Tactical Strike (13 page)

“Shit,” Ryan muttered, hauling ass to retrace his steps back to
his previous hiding spot. Dave was right behind him. Sure enough, a few minutes
later, nine men appeared through the fog on a trail toward the far end of the
runway. The faint sound of their voices carried over the frigid wind. It
surprised Ryan that they were operating in darkness in the first place. In his
experience the enemy rarely did that here.

They came right down to the edge of the runway, then fanned out
to take a closer look around. Ryan didn’t move. Had they been spotted?

The Afghan interpreter, Gul, crept over to him as the distant
voices grew louder.

“They see us?” Ryan whispered.

Gul frowned, shook his head as he listened. “They know we were
here, but they wonder if we have gone,” he answered in heavily accented English
that was still a hell of a lot better than Ryan’s Pashto.

Hidden from view, Ryan peered through a crevice in the rock.
The insurgents stepped right onto the airstrip without a second thought. Either
they were fucking stupid or they’d already been here enough times to know the
area was free of mines.

“What else are they saying?” Ryan asked.

“Something about the others. I think they are a recon party,
sent by a larger force.”

Ryan quietly relayed the info to Hawking.

The patrol crossed the runway, coming toward their position,
fanned out and searching in a methodical way. Ryan’s hands tightened around his
weapon. The men closing in on him still had about a hundred meters to go. He
hoped they changed their minds and turned around before it was too late. The
insurgents at the other end of the runway were almost on top of the other SF
troops now. His heart rate increased, muscles tensing for the inevitable.

A suppressed shot rang out, loud in the stillness.

Fuck
.
Time’s
up
.

Ryan and Dave got into firing position and took down the three
men closest to them. The militants all scrambled back, firing randomly from the
hip. Why the hell did they always shoot like that? The last swung around wildly,
firing in an arc as he fell. Bullets ripped over their heads, pinging off rock.
In the sudden silence, the reports seemed to echo off the steep valley walls.
Unless the wind dampened the sound for them, anyone within miles would have
heard the firefight.

Their cover had been well and truly blown to hell.

“Pull back,” Hawking commanded over the squad radio.

Ryan and the others moved back, watching closely for any other
threats. Sure enough, a few minutes later more men began trickling down the
trails.

“Shit,” Ryan breathed. They looked like trails of black ants
swarming down the mountain.

“Went—” Hawking began.

“I’m on it.” He got on his radio to the combined air operations
center. “Jackal seven to Big Brother. Superior enemy force moving in to surround
us on three sides. Request CAS to these coordinates.” He rattled them off, still
moving back to a safer position.

“Roger that, Jackal seven.” The man verified the coordinates
with a call back.

“That’s A-firm,” Ryan confirmed.

“Sending A-10s and a Spooky gunship to your position. A-10s’
TOT nine minutes.”

“Roger.” Christ, there had to be almost a hundred of those guys
barrelling down the side of the mountain. The numerous trails and tracks gave
them a chance to spread out enough that the ground team couldn’t simply pick
them off one at a time as they stacked up behind each other.

“Fall back,” Hawking ordered.

“CAS en route, ETA nine minutes,” Ryan told him.

“Copy that.”

But nine minutes was a hell of a fucking long time when you
were in danger of being overrun by the enemy.

Falling back to a low ridge, Ryan checked his watch again. The
analog’s hands glowed in the darkness. Six minutes.

A low whistling sound split the air, then the ground twenty
meters in front of him exploded.

Mortars.

Everyone hit the deck, crawling for some sort of cover. More
rounds hit close to their line, spraying up bits of rock and dirt in small
geysers. A few of the SF guys took some well-placed shots, but the damn mortars
kept falling, slowly honing in on their position.

“Move back!” Hawking shouted over the noise.

Thankful the enemy didn’t have night vision capability, Ryan
stood up and hauled ass back about thirty meters to a big outcropping of rock.
He got back on the radio, fighting to slow his breathing under the dual lash of
adrenaline and thin mountain air. Their only hope now was to get
precision-placed fire on the bastards coming across that airfield before their
position was overrun.

* * *

Candace covered a gigantic, jaw-popping yawn as she
stared out the cockpit window at the tanker above them that they were taking
fuel from.

“Are we keeping you awake tonight?” Dover asked.

She threw him a guilty grin. “I was hoping you wouldn’t
notice.”

“No sweat. Long night? Or was it this morning?”

“Can’t remember. Both, I think.” She sure as hell hadn’t been
thinking about the clock while Ryan was rocking her safe, conservative world.
And it had totally been worth it.

Dover’s expression sharpened with interest. “Dare I ask what
you were up to?”

“I don’t wanna know,” Bertoni interjected from his seat behind
them.

“Not telling anyway,” she said with a grin. Honestly, she still
couldn’t quite believe it herself. Not that she regretted having sex with Ryan.
Being bad had never felt so good. Remembering all the incredible things he’d
made her feel, she smiled despite herself. He might act like a player, but from
the way he’d treated her she knew there was much more to him than he let on. She
could see herself falling for him completely if she wasn’t careful. And falling
hard.

“That’s about what I figured,” Dover said with a chuckle. He
opened his mouth to say something else but command suddenly called them over the
radio.

“Ground team facing overwhelming enemy force. JTAC requesting
immediate air support. Call sign Jackal seven at this position.”

She shared a somber look with Dover while command relayed the
coordinates.

“Roger that,” he replied. “On our way.”

She glanced at the fuel gauge, reading just over two-thirds of
a tank, and up at the aircraft above them. The wind gusts were making the
mid-air refueling dangerous enough, and they were only growing stronger. Over
the ICS she contacted the flight engineer. “Do we have enough fuel for
this?”

“Should have plenty, Cap,” he answered from the back. “At least
three hours’ worth.”

She looked at Dover. Flying at a lower altitude burned up fuel
faster, and that was without the aircraft battling severe winds. “Think we
should cut this dance short? We should have plenty to do our thing and get back
to base if we can’t get another tanker.”

“Yeah.” He radioed the tanker crew, and within a minute the big
aircraft had withdrawn the probe and pulled up. Together she and Dover plugged
the new coordinates into the onboard computer and banked southeast toward the
ground team’s position. Flying against a headwind like this would cost them
time, seconds that might prove critical. “Eight minutes to target.”

“You boys ready to bring the rain?” she asked the back-end crew
using the ICS.

Her question was met with a chorus of eager “hell yeahs.”

Come
on
,
old
girl
,
fly
, she urged the
aging airframe, eyes tracking their progress on the GPS. Every second
counted.

The radio keyed again. “Raptor two-niner, this is Jackal seven,
over.”

Candace froze at the familiar voice coming through her headset,
hardly able to believe what she was hearing.

Ryan
.

Ignoring her pounding heart, she answered as calmly as she
could. “Go ahead, Jackal seven.” Did he recognize her voice, too?

He gave them the nine line. “I have emergency fire mission. My
position is two hundred meters west of hill two-seven-eight, marked by IR
strobes. Receiving automatic weapons and mortar fire. Targets are multiple enemy
fighters bearing zero-nine-zero, three hundred meters east of position.” In the
background she could hear the thumps of the rounds impacting but he rattled off
the coordinates clearly, his voice eerily calm despite the danger he was in. “We
have negative front line. Over.”

They were being overrun.

She felt the blood drain out of her face, and a cold knot of
fear gripped her insides. Swallowing, she strove to keep her voice devoid of
emotion. “We copy, Jackal seven. TOT four minutes. Over.”

“Roger that. Over.”

Dover had already decreased altitude on his approach to the
target area. The infrared radar would help spot the enemy through the worst of
the fog, but they’d still need to get close to the ground to do the
strafing.

A sense of unreality kept intruding. She’d been on dozens of
direct action missions just like this one, but until now she’d never gone in
knowing who she was helping on the ground. Even when her crew had helped Ryan
and Devon before, she hadn’t realized who’d been down there until afterward. Now
every second seemed to crawl past.

She thought of the way Ryan had touched her, so tender despite
his strength. The way he’d whispered to her, given her such pleasure then
cuddled up behind her to hold her awhile before he left. Her throat
tightened.

“You all right?” Dover asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.” Whatever happened, she would carry out her
duties to the best of her ability. She had to. And Ryan would expect nothing
less of her.

Hang
on
, she willed him, the bitter taste of fear burning
the back of her throat. A new sense of urgency gripped her. The man she’d just
given her body and half of her heart to was fighting for his life this very
moment on the ground below, depending on her crew to save him and his teammates.
She prayed they arrived in time to give them a fighting chance.

Chapter Eight

Khalid shoved to his feet when the general burst out of
the cave entrance, holding his handheld radio, his long woollen cloak wrapped
tightly around him.

“Put that out,” he snapped in Pashto, jerking his chin at the
small warming fire Khalid and a few others stood around. “One of our patrols has
engaged an American force at the old Russian airstrip and called for
reinforcements. We’re moving out to join them.”

Yes
.

The men immediately doused the fire and scrambled to gather
their weapons and equipment.

Slinging his rifle around his chest, Khalid burrowed deeper
into the folds of his heavy coat in an effort to trap any residual heat against
his body. The wind cut through the barrier like icy knives. “Everyone in line,”
he ordered his men.

“Khalid, come here.”

He stiffened at Nasrallah’s command. Leaving the others, he
approached the general warily. The old man’s clipped tone put him on edge.
“Yes?”

His expression was grave. “Reports say it’s an American Special
Forces team. We outnumber them for now, but they will call in air support.”

Of course they would. Wasn’t that a given? “And?”

“The storm is already moving in. Forecasters’ reports vary,
though they’re all calling for heavy snowfall and high winds over the next few
days. Enough snow could make any movement impossible, so we have to act now. You
will have to get into position quickly, before the passes and trails are closed
to us. And you’ll have to hold there without hope of resupply or reinforcements
until the weather improves enough for us to reach you.” The general’s jaw
firmed, his displeasure of the situation made clear by his irritated
expression.

Khalid knew why. With the Oxford-educated Sadiq and other more
experienced fighters dead in the last battle, Khalid was the only remaining
choice Nasrallah had for an officer.

“I received a report yesterday that an Afghan security team is
in the area, guiding the Americans. I want you to find them.” He handed Khalid
the radio. “You will circle around to the south and report to me what you find.
Take ten men of your choice. I will move the rest of them closer to Rastin and
his force. We’ll link back up when the storm allows it.”

Khalid barely held back a sneer at the mention of the other
man. Rastin was a few years older than Khalid and had less experience with
fighting in these mountains, yet he’d been chosen as the second-in-command
because Nasrallah thought him more mature. “You want me to only locate them and
observe their movements?” This time he didn’t bother to mask his disdain.

“Controlling the anger inside you is a battle you must wage,
and only you can fight it. Now is not the time for rash actions. You’ll get your
chance to kill more Americans soon enough,” Nasrallah said wearily before he
walked away.

Left standing in the bitter wind, Khalid turned back to the
waiting men. Some of them held weapons. The rest simply huddled in their coats,
awaiting guidance and trying to keep warm. The two teenagers he’d brought in
that morning stood next to their father, doing their best to act like men and
not shiver. What Nasrallah had said about them was true. They were barely old
enough to grow scraggly beards. In Khalid’s experience, age didn’t mean
anything.

He’d been even younger than they while he’d lived with the
Russians occupying his homeland. He knew full well how it felt to be a boy
longing for a man’s responsibility. Whether they were ready or not, these young
men would get their chance in the days ahead.

“You three come with me,” he told them. “Stay close to me and
I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

Mohammed and the other teenagers nodded, trying not to show the
anxiety he knew perfectly well was twisting their bellies. He could respect
that. He’d see to it they overcame their fear of death. For those who were true
believers need not fear death. And it was not for any of them to question
Allah’s will.

After quickly choosing another seven of the younger men, he
started out along one of the twisting trails that coiled through the mountain
passes. His recruits followed in a silent line behind him. Green and untrained
though they might be, he now had the makings of his own army if necessary. There
were weapons caches he’d seen in some nearby caves. He intended to use them
wisely.

The old man thought he had no control? He’d find out soon
enough just how wrong he was about that.

* * *

Pinned down behind the group of boulders screening them
from the enemy, another shell impacted a few dozen meters in front of their
line. Ryan felt the thump of it in his chest and ducked as a shower of dirt and
rock rained down on him, pelting his helmet and shoulders. He was willing to bet
the enemy couldn’t see them; they were just firing blindly in the hopes of doing
some damage. Problem with mortars was you couldn’t hear them or see them until
it was too late, and they did a fuckload of damage. The lobbing trajectory made
it impossible to hide behind anything—the rounds could still fall right on top
of you. Inside his gloves, his cold palms were clammy with sweat.

Above the distinctive bark of AK-47 fire, the rattle of a
machine gun started up somewhere out to his right. A couple of rounds pinged off
the rocks close to his hiding spot. Part of him wanted to shake his head at the
enemy’s stupidity. What a fucking waste of ammo, firing blindly into the
darkness. The other part was extremely grateful for their bad aim.

He kept waiting for the order from Hawking to fall back. The
longer they stayed pinned down, the higher the likelihood a mortar shell would
find them and that the enemy might surround them. On both ends of their line,
the guys watched their flanks carefully. At the first sign of danger of being
ambushed, they’d have no choice but to fight their way out to another
position.

He hoped the hell his CAS got here before that happened.

“We’re coming up on station. TOT ninety seconds.”

Relief slid through him at the first A-10 pilot’s voice coming
through the radio. “Roger, I copy. You’re cleared hot.” He contacted Hawking on
the squad radio. “Warthogs inbound.”

“Copy that.” The team leader’s voice was calm, but held a note
of relief all the same.

Ryan could relate. He’d been under intense fire before, but
being trapped in such a tight spot like this with no hope of moving to a safer
position made him antsy as hell.

Despite the darkness the enemy kept up a steady stream of fire,
wasting ammo they likely had no hope of replacing. Then a shell detonated less
than twenty meters behind Ryan, too close for comfort. He instinctively ducked
when it exploded. Shit, either the bastards were getting lucky or somehow
finding a way to improve their aim. If the next round landed any closer he’d be
full of holes and out of the fight.

Finally, he heard it. Over the increasing wind and sporadic
gunfire, the high-pitched scream of jet engines pierced the night, all the more
eerie because they were concealed by the fog and low cloud deck. Without night
vision capability, the enemy would hear the fighters but never see them
coming.

Seconds later, the darkness exploded. Even pressed tight into
the crevice of a rock, Ryan saw the incendiary flash that lit up the blackness,
felt the concussion of impact as the Maverick missiles hit. Small shockwaves
rolled through the ground. Peering around the rocks, he trained his binos on the
far side of the airstrip. Small fires lit up his view in the NVGs. Clouds of
debris rose into the night sky, swallowed by the increasing fog.

“Good hit,” he radioed the pilots.

“Turning back for another pass. Advise, over.”

In the enemy lines men scrambled up the hillside away from the
smoking craters, toward the far end of the airstrip. The SF shooters were
already in position, systematically picking off men still advancing toward the
runway. Another large group of fighters were tangled up on the mountainside,
still threatening their position, firing randomly across the battlefield. Two
more mortar rounds landed behind Ryan’s position in quick succession.

Over the squad radio came the call none of them wanted to
hear.

“I’m hit,” someone said clearly.

Shit
.
Hawking
. Ryan didn’t have time to ask how bad it was. All his focus
remained on the surviving enemy he could see fanned out before him and using his
SOFLAM to laze the target. “One more run,” he radioed back to the Warthog pilot.
“A hundred and fifty meters west of the first target, marked with laser.”

“Roger. Twenty seconds.”

He mentally counted them off. When he got to nineteen he closed
his eyes to shield his retinas from the flash. Almost instantly two more
explosions detonated, the booms echoing off the steep sides of the valley. A
quick check across the airstrip confirmed another part of the mountainside
missing, right where the main body of the regrouping enemy force had been.
Barely anything moved in the sudden stillness.

“That’s a direct hit,” he reported, breathing a little
easier.

“Copy that. Returning to base.”

To his left he could hear some of the others moving around and
speaking in low tones, likely treating Hawking. No time to check his status yet.
Adrenaline still humming, Ryan surveyed the field. The majority of the enemy
force was either dead or scattered, but some remnants remained close to the
perimeter of the runway. Others could easily be hidden out of view or holed up
in one of the countless caves in the area. His job was to clear as many of them
off as he could, give his team enough lead time to make their way to a safer
position and reassess the situation, maybe call for evac. With the enemy
scattered like this, a missile strike wouldn’t be effective now. Time for some
sustained precision shooting.

He knew exactly the aircraft to bring in.

With every confidence in the woman at the controls and her
crew, he dialed the correct frequency into his radio and called up the
Spooky.

* * *

Ryan’s voice came loud and clear through Candace’s
headset. “Raptor two-niner, what’s your TOT?”

“Sixty seconds,” she responded, fighting to slow her heart
rate. He sounded calm, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d been trained to stay
calm, keep any tension out of his voice during operations even while under enemy
fire. At least he was still okay.

“Remaining enemy force reforming near west end of runway.
Targets are moving on foot. Will not mark with smoke. Request strafing attack
ASAP with twenty-five mike-mike, run-in heading one-eight-zero, pull out
left.”

“Roger that.” As they approached the target area, she studied
the video screen in front of her. Her heart plummeted when the IR camera picked
up all the heat signatures dotted along the trails leading toward the runway
access points. Many small groups clustered together, hinting that a larger force
might be gathering somewhere nearby. She didn’t report it yet, not wanting to
distract him from his primary concern.

At the controls, Dover descended lower, the aircraft shuddering
in the gusting wind. “This front’s moving in fast. Viz is already going to
hell.”

It was true. Even with the fancy avionics and IR equipment they
had, it was getting bad out there. The airframe shook as the plane bounced and
jarred, buffeted by the high winds. “There’s the runway.”

Dover banked and put the plane into a left-hand pylon turn,
circling above the old airfield. The narrow valley made it tight quarters,
forcing him to maintain a limited course. “There they are.” The ground team’s IR
strobes marked them easily on the monitor. They were formed in a line behind a
rocky ridge, three of them in a tight group, one unmoving. “I think one of
them’s wounded,” he added.

She quickly reviewed another checklist and gave Bertoni the
green light to contact Ryan for the fire mission. “Jackal seven, we see your
position,” the navigator said over the radio. “Request clearance to engage enemy
targets west of your position.”

“Roger, cleared hot,” Ryan responded.

The boys in the back were more than ready to do this. At Ryan’s
command, Dover hit his consent switch, then the sensor operator pulled the
trigger and the port-side mounted 25 mm Equalizer opened up. A staccato burst of
fire rattled from the rear. As soon as the shooting started, targets on the
ground began to scatter. But it didn’t save them and there was nowhere for them
to hide from the aircraft’s sensors. The fire control officer gave corrections,
tweaking the target as they methodically strafed the area with cannon fire,
taking out anyone still moving on the ground.

On screen at the front of the cockpit, some of the tiny heat
signatures stopped moving as they were hit. Others slowed, wounded but still
able to drag themselves away. Dover maintained the tight left-hand turn,
allowing the gunners to finish off any survivors. The Spooky II’s weapons
systems could take on two separate targets up to a kilometer apart, and that was
another definite advantage for the ground team right now.

To a civilian it might look like some kind of lethal video
game. It was anything but. Ace didn’t allow herself to think of the heat
signatures as human beings. They were targets to be neutralized, nothing more.
Her training allowed her to focus on the mission, compartmentalize
everything.

One by one they fell, either dead and still or moving slowly
away, likely mortally wounded. After a few passes, there was no one left to
shoot at on or near the runway.

“Targets neutralized,” Bertoni reported to Ryan.

“Roger that,” he replied immediately. “Nice work. Request you
move into a holding pattern.”

Glancing over at Dover, Candace shared a relieved smile with
him as she addressed the crew. “And that’s how we roll. Nice work,
gentlemen.”