bowman. There’ll be a hot wash of the op with my team of trainers at zero-four-hundred, so get cleaned up quickly. When we’re done, we’ll hand you back over to your command for a formal debrief.”

  The woman flipped her mike up, crossed her legs at the knee, and leaned her head back against the bulkhead.

  “And?” said a voice on the channel. Chunk shook his head. It was Riker, unable to contain himself.

  The woman opened her eyes and raised her eyebrows.

  “And what?”

  “And,” Riker said, his gaze sweeping across his teammates, “we were pretty shit hot, right? I mean that was a tough setup, lady. Boxed-in canyon compound, HALO infil, QRF minutes away, hostages divided, spotters on the far ridge . . .”

  The woman stared at him, eyebrow raised. “And what?”

  “Oh, come on, lady,” Riker said, laughing and summoning his best Ron Burgundy impression. “I mean, don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

  The CIA trainer didn’t smile. “My understanding is that this evaluation is the final screening for you guys getting signed off as the new Tier One asset.”

  “Right,” Riker agreed.

  She exhaled, leaned her head back against the bulkhead, and said, “In that context, you were adequate.”

  “Adequate?” Riker said, then huffed incredulously before hamming it up with Morales and Trip.

  Chunk looked at the woman, who made eye contact and gave him a subtle nod. Then, with an almost imperceptible smile, she folded her arms and closed her eyes—spook code for “you guys nailed it, but I refuse to add any hot air to your already inflated egos.”

  He’d take it because tonight’s simulation capped off four weeks of Green Team evaluation. For weeks Bowman and the Green Team trainers and evaluators had put Gold Squadron through the wringer, but every member had impressed. Long days of diving, breaching, range training, grappling, ropes training, and dive, jump, sniper, and breacher requalifying were coming to a close. They’d made it through—individually, but far more importantly, as a team. As good as these SEALs had been, they were now even better. Soon they would round out the team with additional support personnel and of course their new intel shop, to be led by an intelligence expert from the civilian agencies—a woman Chunk had helped select.

  He wasn’t sure what the skipper had planned for them next, but whatever it was, they’d be ready.

  CHAPTER 6

  zenah wedding hall

  peshawar, pakistan

  2120 local time

  From a chair along the wall, Qasim watched Eshan dance with his new bride. Aleena bore little resemblance to his sister, yet Qasim’s mind kept playing tricks on him, ghosting Saida’s face over the other woman’s. Every adoring smile, every passion-fueled glance, every seductive touch sent a stab of pain through Qasim’s chest.