Hidden Threat (2 page)

“
It’s like fishing, sir. We keep pulling up sticks and tires instead of the big ’un. We need to find us a honey hole.”

Eversoll was raised in central Kentucky on a family farm. He was a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man who had done two years of college on a wrestling scholarship at Louisville University and then got bored with the entire scene. One morning he walked into the recruiting station in downtown Louisville. He’d stood tall and told the recruiter, “If you give me airborne and ranger, with a shot at Special Forces, I’ll sign up right now.”

Now, at twenty-five years old, Eversoll was a Special Forces paratrooper. He had landed the impossibly difficult job of being the radio operator, driver, bodyguard, and virtual aide-de-camp for the group commander, Colonel Garrett.

“
Well, they don’t come any bigger than what we’re going after here with this one. It’s not so much what we’re hoping to bring back, but what we hope to leave up there.” He felt the weight of his M4 hanging loosely on the snap link affixed to his outer tactical vest, and found himself hoping the plan
would
work.

A moment of silence followed, before Eversoll replied, “I know I’m not supposed to know about this, but I overhear a lot, you know, sir.”

“
That’s why I picked you. I can trust you.”

Colonel Garrett nodded in the darkness. The less said about this mission the better. Sure, they were going into the teeth of a known Al Qaeda hideout in the undefined border region, but they had come up empty so many times that Zach figured if Matt had any hand in the plan, it had to be worth it, no matter how dangerous. Garrett watched his driver Sergeant Eversoll scan the horizon, M4 carbine at the ready. He saw him spit some tobacco juice into the snow beneath their feet and say, “No issues there, sir.”

“
Raider six, this is Tiger six, over.” Garrett and Eversoll looked at the radio handset.

“
It’s time, sir.”

Garrett gave him a nod and placed the handset to his ear.

“
Tiger six, this is Raider six. Searing Gorge is a go. Execute now, over.” Garrett spoke with certainty.

“
Confirm
Searing Gorge
is a go, over.”

“
Roger, Searing Gorge is a go.”

“
Roger that.” The tone of Commander Jeffrey Montrose was high pitched and excited. Zachary visualized the Navy SEAL gathering his men on the other side of the valley from where he and Eversoll stood. His own eight-man security team was situated within two hundred meters of his command vehicle, occupying positions of dominance along the ridge in order to protect their esteemed commander. The team had been inserted last night into this valley, not too far from the fabled Tora Bora cave complex. An Afghan citizen, a poppy farmer, had been captured a week ago and, after some tough questioning, had delivered a pearl of intelligence.

Senior Al Qaeda leadership was re-forming in the rugged northeastern Afghan mountains for the spring offensive, maybe even Osama bin Laden himself.

Garrett knew that Rampert had been waiting for a two-fer: conducting the Searing Gorge mission and also kill or capture some senior al-Qaeda leadership.

Despite his misgivings, Garrett was confident in the overall plan. He still had some concerns, which he had voiced to Rampert. But Rampert, again, had been unrelenting. He refused to budge on the time. Given the sensitivity of the mission and its myopic purpose, Rampert had dictated the landing zone times and the loads in each helicopter. Accordingly, Zach had his team rehearse the mission several times at their base camp in the relatively secure compound in central Afghanistan. After they worked out the kinks, he liked everything about the concept except for the fact that they were attacking just before dawn. He would have preferred the middle of the night, with the cover of total darkness. The helicopter pilots had also expressed concern about getting into the fourteen-thousand-foot landing zone during the ‘goggle transition time’—they would have preferred either full darkness to completely use their goggles or enough light to discard them as they flew the narrow canyons of the Hindu Kush.

It was risky, but Garrett had chosen an offset landing zone no less than a half mile from the objective. With Predator unmanned aerial vehicle coverage and U.S. Air Force F-15s, A-10s and AC-130 gunships, he was confident their insertion would be well protected. The Predator would be flying at thousands of feet above ground level, piping real-time video into the joint operations center at an airbase in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, the AC-130 gunship would orbit silently above the objective, ready to destroy the enemy with its 105mm cannon. The A-10s and F-15s would orbit tens of thousands of feet above the target and drop precision-guided munitions when called for.

However, as usual they could not be completely certain of the terrain, and if the enemy had hidden surveillance positions near the landing zone that went undetected by the overhead sensors, then the mission would become significantly riskier. All or nothing.

The exact timing of the mission still nagged at him, but he knew that this was a time-sensitive target. They had to move now.

The pressure to capture a senior Al Qaeda leader was intensifying every day. The eight-thousand-mile screwdriver, as Zachary called the Pentagon and other bureaucrat-laden government agencies inside the Beltway, had gone cordless. The squeeze was on, and they needed to produce. Searing Gorge seemed to be the best option.

His plan was to insert Montrose’s team first, and then his own team would come in to secure the exfiltration landing zone. They would also be a reserve force, a backup, to support Montrose.

Zachary looked west. The moon looked as though it was splitting into two jagged pieces as the Gulam Gar peak, the highest mountain between his men and the center of Afghanistan, jutted irregularly upward.

“
Raider six, this is Tiger six. Marco, over.”

“
Marco, out.” Garrett quickly responded to Montrose’s signal that they were airborne in the Special Operations MH-47. Now he would anxiously await the code word “Polo,” meaning they had safely secured the landing zone.

“
Sir, we’re all set,” Eversoll said. “Here comes the second aircraft now.”

“
Okay, you’re staying here with the XO, right?”

“
Roger, the bird is bringing in Charlie team. We’ve rehearsed it, sir; no worries. Just get back here safely.”

Garrett looked at Eversoll with pride.
Where do we get these guys?
He was always amazed at the courage of American soldiers who, before their enlistments, were just high school kids playing soccer or football or writing computer programs. Now here was Eversoll, watching his back, a colonel with over twenty years in the military. Eversoll was in third grade when Garrett had served as a lieutenant in Desert Storm.

He gave Sergeant Eversoll half a hug with his right arm. “We’ll bring you back something to mount on the wall.”

“
Make it a big ’un.” Eversoll smiled and then walked with his colonel into the middle of the snow field and guided the MH-47 into the landing zone. He flashed a small infrared light several times, indicating the lead touchdown point for the aircraft.

Garrett smiled, reached into his pocket and thumbed his Saint Michael medal, which was secured in a plastic sleeve with a faded and worn, but clearly visible, picture of his daughter, Amanda. He flipped it over and kissed Amanda’s photo. Saint Michael was the patron saint of paratroopers, and Garrett’s ritual since his days in the Eighty-second Airborne Division had been to touch the medal and kiss Amanda’s picture prior to a jump. He placed the medallion and the photo back into the Velcro pocket on his army combat uniform.

“
Maybe old Saint Michael there will give us a hand this time.” Eversoll nodded in the darkness toward the medal, having watched his commander go through the routine. He had seen it many times, never before commenting, but understanding the soldiers’ need to feel connected to something larger than themselves as they embark on a dangerous mission. Eversoll absently placed his hand atop his individual body armor near his sternum, where his Saint Michael medal hung beneath his uniform with his dog tags.

Garrett looked at Eversoll, his face lighted by the moon. “He’s never failed us so far.” That was true, he thought. He and his men had come back from every mission, and that was something to be thankful for.

They watched as the twin-overhead-rotor aircraft descended into the tight valley, pushing loose snow into the air and creating a miniature blizzard. Always a nervous moment for pilots landing in snow, Garrett watched the skilled special-operations aviators settle the aircraft into the newly formed white cloud.

Through his night-vision goggles, he watched his Alpha team gather onto the outer perimeter of the LZ. The yawning ramp of the MH-47 opened, spilling into the bone-white snow another eight Special Forces troops who came sprinting forward. They were wearing PVS-14 night-vision goggles and advanced combat helmets, and had their assorted weaponry at the ready.

Garrett saw the darkened silhouette of a tall man jogging toward him.

“
Sir, we’ve got the Pickup Zone secure. Have a good mission.”

“
Thanks, Mike. Watch out for Eversoll here. We’ll be back soon, we hope. I want you listening to the reconnaissance and fires net to make sure you know where General Rampert is directing those aircraft.”

“
Roger, sir.”

Garrett left Lieutenant Colonel Mike Chizinski standing next to the Humvee and did a half jog, half walk to the back of the helicopter, hovering menacingly in the pick-up zone. He turned and looked at Eversoll, who was saluting. He returned the gesture, but quickly. Saluting in enemy territory was a faux pas, but he understood; it was dark, Eversoll didn’t think he’d be looking, and the young man looked up to him as a father figure.

Garrett looked into the dimly lit cabin of the roaring helicopter, saw he had all eight of his Alpha team, and then nodded at the loadmaster crew chief. He watched as his men were pulling charging handles back on their M4s. Lock and load.

He slipped the communications headset on as the behemoth aircraft lifted into the black void above the Hindu Kush.

Before he could call in his code word to General Rampert, he received a radio call from Montrose. There was trouble, which was not unexpected.

“
Raider six, this is Tiger six! We’re taking fire. We’re hit. We’re hit!”

***

Mullah Rahman, aka
the Scientist, sighted down his weapon and pulled the trigger as many times as he could. He could hear the Predator overhead and another airplane that he figured was the AC-130, which he knew would be especially deadly. He watched the MH-47 hover and then land before screaming, “Now!”

His fellow mujahidin raised the rocket propelled grenade launcher against his face, aligned the tube, and squeezed the trigger mechanism, sending a high explosive warhead screaming through the frigid air into the side of the thin skinned aircraft. He saw the explosion and more importantly saw the American fall from the back of the helicopter.

A wall of steel began raining down upon them from the AC-130 as they focused their fire on the departing aircraft. Surely they would come back for their fallen comrade, Rahman thought.

He looked to his right and saw four of his men, dressed in white parkas designed to conceal them in the snow. Their sentries had heard the loud chopping of the twin bladed Chinooks from miles away and had radioed in the direction and probable landing zones. Rahman knew another of the helicopters was on the way as he peered through his night-vision goggles.

“
One hostage is what we need,” Rahman said to his second in command, Hoxha, a fighter from the Balkans.

Hoxha nodded and gathered three of his men. The snow was driving down on them now and Rahman heard the second aircraft inbound. They had damaged but not destroyed the first and so the second was coming in to rescue the stranded fighter.

“
Go now,” Rahman ordered, his voice struggling to rise above the din of the 105mm artillery rounds that were exploding 100 meters to their front. They were relatively protected in the trench they had dug, but Rahman knew that the thermal radar on the AC-130 and just about every other American aircraft could see the heat from their body mass, which was impossible to disguise in the frigid temperatures. He could only hope for some timid commanders who were hesitant to inflict collateral damage until they had positive identification of hostile intent. Even though they had just put a rocket through the first aircraft, he had been previously amazed at the Americans’ restraint in such situations. He had presumed they would search for women and children before returning fire and Rahman had obliged. He had ten mannequins in blue burqas huddled around a small fire about fifty meters to their rear near the cave complex. Not a complicated deception scheme, but sometimes a little bit was all it took. And for the moment, the American fire was focusing on separating them from the wounded soldier, not on killing them.

Hoxha looked at Rahman, stared at the virtual wall of steel, and nodded again. He muttered something in a Balkan language that Rahman did not understand.

Hoxha and his men followed the trench to the steep southern edge of the ridge, popped out on the perimeter of the AC-130 fire and knelt. Rahman watched as Hoxha patted a tall man, who opened his vest, which Rahman knew was a suicide bomber vest full of C4 explosives and other maiming detritus. He pointed at the inbound helicopter then quickly turned to another of his team and pointed at the isolated soldier. Hoxha then grabbed the third member of his team and pointed at the ground.