SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (8 page)

“What do you think?” the Colonel grinned. “Pretty impressive, eh?”

“She sure is. Yes, she’d fit in anywhere in Afghanistan or Waziristan; I’ve no doubt about that. But it doesn’t resolve the other problem.”

“I’ll get Rear Admiral Jacks to speak to Lieutenant Boswell. There won’t be a problem.”

“That’s not what I meant, Colonel.”

Nolan felt both pairs of eyes on him. Weathers looked mildly amused. Captain Noguchi looked pretty hostile.

“What exactly do you mean by a problem, Chief Petty Officer Nolan?” she snapped out.

Nolan drew breath. It had to be said. “Ma’am, Navy Seals are trained to handle this kind of mission. I’m guessing you’re not trained in CQB, and I don’t want to take any rookies into harm’s way. With all due respect, Ma’am,” he finished.

She stared at him out of those huge, inky black eyes, and it felt as if she was using some kind of mental power on him. Or maybe it was just her overwhelming femininity, so startlingly unusual in this harsh and hostile masculine environment. Then she sighed.

“You don’t know how much training I’ve had, do you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I scored in the high nineties with both a rifle and a pistol. I’m also a Black Belt Third Dan, and I graduated UCLA summa cum laude with Urdu, Pashto and Dari. All of which I’d guess could come in useful out in Waziristan. I’m no rookie.”

“How many missions have you completed, Ma’am? How much Close Quarters Battle training and experience to you have?”

She was still staring at him hard. He felt like a fly pinned to a board, and she wasn’t about to give in. He realized that. She was a woman who knew how to fight, but still, a woman.

“None. But even the much-vaunted Navy Seals have to start somewhere. You can’t hold that against me.”

“No. It’s just that…”

He trailed off lamely. Her expression hardened even more, if that was possible.

“So it’s because I’m a woman.”

He shut up. They were both staring at him now, Weathers and the pretty Japanese American Captain, and he squirmed in embarrassment. Finally, Weathers broke the silence.

“Chief, you have to understand that…”

The explosion was unexpected, and the building rocked as a mortar bomb detonated close by. Another explosion hit the tarmac further away, at the opposite end of the runway. Alarm sirens began to wail, and in seconds, the orderly business of Bagram Airfield turned into total chaos.

“Incoming, take cover, everyone to battle stations!” Someone was running through the building, shouting. They sounded panicked. Nolan had picked up his SWS Mk 11 and was already hurtling through the door of the small room and out into the main office. In an attack, there’d be enemies to snipe at. The office was crammed with men and women running around, panicking, trying to grab documents and possessions, but Nolan ran past them and out the entrance doors, which were now unguarded.

Where the hell is that sentry now he’s needed?

The sight that greeted him was astonishing. The airfield had gone mad. A pair of Humvees zipped past him, and the wheel of one clipped the leg of his pants; any closer and it would have done serious damage. The vehicles were headed for the perimeter wire behind the Marine Intelligence Department building, fifty meters away. Behind him, the airfield was erupting with panicking troops and sporadic bursts of gunfire. He ran around the side of the building and dived for cover in a shallow dip in the ground as he came face to face with the enemy. They were wearing the green uniforms of the Afghan Army and firing short bursts at anything that moved from their M16s, their American supplied rifles.

“What’s happening?”

He swiveled around. Captain Noguchi had followed him out. She’d acquired an M16-A4, and it looked much too long for her. He recalled the photos he’d seen as a kid, Japanese soldiers with rifles that were longer than they were. He smiled inwardly.

Captain Noguchi’s a woman, she’s on our side, and she sure is beautiful.

“Green on blue, Captain, those Afghan motherfuckers are hitting our people again. Get down, before they blow your stupid head off!”

She joined him, and they lay prone on the ground. He pointed to where the two Humvees were heading, their top-mounted heavy machine guns firing long bursts at a break in the wire where an Afghan Army platoon had established a strongpoint with two trucks parked to give them cover. Another mortar shell whooshed up from behind the trucks and sailed overhead, exploding on the tarmac. The big 4x4s bored in, machine guns hammering at the trucks. And then two Afghans stepped out from behind cover, both men with RPGs leveled. They fired, and Nolan watched, helpless as the two missile trails flashed across. The warheads exploded to score direct hits on the Humvees. The American vehicles exploded, and they literally blew apart, leaving behind a heap of twisted scrap metal and broken bodies.

“Oh, my God, those poor men. There could be survivors. We have to go check them out.”

Mariko Noguchi jumped up, only to be dragged back down into the dirt as Nolan reached up an arm and yanked hard.

“I said get down!” he snarled.

She stayed down this time, and habit made him check the load on his SWS. He had a full clip of 7.62mm ammunition, which was as it should be. It was time to go to work. He sighted through the Leupold Vari-X mildot riflescope, and the first enemy loomed large in the precision glass lenses. He squeezed off two shots, and a missile shooter went down. Two more rounds sped out of the barrel, and the missile reloader followed his master into paradise. The other missile shooter and the loader ducked behind cover as they realized the danger, but Nolan kept searching for targets, and he kept up a steady rate of accurate fire that kept the missile shooters heads down. Three uniformed Afghan riflemen went down, and then he ran out of targets. But now the enemy had got his range, and the machine gunner, firing a heavy .50 caliber M2, also American supplied, opened up on their position. The loader was carefully feeding the ammunition belt through the breech, and more .50 caliber rounds than Nolan cared to count hammered all around the shallow trough of ground he sheltered in with the Captain, throwing debris and chunks of concrete to rain on them like a heavy shower. To her credit, she didn’t flinch, even though she had neither a Kevlar helmet nor an armored vest. Not that Nolan’s armor would help him; the .50 caliber rounds were enough to pierce an APC.
 
Personal armor was no contest for the Browning machine gun. He realized she was trying to say something above the racket of machine gun bullets smashing into the ground and nearby buildings; the roar of mortar shells as they exploded, and the crack of assault rifles as both sides exchanged fire.

“What was that?” he shouted back, not looking around at her.

“I said they’re our Allies!”

“You don’t say! With allies like these, we sure don’t need to go looking for any enemies.”

“But…”

“Shut the fuck up, and stay low. Don’t move, and don’t follow me.”

He regretted the language as soon as he’d opened his mouth, but he was angry she was in position of maximum danger, and he wanted her to stay put.

“Where are you going?”

“That machine gun, it’ll hurt our boys badly when they try to take it on. I’m going after it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Nolan put his rifle down in the dirt, got to his feet, and ran crouched over. The machine gun was too well concealed for a sniper shot, but he had grenades clipped to his webbing. He still hadn’t checked in from the last mission. It was time to put them to good use, and the only way to kill the enemy was close up and personal. The perimeter fence was already breached, obviously in preparation for a serious infiltration. He thought of the security lockdown. It couldn’t be a coincidence. They were here to kill Hamid Karzai, or maybe Chutani Muhammad, the Pakistani Minister of Foreign Affairs, perhaps both of them. He saw a window of opportunity, as the Afghan gunner shifted his aim to easier targets, a group of MPs armed with M-16 A4s, running toward the action from the guardhouse next to the main gates. The MPs dived for cover as the hail of fire churned up the ground around them. Nolan couldn’t see if any of them were hit, and besides, he had other concerns. He had to get inside the arc of fire before the gunner spotted him and turned the heavy weapon around. The breath seared in his lungs as he pounded on at a record breaking, heart bursting pace. The pain in his chest rose higher as he pressed forward, putting every ounce of his energy and strength into the sprint. Maybe it wouldn’t have been enough to break any Olympic records, but he reflected it must have come close, especially for a guy wearing armor and a helmet. He was almost there, almost at the first truck that would give him cover from the machine gun. He snatched two grenades and pulled out the clips. And then the gunner saw him. The barrel started to traverse, as if in slow motion, nearer and nearer. He tried to estimate if he’d make it, or should he dive for the ground and hope he was beneath the next hail of bullets that came his way. It was close, too close. But the ground offered no real cover; he’d still be easy meat. And then the barrel stopped, and he was staring into a round, black hole. As he ran, he waited for the heavy lead that was about to spit out and tear his body to pieces. There was no way he could make it. The thunder of gunfire made him flinch, and he froze, waiting for the impact of heavy caliber bullets tearing him apart. But he reached the truck unscathed, and when he looked around, he saw an astonishing sight. Captain Mariko Noguchi was in process of making a single-handed charge on the Afghan gun, her M-16 A4 firing short, three-round bursts at the machine gun. The gunner saw her, stopped firing, and ducked down to avoid bursts of fire that clanged off the metalwork of the truck he sheltered behind. Noguchi’s bullets clanged off the engine block, and the Afghan realized he was safe from the new attack. He began to traverse the barrel back around to destroy this crazy American who seemed to have a death wish. Nolan saw it all happening and didn’t pause for a fraction of a second to work out what was happening. Everything he did was instinctive after thousands of hours training, hundred of hours fighting the enemy in missions the world over. The M67 grenades had spherical steel bodies each containing 6.5 ounces of Composition B explosive. Weighing a total of 14 ounces, the lethal objects sailed through the air in an unerring arc, straight toward the intended target.

“Get the fuck down!” he shouted back to Noguchi. At the same time, he dragged out his Sig and leapt around the side of the truck, ducking down away from the spread of the fragments as the grenades went off. The twin explosions were huge, and he felt himself lifted off his feet by the blast. The gun had stopped firing. There was no way they could have survived that blast. He ducked as a snapshot whistled past his head. An Afghan soldier was peering around the side of the truck, looking for a target. He risked a quick glance back the way he’d come and saw to his relief that Captain Noguchi was still alive. He could see her huge black eyes watching him from where she’d dived to the ground.

For Christ’s sake, keep your pretty little head down. You did well. They’d have killed me without that crazy charge of yours, but now they know you’re there, and they’ll want revenge.

He was out of grenades. All he had left was his Sig and his combat knife, which was not ideal against troops armed with M-16s. He heard Mariko Noguchi firing again, the characteristic three-shot bursts of 5.56mm rounds from her M-16 A4. The Afghans took the bait. There were three of them left, and they leaned around the side of the truck, setting up a furious rate of return fire, intended to kill the infidel who threatened to upset their plans. Once more, she’d given him an opening. He jumped up and zigzagged around the truck to come up behind the Afghans. He hit two of them with a half-dozen shots from the Sig. It was a precision handgun, there was no doubt, but a short-barreled automatic, firing 9mm pistol rounds, definitely had its limitations. He missed the third Afghan, who lifted up his M-16 to kill him. Nolan pulled the trigger, and the Sig jammed. It was the first time ever, probably a result of faulty ammunition, or maybe debris in the mechanism after the last mission. He hadn’t had time to clean and oil his weapons. But a jam was a jam, and in the heat of a fight, a killer.

The Afghan saw him pull the trigger and that nothing had happened. He smiled, a filthy leering smirk through the rotting stumps of his remaining teeth. He mouthed a few words, probably, ‘this is for my friends’, or maybe something religious. The Muslims always seemed to find it easy to summon up a religious justification for killing. And the man died, thrown back by two heavy caliber bullets. Nolan looked up and stared across the air base. Bravo Platoon had arrived, and Vince Merano lay prone on the ground, clutching his sniper rifle. He looked up and waved to Nolan, who returned the gesture.

I’m alive, Jesus Christ. Bravo looks after its own, that’s for sure.