SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (16 page)

Vince agreed. “Fact is, I can’t remember the last time things did go to plan.”

Nolan nodded. “You got that right. We’ll have to work through the rest of the morning, and after chow, we’ll all need to get a few hours sleep. We need to be on top of this tonight, not a bunch of sleepwalking zombies. Did Boswell say when he and Grant would be back?”

They shook their heads.

What the fuck is the Lieutenant doing, going to Kabul when we’re in the field again tonight? It doesn’t make sense. And Lucas Grant should have known better. He’s one of the most experienced Seals in the Platoon, with the exception of myself. And who knows when they might try again to drag my ass back to San Diego?

“Okay, we’d better get started. Are we in the same hut inside the JSOC area?”

Will nodded. “Yep, our guys are in there right now. Just one problem, Chief. Those cops, they might get pretty pissed and come looking for you if they see you still on the base. You know they thought we were leaving on an urgent mission. I can’t imagine why,” he grinned.

“Yeah, that could be difficult. Okay, we’ll make sure they don’t see me. Can you rustle up a Humvee? I’ll go out the back way, and we’ll drive across to the JSOC compound.”

“No problem, give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you out back.”

Will got up and strode away. “It ain’t gonna solve anything,” Merano pointed out. “Those cops will still be here when we get back, and they’ll be madder than a wounded grizzly. We need to take care of this and put an end to it.”

“You’re right, Vince.”

 
But he couldn’t he put an end to it, if he didn’t know and couldn’t remember. He’d delayed the inevitable for a few hours, maybe a few days, but sooner or later they’d want to take him in for a crime he hadn’t committed. A crime for which he couldn’t provide an alibi, and because of that, it would be the end of his career.

It’s a mess, a real crock of shit.

But for now, he had an operation to plan, which took precedence over any personal problems. He would put his worries behind him for a short time, knowing who his enemies were. It was so simple when they carried guns and took potshots at you. It was the other kind, the sneaky ones that were hardest to deal with.

“I’ll iron it out with those cops, Vince. I’m okay, don’t worry.”

Vince looked back at him, and his expression was dubious, and no wonder.
 
Unless Nolan got lucky, he was in deep shit. He’d have to worry about that after the mission was over.

The noise of the twin turboshaft engines, coupled to the twin rotors made the cabin sound like the inside of a steam hammer. The only way they could communicate was by using their personal commo systems. The two Lycoming engines that powered the big helo were at cruising speed, but still the noise was awesome inside the fuselage of the Chinook. They had space, which was one advantage of riding in the CH-47, and the Team was sprawled around the sides of the cabin, making last minute preparations. The Crew Chief signaled to Nolan and Boswell, and they went forward to speak to him.

“I’ll lower the ramp in five minutes time. I know we’ve been over this, but let’s do it once more. You’ll be dropping in two chalks, One and Two. Chief, you’re first out with Chalk One. Lieutenant, you’ll lead Chalk Two. You’re both going out at the same time, and there’s plenty of space on the ramp, so it’ll mean you’ll get down on the ground that much faster.” He stopped, listening to a message from the cockpit. Then he looked at Boswell. “Sir, message from Bagram, the drone assigned to this mission. It had to be recalled, some kind of an electronics fault. It’s unable to navigate properly. They say there’s no alternative, so you’ll have to manage without it.”

Boswell nodded. “Tell them message understood. And if they can get it fixed, they’re to send it along. We may still need it.”

“Will do, Sir.”

Nolan was surprised. Boswell had calmed down, and the bluster had almost vanished. It was as if he’d made up his mind, at last, to concern himself more with the Platoon and less with his career advancement. He heard the pilot announce their position as eight minutes out from the target. The crew chief acknowledged, and began to make is own final preparations for the drop.

“Okay, three minutes until I lower. Both chalks assemble on the ramp, and I’ll give you the word when to go. As you know, we’ll circle away to our pre-arranged LZ, and wait for the word to come and pick you up. Bear in mind, the skipper gets mighty nervous about those RPGs, so the second the last man is on the ground, we’re outta here. Make sure you let go that rope, otherwise you’ll be coming with us for a free ride.”

He checked his wristwatch and held his finger on the button that lowered the ramp. And then he pushed it hard, and over the engine and rotor noise they all heard the whine of the ramp as it lowered. It was a sound that always sent Nolan’s adrenaline racing. It was a sound like no other. It was the precursor to a jump into hostile territory, and a time to put into use all the skills and knowledge he’d acquired after long years of hard, often painful training. The red light winked on, and already the two chalks were clustered around the rope. The crew chief, fastened by a strong lanyard to the fuselage to prevent any accidents if the Chinook hit turbulence, held up four fingers.

“Four minutes. Target is in sight. No sign of hostile activity.”

They did the things that all soldiers do before going into battle, a last check that the safety was on your weapon, and a quick prayer for a safe return. Any of a dozen different rituals that were calculated to bring each man back alive and uninjured, until the next time. Nolan held the rope firmly. He wore the gloves he’d worn on three previous fast roping missions. Maybe that was his own ritual; they were worn and battered, but each time he wore them, he came back alive. The crew chief held up one finger.

“One minute to target, still no activity on the ground. Pilot reports favorable wind conditions. You’re good to go. Stand by, nine, eight, seven.”

He counted down, and Nolan could feel the man behind him, Vince Merano, pushing against him, standing close so he could grab hold the rope and follow him down fast. He looked out of the wide ramp opening and saw the pitiful collection of stone buildings and mud huts that were the legacy of Taliban misrule. They showed a sickly green color through his NVG gear.

“Green light, go, go. Good luck, you guys.”

The last thing in his mind as he slid down the rope was how close he’d come to not making it on this mission. He thought back to the scuffle with the cops at Bagram.

* * *

The two detectives had got wind of a Seal mission going out, and they were waiting out near the helipad. They couldn’t get back into the JSOC area, not without a pass, and Weathers had shuffled their request to the bottom of the pile. But they were waiting near the Chinook, and as he walked past the two cops stepped out of the darkness.

“Nolan!”

He was in full battle gear, his Multicam camo uniform covered with an armored vest and twin ballistic plates to protect his body. With a helmet, night vision goggles pushed up out of the way, and carrying a pack and his weapons, the Mk 11 Rifle and a Sig in his belt, he’d clean forgotten about Preston and Ashe. But they hadn’t forgotten about him. The shorter man, Ashe, blocked him from moving forward.

“We have more questions for you, Nolan. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’re not going anywhere.”

It was almost farcical. He was about to leave on a mission from inside a heavily guarded strategic military base, and these two bulls were trying to block him. But someone had given them permission to be there, and someone had told them where they could find him outside of the JSOC area. Who? It was surreal. The Seal Platoon was about to go out and do battle with the enemy, and these two civilians were standing in the way. Someone should tell them they were in danger of being shot. The Platoon wasn’t psyched up and prepared to go out to a dinner party. He smiled at the absurdity of the situation.

“Ashe, you can’t do this now. I’ll find you when we get back. You have to get out of here.”

They had to shout above the rising noise of the Chinook’s engines as they spooled up and the rotors spun around above their heads.

“We have authority from the …”

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Boswell had hurried back from the waiting CH-47. “I don’t know what you want, but you get out of here now. This is a classified mission.”

“We have permission from the Department of the Navy to talk to this man,” Ashe shouted back.”

“I couldn’t give a fuck about that. Get outta here now!”

“I told you, we…”

Boswell carried two weapons. He’d brought an MP7 fitted with a suppressor, extended magazine, and a reflex sight. It was slung to his chest, a fearsome looking, compact submachine gun, already popular with Special Forces throughout the NATO countries. The 4.6mm ammunition was unique among submachine guns in that the bullet was made almost entirely of a hardened steel penetrator instead of softer copper or lead. It was devastating in use, even against lightly armored targets. But Boswell did not need the MP7, he left it where it was and drew his Sig Sauer P226 and raised the barrel to point at Ashe’s forehead. The cop froze. “I’ll say this once, Mister. This is a warzone, and you shouldn’t be here. You’re out of order. Either you clear the area, or I’ll shoot you down where you stand. I’m not bluffing, pal. This is the only warning you’re going to get. Now get out of here! Scat!”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Ashe abruptly turned away without a word and stalked off, followed by Preston. Nolan nodded to Boswell. The Lieutenant’s actions had surprised him.

“Thanks, Lt. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no worries. I heard about your problem, and frankly I think it’s a total crock of shit. Those guys were way out of line there. I’m surprised they got so close to a live mission.”

That’s the question, how the hell did they do that? Someone gave them the how and the where. And the person who’d tipped them off could well be the real killer. That’d be worth looking into, except the cops are not likely to tell me their source.

“Would you have shot him?” Nolan was curious. This was a new, tougher, more warlike stance from his platoon leader.

“Hell, yes,” Boswell replied firmly. “Anyone gets in the way of a mission, they go down. And I mean anyone.”

Maybe Boswell isn’t so bad after all,
Nolan mused.
He has a long way to go,
but he’s moving in the right direction.

* * *

Nolan descended into Bandez and hit the ground, the first man down. A second later, Boswell arrived adjacent to him. Both men released the rope and moved out fast to deploy and cover the rest of the Platoon as they dropped down the rope. The plan was for Nolan’s squad to cover the outside of the village, while Boswell’s squad split into pairs and went through the houses, one by one. There was already movement inside the village as the occupants woke up to the enormous racket of the twin engine helo hovering fifteen meters above them. They were late, much too late. Even before the last man had touched ground, Nolan saw a movement, a green shadow, sneaking around the side of a building. He whipped up the barrel of his rifle, sighted, and fired off a quick shot. The Mk 11 coughed once, and the man was flung back by the heavy 7.62mm round.

“Move out, move out,” he heard Boswell in his earpiece. “I want both those M249s covering the approaches to the village! Make sure no one gets in or out. Anyone tries, shoot ‘em.”

“Copy that,” the gunners replied.
 

Nolan could see them rushing to either end of the village with their distinctive weapons, the M249, the American version of the Minimi. Fed from a long belt inside the box magazine clipped underneath the breech, the weapon gave a huge boost to the firepower of regular infantry, marines and Special Forces when they went into battle against superior odds. Right now, it looked like they would need the raw firepower of the Minimis, once the hostiles woke up to the nightmare that had descended out of the night. He keyed his mic.

“This is Bravo Two. Vince, where are you?”

“I’m on the roof of the mosque, side of the village, about fifty meters from your position.”

“Copy that. Anything moving?”

He heard the report of two suppressed shots.

“Not now, no. A gomer just came running out of a stone house, so I popped him.”

“Copy that. They’re slow to react, as if they weren’t keeping much of a watch. I hope our guy is here.”

“He…”

Nolan didn’t have time to listen further. If they’d been slow to react, they were making up for it now. A group of fighters came hurtling around the corner, their AKs spitting bullets. He felt a round strike him in the chest, a direct hit on his ballistic plates.