Down Range (Shadow Warriors - Book 2) (21 page)

Morgan stood looking
out of her hospital room window while leaning on her crutches. It was midday. Her heart felt bruised and beat-up. Her parents and Emma had just left after their healing four-day visit. With them, Morgan had felt strong, capable and positive. Now…

Feeling depressed, she ached for Jake’s arms around her. He had always fed her strength, fed her his love, whether he knew it or not. Turning, Morgan moved slowly on her crutches to a chair near her bed. She hated the bed, having been trapped in it for so long.

There had been no word from Jake. She wished with all her soul Vero could contact her, let her know what was going on. But she knew he couldn’t. It was a top secret op, and no one outside of the SEAL world would know anything about it. Not even her.

Wearily, Morgan sat down, feeling lost, feeling torn apart on so many levels. With her parents nearby, they’d helped her make some life-changing decisions. Would Jake ever stop bolting from her life? Would he care what her plans were? What she wanted for them more than anything? Would he walk through those glass doors of Operations at Andrews into her arms? Or would Jake come home in a coffin?

Not knowing was the worst stress Morgan had ever tangled with. Being out on the op, she knew the focus was on killing the enemy. There was little room for thoughts about loved ones. A child. A parent. Every cell in her body was oriented toward that op and surviving it to return home. Now, Morgan decided, looking out at the blue sky dotted with white clouds, she understood how the wife of any black-ops soldier felt. The wife and family were left completely out of the loop. Alone with wild, crazy, insane thoughts of the man or woman dying in battle. No one to tell her whether her loved one was alive or not. It was a special hell, and she hated it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“
Everest Main,
this is Everest Actual. Over.” Jake spoke quietly into his mouth mic, getting ready to set up for the sniper shot. He waited to hear Vero’s Puerto Rican accent over the radio from J-bad. To his right was his sniper partner, Petty Officer Lance Bigelow. Everyone called him “Big” because he was barely five foot six inches tall and weighed one hundred and forty pounds. Big was the smallest SEAL to make it through BUD/S. But he was one hell of a sniper and the only man he’d want as a partner on this op. Big lay prone beside him, a spotter scope in hand, watching and assessing conditions in the early afternoon. The sunlight was bright at eleven thousand feet. It was below freezing.

“Everest Actual, this is Everest Main. Over.”

It felt good to hear Vero’s voice. Jake lay prone, the AW Mag on a bipod, pointed at his target. “We’ve got Red Mountain spotted. An eleven-hundred-yard shot. We need approval.”

No sniper op went down without authorization from higher SEAL command. The man who’d taken over as warlord when Sangar Khogani had been killed was his brother, two years younger, Anosh Khogani. He was riding below them on a goat path. They were on a scree slope just below the ridgeline. It was a simple shot compared to the one Jake had tried and failed with Sangar Khogani.

The summer sunlight was bright overhead. They wore their ghillie suits, having built a hide, and remained in position, waiting. Just waiting. Reza had ridden up into the mountains, found Anosh and his twenty soldiers on horseback. He’d been able to find out from a villager, who’d overheard the group talking one night, that they were coming this way. Ground assets like Reza were invaluable.

Jake never left his gaze off the target through his Night Force scope. Anosh was tall, bearded, wearing a dark brown turban and clothing. He was just as murderous as his older brother, having already killed a number of Shinwari villagers on their way down to the cave region south of where they were hidden. Jake was dying for some water but didn’t dare take a drink right now.

“What’s the holdup from SOCOM?” Big muttered into his mic, focused below.

“I screwed up another shot a couple of months ago,” Jake said in a low voice. “They’re probably wondering if I can hit our HVT this time around.”

Chuckling softly, Big grinned. His close-cropped blond hair was covered with a gray, cream and black headdress. “Well, if that’s the truth, Ram, you wouldn’t be here on this op. Would you?”

Grinning a little, feeling exhaustion because they’d only gotten two hours’ sleep before being awakened to stand watch, Jake said, “No, I s’pose not.”

“Everest Actual, do you have a clear shot? Over.”

“Everest Main, roger. No deflections or impediments. Wind is gusting to thirty miles per hour. Over.”

“Everest Actual, you said an eleven-hundred-yard shot? Confirm? Over.”

SEAL headquarters in J-bad was probably going nuts with that info. AW Mag accurate shots were good
up to
one thousand yards. Beyond that, it became the skill of the sniper, luck and a crapshoot of sorts. It really rested on the sniper to make up the difference. Jake knew he could take the shot and make it good. The only obstacle was always the wind. Mountain shots were notoriously difficult.

“Think they’re peeing their pants about now?” Big asked, unable to keep the laughter out of his low voice.

A tired smile stretched Jake’s mouth. He wanted to rub his scratchy beard with his dirty fingers. No bath for nearly three weeks, and he reeked. His skin continually itched. He would remain focused on his target instead. “More than likely.”

“Everest Actual, you’re cleared to take the shot. Exfil has been alerted.”

“Roger that, Everest Main. Out.” Jake glanced over at his partner. “Let’s mount up.”

Big gave a feral smile and went back to his spotting duties. He assessed the wind, the temperature, the altitude and so many other variables that all played into a successful shot.

Jake settled down on the rocks, the points biting into his Kevlar and his lower body. His head was below the ridge, the scope on Anosh Khogani, who rode at the head of the column. This time, it was a clear shot. Jake breathed out. His finger was on the trigger. All sounds, all sensations dissolved as Jake focused, Anosh’s head in the crosshairs of his scope. The fiberglass stock was pressed tight against his cheek, his right hand extended, finger on the two-pound trigger. His left hand was tucked across his chest. Calm settled over Jake as he hit his still point. Squeezing the trigger, he heard the snap of the bullet leaving the barrel, the stock jamming into his shoulder as it recoiled. He knew Big would follow the vapor trail of the bullet through his spotter scope.

“Bull’s-eye!” Big crowed triumphantly.

Instantly, Jake shimmied up over the ridge, taking the sniper rifle with him. Big quickly followed. Now time was of the essence. The shot had killed Anosh Khogani. One more bad guy was down.

Jake slid down the slope on his ass feeling the pounding and bruising to his flesh. Below them, Reza waited tensely, holding the reins on three nervous horses. Big played rearguard action. Halfway down the slope, Jake called into J-bad and gave the report they wanted to hear. Four weeks and they’d finally nailed the murdering bastard.

Jake threw Reza a thumbs-up as he landed on his feet. He quickly took off his ghillie suit, jamming it into his pack. Big tumbled ass end over teakettle, falling in front of the horses, who jerked around, frightened.

Big leaped up, jerked off his suit, jammed it into the ruck near the bushes.

There were three goat paths leading up to where they had taken the shot. The Taliban was not stupid; they’d figure out the direction of the shot and know it was courtesy of a SEAL sniper team. And then they’d come after them.

Glancing back at the ridge, Jake leaped into the saddle, his ruck across his shoulders, the AW Mag, barrel down, strapped to the outside of it. Reza handed Big the reins to his horse.

“They’re here!” Reza cried, pointing up at the ridgeline two thousand feet above them.

Jake snarled a curse, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, a sign for Reza to take the lead.

“Here!” Big yelled, throwing him the M-4 rifle with the grenade launcher on a rail attached beneath it.

Jake caught the weapon and whirled his horse around as the other two took off at a gallop down the path. He was the officer; it was his duty to take care of his men. There were Apaches on the way from Camp Bravo. And a medevac.

As Jake yanked his horse to stand still, he jammed the M-4 to his shoulder and fired a high shot with a grenade. The Taliban riders were sliding and slipping down the rocky slope. He watched the grenade arc below where the leader was. The blast blew up tons of material, soil, rock and gravel flying in all directions.

Jake didn’t wait to see the devastating results. He whipped his horse around, digging his heels into the flanks and yelling at the animal. Instantly, the horse bolted, crazed by the noise and rocks, galloping in panic down the goat path. Wind whistled past Jake. His eyes watered as his gallant little horse sped nimbly downward. Ahead, he saw Reza and Big. All they had to do was make it down a five-thousand-foot slope to the valley below. There, a Night Stalker MH-47 would pick them up, and then they could get them the hell out of Dodge.

The snaps and pops of bullets passed close to Jake’s head. He rode low, urging the horse on, praying it wouldn’t stumble. If it did, he’d be thrown over the horse’s head. They rounded another curve on the mountain. The goat path became a very steep descent after that, a good two-thousand-foot drop to the valley below. Jake could see the Chinook helicopter landing. He changed channels on his radio and called to the pilot.

“Everest Actual to Fox One. We’re two thousand feet away. We’re coming in hot!”

“Roger, Everest Actual. We’re touching down now and will wait.”

The horse was laboring, stumbling as Jake sent it flying full speed down the steep path. He leaned back. Way back, as the horse suddenly skidded on its rump, front legs thrown outward as it tried to negotiate the gravel path.
Damn!
Jake felt the horse slipping.

He threw his weight the other way, helping the horse to right itself. Instantly, it slid sideways and then made crowhopping movements to regain its balance on the path. On either side of them were nothing but huge boulders and smaller boulders. If they hit them at this speed, Jake knew they’d both break their necks.

More bullets popped and snapped by Jake. One thousand feet to go! Reza and Big were dismounting, letting their horses run away as they raced for the MH-47 kicking up yellow clouds of dust.

And then his horse grunted.

Jake realized in a split second a bullet had found the animal. His eyes narrowed, and he gripped the M-4 as he went sailing over the animal’s head. Just as he hit the path and rolled off of it, banging over boulders the size of bowling balls, Jake had the air knocked out of him.

He landed with a thud against a huge boulder ten feet high, momentarily gasping and dazed. More shots sang around him, striking the nearby rocks, sparks igniting as the bullets ricocheted off them. Jake scrambled for safety behind the boulder. He swung the short barrel of the M-4 around the gray granite and fired a second grenade toward the Taliban wildly galloping down upon him. The grenade landed near the end of the group. Horses and riders went flying into the air as it exploded.

Cursing, Jake made a call directly to the Apaches, asking for help. Where the hell were they? He gave his GPS location, methodically firing the M-4 at the approaching tribesmen. The hatred on their faces was evident. He could die if he didn’t kill all of them. It was one against twenty. Good odds for a SEAL, he thought, squeezing off shot after shot. The Taliban soldiers were flying out of the saddles as he hit the mark every time.

Ten men were left. Jake heard another sound over the roar of gunfire. The Apaches! Relief avalanched through him as two of the ugly-looking predators flew over the ridge, their rockets aimed at the Taliban.
Dammit!
He was danger close!

Jake dived for the ground, lying prone, opening his mouth, closing his eyes and holding his hands over his ears. When explosions went off this close, if a person didn’t open their mouth, the air in the lungs had no escape and massive injury could result. By opening his mouth, he equalized the air between his lungs and the outside air around him, dodging severe, even lethal, injury.

Four rockets dived into the area, not a hundred feet in front of Jake’s position. A flurry of rocks soared, flying in all directions, the hits accurate, taking out the last group of riders.

Jake shook his head, stunned by the close proximity of the rockets. His ears rang. He couldn’t hear anything. Dirt and debris showered down on him. Rolling up against the boulder, he hugged it, burying his head, praying like hell a huge rock would not land on him and kill him.

In moments, it was over. Jake waited for just a second before stumbling to his feet. Dirt and rocks were flung off his shoulders and back as he stood up. M-4 in his hand, he peered warily around the boulder. There was carnage on the goat path. Every horse and rider was dead.

Wiping his mouth, he called the Apaches, thanking them. And then he called the MH-47, letting them know he’d be a few minutes late getting on board. He saw both Apaches moving in large circles around the MH-47 below, guarding it.

Nose bleeding heavily, Jake wiped the blood away with his dirty sleeve and heaved himself up on the goat path. He stumbled and reeled from the blasts. The more he moved, the quicker he hit his stride. The ruck was banging heavily against his back, some of the straps torn off in the explosion. All those years of training played a part in him making the last thousand yards to the valley floor.

Big met him, helping him because he was limping. Jake practically dived into the helo, landing and rolling hard across the metal ramp, M-4 still in hand. Big hopped in after him and the crew chief quickly closed the ramp, giving the pilots the signal to lift off.

Jake felt faint as he lay on the deck, gasping for breath. At nine thousand feet, his lungs felt on fire, his breath coming out in tearing sobs. Big knelt over him, his expression worried as he stripped off Jake’s ruck and then quickly, with shaking hands, pulled off his Kevlar vest. Jake was grateful to just lie on the deck and feel the shudder of the helo around him. He saw Big pull out his SOG knife to cut open his T-shirt.

“I’m good,” he yelled over the thunderous sound of the rotors.

Big rolled his eyes, slit the material anyway and pulled the T-shirt open. “Christ, Ram, you’ve got three friggin’ bullets in your Kevlar! Your chest looks like hell!” A Level 4 Kevlar vest could take three armor-piercing rounds before it shattered. He’d taken the limit.

No wonder he was having trouble breathing. Jake didn’t fight Big as he rolled him over, examining his back for exit wounds from bullets. There were none.

Jake pulled on a helmet and plugged the connection in so he could hear communications within the helicopter. “I’m good, Big. Nothing’s broken. Just hurts like hell to breathe.” Jake gave his partner a silly grin.

Big pulled his cut T-shirt closed, helped him back on with the vest and then fastened the Velcro on his Kevlar. “You’re the luckiest damn bastard I’ve
ever
seen, Ram. You know that?”

Jake grinned wearily, exhausted. He lay motionless, trying to take in a full breath. “Big, check my Kevlar pocket?”

Big leaned over him, pulling the Velcro open at the top of his vest. “Why?”

“The engagement and wedding rings for my gal are in there. They didn’t get hit, did they?”

Grinning, Big held up the small plastic Ziploc with the rings in it. “You’re good to go, partner. Rock it out.” He stuffed it back down in Jake’s vest and pressed the Velcro shut.

Wiping the blood away from his nose and mouth, Jake managed a cocky smile. “Damn straight I am. First, J-bad, and then I’m getting the hell home and asking that red-haired woman to marry me.”