Meant to Be (15 page)

Facing one’s fears and not backing
down was a character trait present in every single warrior Wynn had
ever met. If there was danger around, they were actually grateful
for the opportunity to go into harm’s way. They did it for the man
next to them, the men who had come before them, and perhaps most of
all—for the men who had never come back from dangerous missions in
dirty hellholes no one would ever hear about.

Wynn took a deep breath and let it out
slowly. There was no group he’d rather be with than this one. All
were good men, fighting men… men you were proud to go into battle
with. His eyes flitted over the sleeping bodies in the plane. There
was Reese, who was currently lying in the fetal position. Everyone
called him the strong, silent type—mostly minus the silent. Burly,
bearlike, and with an armful of tattoos, he was their sniper, and
there was no one better at the job. He sometimes smoked two packs
of cigarettes a day but could still run a six-minute mile and make
it seem easy.

Beside him lay Pops, a guy everyone
looked up to. Always calm, cool, and aloof, he was a gentleman,
religious, and devoted to his wife. As an expert in communications,
he was an absolute wizard at setting up the most sophisticated
equipment in the most uncivilized and isolated places. At the age
of thirty-five, he was a veteran of special operations and was one
of the most respected and decorated guys in the group.

On the opposite end of the age and
experience scale was Wink. At only twenty-four he was the baby of
the team. Young, blond, and ripped, he was even more of a “babe
magnet” at bars than Rad. But his proficiency did not lie in
picking up women alone. He was a weapons expert and was absolutely
indispensable to the team. He liked to play with toys, but in his
case, the toys included pistols, sub-machine guns, sniper rifles,
grenade launchers, and mortar systems.

Tork, who just got engaged to Molly,
managed air support. He was a Texas cowboy who loved horses, the
outdoors, and hunting anything that moved. Rough on the outside, he
was what you would call a true brawler type—prone to smashing
chairs or faces rather than turn the other cheek. Tall and lean,
naturally muscular, he could drink a twelve-pack a night with no
noticeable effect.

And then there was Crockett, a
blue-eyed, blond-haired guy from Alabama—a strapping Southern boy
of twenty-five. He spent every second off duty in the gym,
improving and refining his tough exterior. Yet you could see in his
eyes that he had a soft heart. That’s what made him such a good
medic and so essential to the team.

As his gaze fell upon each man, Wynn
realized how indispensable each one was. All had a job to do and
could do it without being told. They were all men with courage and
character and a burning desire to win at all cost—the type of men
who would rather die than quit.

Images of their last deployment
replayed in Wynn’s mind as he felt his body slowly relax. They
never knew what to expect when called to duty, and that time six
months ago had been no exception…

Just after being dropped deep in the
Afghanistan mountains—eight of them with a couple of CIA
spooks—they’d received word that a large convoy of Taliban was
heading their way through the mountain pass… a convoy estimated at
one hundred trucks with at least ten men in each one.

The team hadn’t even had time to set
up their outpost yet, but within minutes of hearing the news, Pops
was in one corner of a small building using his pack as a low desk
for his laptop while Crockett ran a second antenna wire through a
small window. Wink was taking inventory of grenades, mines, and
ammo clips piled on the cement floor. Everyone knew it was going to
be a long night and probably an even longer day.

Wynn shifted his position to get more
comfortable as the images of that night kept coming.

When Rad had returned from a meeting
with the tribal leaders in the village that night, every member of
the team immediately stopped what he was doing. Rad’s expression
told them the odds weren’t good, but his calm, cool composure gave
everyone confidence that the task was not insurmountable. “Okay
guys, we’ve got a SNAFU,” he said in a quiet, even voice as soon as
the door closed behind him.

The news was not unexpected. In
military terms that meant: Situation Normal: All Fucked
Up.

“
We need to do some quick
terrain analysis.” Rad sat down and started making a list “First,
we need to find some high ground with a good view to direct air
strikes. Pops, get command on the line and tell them we’ll be in
the shit tomorrow, if not tonight. Tork, get us some aircraft.
Reese, you figure out a timeline. We need a solid plan in about
sixty minutes.”

That was all that was said, but in
another five minutes every inch of floor was covered with maps, and
half of the men were on their hands and knees studying them. Tork
juggled between the radio, his laptop, and a cipher book, and
within a few minutes announced that two F-18 fighter planes were
inbound for reconnaissance.

The men lifted their heads from the
maps to listen to the report, but then went right back to their
work, pointing out positions they might occupy, and more
importantly trying to figure out how to get there. The general buzz
in the room was again interrupted by Tork. “The F-18s spotted eight
trucks heading right for us. Are they cleared to
engage?”

The room fell silent as each man
appeared to be visualizing the valleys and roads and picturing what
the pilots were seeing. They didn’t want to endanger any civilians,
but according to headquarters a force like this, moving in this
direction and at this time of night, could only be Taliban. If this
was an advance for the expected one hundred trucks, they had to
slow them down to gain time. All eyes turned to Rad, who nodded.
“Smoke ‘em.”

Tork keyed his hand mic. “Cleared
hot,” he told the pilots. The men then resumed their deliberations
as if nothing of importance had occurred. But they all knew this
was only the beginning of a long twenty-four hours that would
likely require much more than just air power.

A thousand men are coming
against our dozen.
Wynn remembered
thinking.
Not good odds. Not good odds at
all.

The team finally decided on the high
ground they would aim for at first light. The location seemed
perfect on the map, but the landscape in that part of the region
was a cluster of folded and furrowed ridges and hills, the type
that creates a maze of passages, many of which culminated in dead
ends. Wynn worried about what it would actually be like when they
got there. Until they arrived on site, they couldn’t really be
sure.

As soon as dawn began to glow on the
horizon, the team moved out in two Toyota pickup trucks to find
cover and establish their observation post. They had no body armor
or helmets—the same as the few locals that had come along to
help—but they had a pretty substantial pile of weaponry and
ammo.

Wynn had seen the concern on the faces
of the men in the truck when the road began to turn and climb. This
was not what they had visualized from the map. They continued
advancing up the spine-jarring road, moving slowly because the
shoulder was narrow and dropped off sharply into fall-you-die type
of terrain. At last the road leveled out and the vehicles came to a
stop.

Wynn’s dread turned to excitement as
he jumped out of the truck and took in the sight of the narrow
valley below. The only road through the mountains lay just on the
other side. The enemy convoy would have to travel across this
valley floor to reach them. It was a perfect kill zone.

Rad turned around and shot Wynn a wide
grin. “Pretty sure this is the nicest freaking view I’ve ever
seen.”

“
Hot damn.” Wink jumped
out of the truck and began to pick out spots to hit the convoy with
heavy machine guns and RPGs if they made it across the valley.
Everyone knew that whatever vehicles survived the air strikes would
try to make it up the narrow, steep road that climbed up toward
them. The team planned to hit the lead vehicles, clog the route and
keep the rest corralled in the valley where the pilots could pound
them. The enemy would be in the open with no way to escape except
for the way they came.

Explosions began to echo in the
distance and a few plumes of black smoke rose into the blue sky as
aircraft pummeled the approaching convoy. Minutes later, the first
of a long line of trucks spilled into the valley below as if trying
to outrun the bombs falling from the sky.

After about an hour of watching the
progress and listening to the explosions, Tork radioed the pilots
and asked how many were left.

The answer had not been one to inspire
optimism. Instead of a number, the pilot had simply radioed back in
a low, calm voice. “Lots.”

Wynn glanced over at Rad who gave him
a grim smile and a wink. Wynn knew he wasn’t just feigning a
calmness he didn’t feel. Rad was a warrior. His character, his
leadership skills, and his calm demeanor in combat had earned him
the respect of everyone he’d ever worked with. Nothing ever fazed
him.

Despite multiple airstrikes raining
down from dozens of aircraft, the enemy column continued forward
relentlessly. It became an agonizing waiting game for those on the
team who were not directing aircraft. They could do little more
than scan the ridges, listen to the cross talk from the radios—and
hope for the best.

Tork, on the other hand was very busy.
Perched on top of gear in the bed of one truck, he took the lead in
directing aircraft coming in from all over the country. As word
went out that a lone team was in contact with the enemy, flights
were diverted from other missions to lend a hand.

Late in the morning, one of the pilots
apparently noticed that the dust clouds from the convoy appeared to
be converging on a pair of trucks sitting on a ridge just outside
the nearest town. “I think I see two friendly victors,” the pilot
radioed.

“
Affirmative. That’s us,”
Tork had responded calmly.

For a moment there was silence, then
the pilot radioed back. “You mean that’s all you’ve got against
what’s heading your way?”

Wynn, now half asleep, smiled to
himself. That had been when things had gone from bad to worse. Not
long after, the jet pilots came over the radio requesting
permission to do strafing runs.

Wynn looked at Rad and stated the
obvious. “Hey, dude. Sounds like they’re out of fucking
bombs.”

Wynn remembered clearly how Rad had
gazed out over the valley, his face striped with dirt and sweat,
his uniform powdered with Afghan dust. He leaned back against the
truck bed and sighed heavily, his piercing gray eyes standing out
in stark contrast to his dirt-caked face. “Yep. Looks like we might
be in trouble. Time to cowboy up.”

The next minute Rad was on his feet,
calmly barking out orders and setting up defensive positions as if
he ran into this type of problem all the time. No matter how
intense the fighting or how chaotic the field of battle, he could
be relied upon to be a steadying presence, a voice of reason, a
guiding presence that exuded confidence.

Even now, Wynn could feel the
indescribable rush of survival and victory that had enveloped them
all by the end of that day when they’d left that mountaintop intact
and alive.

With his eyes heavy and his thoughts
drifting, Wynn wondered why that particular battle had stuck in his
mind. Truth was, there were a dozen other missions just as big and
perhaps more dangerous. The fight never happened how you assumed it
would, or when or where you supposed it should. That was the
soldier’s first challenge really, to be ready for the
unexpected—especially when there was no reason to think it would
appear.

The only reason a warrior
is alive is to fight, and the only reason a warrior fights is to
win.

This group of men was born for this.
They were warriors.

Wynn’s head swayed with the movement
of the plane as he finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 13

Washington, D.C.

The black limousine pulled
up to the curb and a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver
hair stepped out, his brightly polished shoes reflecting the light
from the street lamps. It was Monday night—and late at that—but you
would never know it by the size of the crowd inside the restaurant
on M Street. This was where all of D.C.’s big hitters came to eat,
drink booze, and schmooze. The day of the week meant little to
those making their rounds inside.

Senator Gerald Powers nodded to his
driver and proceeded into the restaurant with a graceful, confident
stride. As far as Washington wealth and clout went, he was at or
near the very top of the totem pole. After making a fortune on Wall
Street that was more than a reasonable man would ever need, his
attention had shifted to politics. As a senator he’d accrued the
two things that were even more important than money in this
town—influence and power. The Senator dominated the headlines with
his likable, easy-going personality, and was mostly respected by
both political parties, a rarity that made him somewhat of a
celebrity.