Hunt the Falcon (3 page)

The stranger said, “You can't rest now, sir. You'll miss all the fun.”

Some fun.

The man looked Hispanic—high cheekbones, a tribal tattoo on his neck. He said, “Chief Crocker, Sergeant Chino Perez.” His two gold front teeth gleamed in the muted light.

“You with us?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

Crocker still felt woozy, but he managed to run with them toward the guard station. The next thing he remembered, he was sitting on a sandbag. Someone handed him a bottle of water. When he swallowed, he tasted blood.

“Boss, you okay?”

Davis looked down at him with a face smudged with dirt. Crocker used his tongue to feel along the ridge of his mouth and realized that a piece of one of his front teeth was missing.

“You see the rest of my tooth?” he asked.

“Did I see what?”

“Never mind.”

The noise in the cramped, smoke-filled room was hellacious. He saw bodies thrown into a corner and covered with a blue tarp. Blood and entrails peeked out from under it.

Perez, kneeling beside him, said that including himself he was down to four men.

“Four men? How many behind us in D?”

“Another five, sir.”

“Any of them Afghans?”

“No.”

“No?”

Then who the fuck was that Weed guy talking to?

One of the gunners in front of them called out, “We're running low on ammo for the fifty-cal!”

Perez shouted back, “Conserve, guys. Select fire.”

The gunner growled, “Then we better start collecting rocks.”

Crocker tried to think clearly and consider their options. He asked, “How many enemy?”

“Unclear, sir,” Perez answered. “They just keep coming.”

“Best estimate?” Davis asked.

“I don't know. Fifty, a hundred, a million. Maybe there's a hole and they're coming up from Middle Earth.”

Crocker turned to Davis and yelled, “Call Captain Battier. Tell him we're gonna need ammo and reinforcements.”

“Okay, boss.”

Twin .50 caliber machine guns continued to pound away in front of him. He saw Ritchie firing a MK19 grenade launcher. Remembering something, he stopped Perez, who was dragging a box of ammo over to the M2HG. “What about the six SEALs who were dropped in last week?” he asked.

“Two of 'em are behind us in D.”

Davis broke his train of thought, which had drifted to his friend Neal Stafford. “Boss! Yo, boss! The captain says no can do.”

“No what?”

“No reinforcements.”

“Let me talk to him.” He grabbed the receiver and spoke in an urgent but authoritative voice. “Hey, Captain, we're a hair away from being overrun here. We got a lot of men down and are in dire need of support and ammo, fifty-cal rounds especially. What can you do?”

A mortar round tore into the sandbag-reinforced wall on the right side of the station and exploded, sending the gunner of one of the M2HGs sliding across the floor. He scurried back, wiped a stream of blood from his nose, righted the machine gun, and continued firing.

“Captain, do you hear me?” The gunner in front of him shouted a stream of curses. Apparently he'd burned his hand on the hot barrel of his weapon.

“I hear you, chief. I hear you loud and clear. Where are you, exactly?”

“Station C.”

“Have you considered pulling out of there?”

“For a whole lotta reasons that I don't have time to explain now, it's not an option.”

“But I'm unable to send reinforcements,” Battier responded via the radio receiver.

“What about ammo?”

“Negative on that, too.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Chief, I'm looking at the big picture. Presley, King, and Wolf are my priorities,” Battier responded.

“You've got men dying down here, Captain. The position is eminently defendable with help!”

“Sorry, chief.”

“I'm sorry, too. Fuck you!”

He threw down the radio and peered through a slit in the reinforced wall, guns pounding all around him, casings spilling onto the floor. Saw the sparks of guns firing from Taliban positions behind rocks, trees, and other natural barriers.

Perez, beside him, was peering through binoculars. Crocker asked, “Where are the bastards coming from?”

“You can't see from here, but there are a couple of trails up from the valley that are in the vicinity of Station B, which was the first to fall.”

Snow continued to drop, and the light seemed to be fading. Crocker glanced at his Suunto GPS watch, which read 1642 hours. In another hour the sky would turn dark and they'd be even more vulnerable. Screwed, most likely.

“What'd the captain say?” Perez asked, putting down the glasses and grabbing his MP7 4.6x30mm submachine gun.

“We're on our own.”

“I thought so.”

Crocker hated the thought of giving up the station. His instincts told him to make a stand. “What have you got in terms of supplies?” he shouted to Perez over the tremendous racket.

“Bottled water, MREs, boxes of energy bars, heaters, lamps.”

“Ammo?”

“There's a storage bunker behind Station D that contains some explosives, but no mags or fifty-cal rounds.”

“What kind of explosives?”

“C-four and claymores.”

“Okay.” He started to turn to Ritchie on his right and stopped. “You told me two of the Team Six guys were behind us in Station D. What happened to the other four?”

Perez lowered his brown eyes. “Taken out resisting the initial charge.”

Crocker was afraid to ask, but had to. “Neal Stafford?”

Perez nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the tarp-covered bodies in the back corner. Crocker pictured Neal's pretty, blond-haired wife and young sons. He wanted to beat the shit out of something, or scream so loud that time stopped and rewound. But he swallowed hard and summoned Ritchie instead. With his arm around the tall man's shoulder, he led him to the back of the bunker so the two men could hear themselves speak.

Crocker said, “Take Jonesy with you and go back to Station D. There's a…” Neal's smiling face flashed in his head. He gathered himself and started again, “There's a storage bunker there, back of D. I want you to grab all the explosives you can find and bring them here. Ask the SEALs there to help you.”

Ritchie, his eyes burning with intensity, pointed to his backpack stacked against the back wall. “I've got blasting caps and detonators. You okay, boss?”

“I'm fine. I want to do something bold. Imaginative. Insane. Get the stuff.”

“You want bold? You tapped the right man,” Ritchie said, grinning. “Depending on what we find in D, I'll give you cataclysmic.”

“I like the way you're thinking. Now go.”

C
heck this
mother out!” Jonesy shouted as he burst through the back door carrying a GAU-17/A 7.62x51mm minigun, which featured six rotating barrels capable of delivering a whopping 4,000 rounds per minute.

He got grunts of approval from some of the men crowded inside the dark, smoke-filled room, and one shout of “Sweet!” Otherwise the eight soldiers were occupied with trying to hold back an enemy that wouldn't let up.

With a sheer cliff to the right of Guard Station C, and considerably higher terrain behind them and to the left, which is where Station D was located, the Taliban had only one way of overrunning the guard post, and that was head-on, which they seemed determined to do, no matter how many new martyrs they created in the process.

One M2HG heavy machine gun covered the Taliban assault from the right; a second was trained on the left, which posed more of a challenge. The six soldiers in between fired a combination of MK19s, M4A1s, MK13s, HK416s, and one MK11 medium sniper rifle.

Crocker's head, right arm, and shoulder were numb. His ears and knees ached. After adjusting the five-position butt stock of the HK416, he looked through the diopter sight, located the torso of a Taliban fighter crouching and shouldering an RPG-2 in the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger, releasing a stream of 5.56x45mm bullets that tore into the enemy's torso, neck, and head. The weapon was a marvel of modern engineering that offered power, maneuverability, and reliability.

The Americans were outnumbered, perhaps as much as thirty to one, and due to that and the approaching darkness, Crocker could tell that the Taliban sensed victory. He saw it in the confident way they moved forward and maintained their position despite everything the Americans were throwing at them.

He glanced at his Suunto, then turned to Jonesy, who was busily setting up the minigun with Sergeant Perez's help.

“Where's Rich?”

“Ritchie, man, he's doing his bad thing.”

“Where?” Crocker asked.

“Outside.”

He stepped over the thick stream of blood oozing from the tarp-covered bodies, said a quick prayer for his neighbor Neal Stafford, and ducked through the low door as if leaving one chamber of hell and entering another. Outside, the fresh air smelled good and revived him. On higher ground behind him and to his right, the men at Station D were firing at Taliban targets on the rocks in front of the cliff. Tracers wove through the darkening mist like angry, lethal insects. The top of the mountain and the main structures of the post remained shrouded in white.

A thick, freckle-faced soldier from Alpha Company was taking a piss against the back wall. Crocker took one, too, and in the brief moment of calm thought about snowboarding in similar weather in Vermont.

For a second he remembered Neal standing on a slope beside him. He started to compose the expletive-filled tirade he planned to direct at Captain Battier and stopped. He had to focus. Hearing footsteps crunch the snow, he turned and saw Ritchie walking with a bearded soldier who was pointing out fissures in the rock.

“Ritchie?” he called. “What the hell's going on?”

“This is Corporal Henne. In real life, he's a geological something or other,” Ritchie said enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the danger around them.

“I'm a geological engineer, sir,” the serious-looking Henne explained. “I should be working for a big oil company.”

“You will be someday, if we get out of here alive,” Crocker said.

“Maybe.”

“You find what you need?” Crocker asked Ritchie.

“More than enough. We're planning something extra special, aren't we, corporal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Crocker said, blowing into his gloved hands. “You need to move fast.”

Crocker returned to Station C to get Akil, and the four of them spent the next forty minutes placing explosive charges and running fuse wire. His back was complaining and his face was burning from the cold and wind when he returned to C and spoke to Perez.

“Here's the plan,” he said. “Me and my men are gonna take over the big guns while you and your guys in Stations C and D go up to Wolf and King. Take as many weapons and bodies as you can. When you arrive on the next plateau, call me and let me know.”

“I will.”

“How much time you think you'll need?”

“Fifteen minutes max.”

“Good. Get going.”

Perez immediately started shouting orders, and the grim-faced, exhausted collection of Alpha Company soldiers, national guardsmen, and marines packed their gear, collected their weapons, and rigged the bodies in makeshift plastic stretchers. After wishing the SEALs good luck, they took off.

The light was fading fast, so the SEALs donned their PS-15 night-vision goggles and laid down as intense and relentless a volley of fire as they could squeeze out of the big weapons. Crocker manned the GAU-17/A minigun, which spit out a bolt of white tracers that obliterated targets. He raked fire right to left, left to right, until his arms were almost completely numb, then reloaded.

He was so focused on what he was doing that he didn't hear the voice over his helmet headset. Davis reached over and slapped him on the back.

“What?”

“It's Perez! He's trying to tell you something.”

His hearing was messed up. He shouted, “What's he saying?”

“They've arrived!”

“Already? They're up on the higher plateau?” Crocker asked, looking at his watch and realizing that almost twenty minutes had passed.

“Yeah. They're up at Wolf and on their way to Presley.”

“Good.” He carefully straightened his back, cracked his neck, then shouted, “Grab what you can and pull back to Station D. Akil and I will meet you there in five.”

“Roger.”

Crocker blew through the last three belts of 7.62x51mm shells, pulled the gun from its mount, and screamed at Akil, “Let's go!”

“You sure, boss? I'm having too much fun!”

“It ain't over yet. Follow me!”

They ran out the back door, scrambling and slipping up the path to Station D. The SEALs had pretty much cleaned the place out, except for the twin mounted M2HG machine guns, which were currently being fired by Davis and Yale. “Where're the others?” Crocker asked, excitedly and out of breath.

“They're waiting by the chain ladder up to the next plateau,” Davis answered, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.

“Grab the radio and come with me. Akil, you and Yale lay down three more minutes of fire and join us.”

“We can't do four?”

“Three, baby, three!”

They ran out through the falling snow, up a steep incline to the dark wall of the cliff. Ritchie stood there clutching an MP7. “Twelve more minutes,” he shouted to Crocker, “before the shit blows!”

“The rest of the men are already up the ladder?”

“Roger!”

Crocker pushed him and said, “You go. You and Davis. I'll wait for Akil and Yale.”

“Chief—”

He took Davis by the shoulders. “Listen, this is important. Before you go, I want you to call Battier. Tell him we ran out of ammunition and are abandoning Stations C and D. Tell him we're sorry, but we didn't have time to rig any booby traps. And tell him to make sure to repeat all this to that ANA guy he calls Weed.”

“Okay.”

“The last part is the most important.”

Davis was already readying the radio. “Okay, boss. I'm calling him now.”

“Remember Weed.”

“Yeah. I got it.”

Ritchie had started up the chain ladder. Crocker checked his watch. Two minutes had passed since he had arrived at the base of the cliff. That meant there were roughly ten minutes left.

Davis said, “Message delivered, loud and clear, boss.”

Crocker pointed to the ladder. “Good. You're next.”

Another minute had passed. He heard the Taliban hoot and cheer as they reached Station C. Thirty seconds later he made out the sound of footsteps approaching. Past the trees, he saw Yale and Akil lugging one of the big M2HG guns.

“Drop that mother. Leave it! Let's go,” he shouted.

He helped Yale onto the ladder, then Akil, then started up himself, wondering how much weight the ladder could hold. He climbed and looked at his watch. Six more minutes until the charges went off!

The chain creaked and twisted with the weight, and visibility was bad. He continued blindly, the muscles in his calves, arms, and back burning. Three minutes. Two.

He clung tightly to the ladder and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, a huge ball of light lit up the sky, then he heard the explosion and felt the force push him forward into the rock wall, smashing his hands. He struggled to hold on.

The ladder bucked. Secondary explosions rocked the mountain. Something hit him hard in the upper back near his right shoulder. Good thing he was wearing Dragon Skin silicon carbide ceramic body armor under his uniform, otherwise whatever it was might have gone right through him.

Hot air churned around him. He heard screams from below. His lungs wanted oxygen but could find little in the mountain air. Feeling light-headed, and with debris raining down around him, he kept climbing as well as he could and somehow neared the top, where arms reached out and helped him up.

“Thanks.”

He sat on a rock, caught his breath, and checked to see if his shoulder was still working. It was. To his left he saw the barracks King and Wolf behind him. The snow continued to fall in a steady hiss in the otherwise quiet valley.

Davis handed him a bottle of water. “Boss, you okay?” he asked.

He nodded. “Everybody good? They all make it up?”

“Yeah.”

The sounds of combat were gone. “The enemy's stopped firing,” he said, looking up at Davis.

“That's correct. Ritchie thinks a good part of the land Stations C and D were sitting on slid down the hill.”

“No shit.”

“Talk to Ritchie.”

He did, as they climbed together up to Presley. Ritchie and Corporal Henne—the guardsman from Reading, Pennsylvania—explained how the charges they had strategically placed had opened enough fissures in the rock that it could no longer support the weight of the plateau, thus causing the whole damn thing to tumble down the mountain.

“Stations C and D, too?” Crocker asked.

“The whole kit and caboodle,” Henne answered. “Including the Taliban attackers.”

“Sweet.”

The first thing Crocker did when he reached Presley was grab ANA Major Jawid Shahar Mohammed and hold him at gunpoint while Davis disarmed him and Akil used tie-ties to secure his wrists behind his back.

Captain Battier, seeing what was going on, got in Crocker's face. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm detaining this man.”

“On whose authority?”

Crocker had to stop himself from punching Battier in the throat. He growled, “I strongly suspect that Major Mohammed was communicating with the enemy the whole time, right under your nose, Captain.”

“No way. Impossible!”

“I think you are a criminal!” Major Mohammed shouted.

“I really don't care what either of you think,” Crocker explained. “When we return to Jalalabad, I'll inform your CO, Captain. He'll order an investigation. We'll find out if I'm right.”

“Go to hell!” the Afghan shouted.

Next he called Mancini, who was still guarding the ridge above the post, and told him to climb down to Presley. Then he did a quick inventory of his men and their injuries. Aside from some minor scrapes, burns, bruises, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, they were all okay.

Jake slipped in and out of consciousness. Also, his blood pressure was low, his pulse rapid and weak—symptoms of neurogenic shock. Crocker administered a shot of dopamine to help elevate his blood pressure and ordered Phillips to continue keeping him warm and monitoring his IV.

He was halfway through his dinner of hot green tea, an energy bar, and a cup of noodles when he fell asleep. He dreamt he was alone in Station C, firing the GAU-17/A minigun at men in black turbans who kept charging from all directions.

In the morning when he awoke, the muscles in his arms and hands were clenched tight. His attention quickly shifted to the sun shining through intermittent clouds. By 0930 hours, medevac and relief helicopters had arrived. By noon he and his men were back at Jalalabad.

Humping toward his tent, he remembered something his former SEAL buddy and workout partner Neal Stafford always used to say: If it don't suck, we don't do it.

It did suck that his friend had to die defending a mountaintop in southeastern Afghanistan. They had shared a strong belief in the cause of defending freedom, a love of friends and family, and an unconquerable will to win.

As long as men like Neal fight on our side,
Crocker said to himself,
we'll be okay.