Seals (2005) (26 page)

One of the riflemen's buttocks flared in pain. He was a newlywed who had been impetuous enough to ask Khatib the Oracle if he could visit his new wife one more time before going off to battle. The enraged mullah had him given a caning of fifty strokes for his weakness of the flesh.

Now, as the choppers came in, the two groups were sent out to cram themselves into the troop compartments for the flight out to join Major Karim Malari's field force.

Chapter 17

THE FOOTHILLS

30 AUGUST

0500 HOURS LOCAL

THE platoon had been on the move steadily since leaving the area of the spring twenty-four hours previously. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan reluctantly came to the conclusion that they had reached a point where the forced march had to be brought to a temporary halt. The men had done about as much as could be expected of them. The Skipper called for a seven-hour rest break. In reality there was only three and a half hours of actual relaxation per man since they were on a 50 percent alert. The exception was the Odd Couple--Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz--who had been excused from standing watch. The two point men had been constantly on the go during unit movements, going forward then returning to make periodic reports to Brannigan. Consequently, they walked almost twice as much as anyone else during each day's movement.

Under Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's less than gentle leadership, the men on watch turned to waking up the sleepers.

One indication of a man's excellent physical conditioning is the ability to make a rapid recovery from prolonged and demanding activity. The SEALs were much better rested than the average human male would have been after long hours of pushing himself through ravines with all possible speed. But there is a limit to even superbly conditioned individuals, whether they are professional fighting men or athletes. And the one person with this on his mind was Hospital Corpsman Third Class James Bradley.

James began going from man to man as they prepared for the coming day's activities, making inquiries about how each was doing. Naturally all put on shows of manly vigor, saying they felt absolutely froggy and ready to jump, but James wasn't buying that line of bullshit. He knew the extent of their fatigue, and advised each to eat an energy bar as quickly as possible. These high-calorie bars of sustenance would get some nutrients flowing through their badly used bodies. The corpsman augmented his field therapy by passing out pep pills from his medical kit to each SEAL. These amphetamine derivatives not only gave bursts of energy and a feeling of well-being, but also suppressed the appetite. That might prove a blessing later on if the rations ran low. Unfortunately, the drug also caused dryness in the mouth. The water acquired at the spring would last only so long, and they would soon be running low on the precious H2O.

Brannigan slipped into his combat vest and glanced up and down the column. He turned to the radio operator, Frank Gomez. "Turn on the PRC-112's beacon."

"It's always on, sir," Frank replied. "I've hoarded some extra batteries for it."

"All right!" Brannigan said approvingly. He turned his attention back to the men, satisfied that they were ready to renew the trek. He glanced up and sighted the Odd Couple looking back at him from the point. He spoke into the LASH. "Let's go."

Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz turned and led the platoon out for that day's travel.

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WARLORD KHAMAMI'Sl CP

WEST RIDGE

0515 HOURS LOCAL

A complex of a half dozen tents had evolved in the area the SEALs had used as a temporary home when they first arrived in the OA. The field headquarters of Warlord Hassan Khamami hadn't been this well organized since the war against the Soviets. The reason for the enhanced efficiency and attention to detail came from the fact that Khamami had developed a special respect for the men he now fought. The ambush sprung on Tanizai's troops the day before had been skillfully planned and executed, and the warlord had no doubt that he faced a determined and expert enemy.

Now, in the early hour of dawn, Khamami climbed from his blankets and walked to the front flap of his tent. His instincts, developed during years of fighting in this sort of rugged, isolated terrain, gave him a solid feeling of optimism. Somehow he did not think he faced an enemy that was particularly numerous. He could tell by their actions that there was no chance they could overwhelm him. That was the reason for the ambush and sudden withdrawal. Had they been a stronger force with support weapons, they would have stood fast and slugged it out with the mujahideen.

On the other hand, they were well practiced in the type of warfare the Westerners called unconventional. But with both Major Karim Malari and Captain Lakhdar Tanizai in the field, Khamami was confident that victory was only a matter of time. Malari and Tanizai were veteran combat commanders and were now using every tactical trick they knew to track down the foreign devils who had intruded into this land. The situation his foes faced reminded him of what he had learned about a certain infamous American general who fought Indian warriors in that country's West many years before. The commander's name was Custer. Good luck in past battles had made him reckless, and the day finally came when he paid for that overconfidence with his life and those of his men.

A servant scurried forward with a hot bowl of chat tea for the warlord. Khamami took it, treating himself to a sip of the stimulating brew. He glanced over to where his air force of two helicopters stood waiting for the day's activities to begin. Just beyond them were the one hundred men of the disgraced Ayyub Durtami. Their former warlord had joined the ragtag group in time to come out on the last airlift. He and his mujahideen lay sleeping with their ancient rifles, eager to atone for their past actions, both in Khamami's eyes and those of Allah.

This was one of those times that Khamami was most appreciative of religion. Not because of any personal devoutness on his part; but because such beliefs made it easier for him to send men to their death on his behalf. There was nothing like a good jihad to pep the lads up. He took another drink of tea as he looked at the sleeping men who faced a battle they could not possibly survive.

Their bodies would soon be soaking up bullets as sponges do water.

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WADI KHESTA VALLEY

0800 H0URS LOCAL

WHEN the Odd Couple rounded a sharp turn in the ravine, they came to a sudden stop. Stretched out to their direct front was a large valley that appeared to be at least an eighth of a kilometer wide. Although it did not have a lot of cover along the tops, scrub brush grew abundantly on the gentle slopes of the sides.

Mike Assad stayed as security while Dave Leibowitz went back to the column to report to Lieutenant Bill Brannigan. When he met the platoon coming toward him, he went straight to the Skipper.

"Sir, we've just run out of ravine," Dave said. "There's a pretty big valley about fifty meters ahead. It ain't the Grand Canyon, but it's maybe a hundred meters wide. We don't know the length of the place, but there's lots of vegetation on the sides. That could be a sign of water."

"I sure as hell hope so," Brannigan said. "We're about to start having a great big fucking problem with thirst if things keep going the way they have been." Most of the men had popped at least one pep pill, and the resultant dryness in their mouths was becoming uncomfortable. They were forced to resort to the old Apache Indian trick of sucking on a couple of pebbles to keep the saliva flowing. Brannigan felt a little better now. "Let's take a look at this magnificent terrain feature you and Assad discovered."

The column began moving again, going on down the ravine. They turned the same corner of the big gully as Mike and Dave had, stepping into an extremely wide valley that had a varying depth of between ten and fifteen meters. The feeling of security the platoon had formerly enjoyed in the ravines quickly evaporated. They felt positively exposed, and instinctively went on the alert, hoisting their weapons to high port.

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins trotted up to the Skipper. "Sir, what do you make of this?"

Brannigan shrugged under his combat vest. "I was hoping we'd find some water, but the farther we go the less I think that's going to happen."

"This ain't a place for water, sir," the senior chief commented. 'Them thorny shrubs around here is the type of bushes that don't need a lot of water. That's why it's growing so good up on them dry slopes."

"I was afraid of that," Brannigan said. "You better pass the word to the men to take it easy with the canteens until further orders."

"I already did, sir," Dawkins said. "But most of 'em had figgered that out already."

"All we can do is keep moving and hope for the best. And suck those pebbles."

"Right, sir. See you later."

Dawkins turned and headed back down toward Bravo Fire Team.

THE WADI KHESTA VALLEY

ABDULLAH and Ashraf were veteran mujahideen who had spent their entire lives in the wilds of Afghanistan. Both were small men, wiry and illiterate but possessed of a natural intelligence and cunning that made them the best scouts in Warlord Hassan Khamami's army.

As Pashtun boys they had been raised in the warrior traditions of their people, living hard lives of deprivation and poverty in an unforgiving country where the weak and unwary succumbed early in life. Their nameless home village was precariously perched on the side of a mountain, the crude homes built of the natural rocks that abounded in the area. A single well served the population of ten families, and three out of five babies, born to women worn by cruel toil, died before attaining three months of age. These were people who took nothing for granted. Bad weather was more than an inconvenience; it could herald natural disasters such as drought, howling windstorms, and thunderclouds that sent immense sheets of water to splash down across the mountains, causing avalanches and flash floods. Additionally, an injury that would only be bothersome in gentler living conditions could kill the unlucky with infections and gangrene. However, anybody reaching the age of ten could reasonably expect to live to the ripe old age of thirty-five or forty, since their bodies had proven to be resistant to all the illnesses and diseases of that environment.

Abdullah and Ashraf, like all the boys, were introduced to firearms early in life. They took their turns standing guard at night, watching for marauding bandits who might raid their village. Their weaponry consisted of old flintlock smoothbore muskets, a few percussion muzzle-loading rifles, and bladed instruments of war that included Indian shamshirs, Arabian scimitars and even some heavy British cavalry sabers taken during a nameless battle over a hundred years before.

Hunting was not a sport for the Pashtuns. It was a way of obtaining protein. The favorite game in those barren mountains was gazelles, but the meager herds had been hunted to near extinction. Now the most numerous animals were hares that had stringy, hard-to-chew meat on the haunches and back legs. Another, better source of meat was the domestic animals of other villages obtained through outright thievery. It was this latter activity in which Abdullah and Ashraf developed their skills in reconnaissance and raiding.

By the time the big troubles with the Soviets came along, the two friends were in their teens. They joined Warlord Khamami's band to fight against the invaders, and found themselves in a world of constant warfare. One of their main jobs was to dog Russian patrols to keep track of the activities and whereabouts of the infidels. Even though they were daring to the point of recklessness at times and had many close calls, Abdullah and Ashraf were never discovered by their prey, and guided many detachments of mujahideen to successful ambush and attack sites.

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0830 HOURS LOCAL

ASHRAF moved slowly down the valley, at times bending over almost double as he studied the spoor he had picked up more than two kilometers back. He noted dislodged rocks, a bent twig on a bush or a scrape along the ground where a misstep had left a boot mark. It was Abdullah's turn to carry the R-100 pack radio, and he watched his friend doing his best to pick up clues of the men they tracked so relentlessly.

Ashraf suddenly stopped, then pointed to the side of the valley. A fresh smudge in the dirt showed where somebody must have stumbled and bumped against the earthen wall. Abdullah saw it too, and nodded to indicate he thought it a very significant sign. This was more than just the evidence of a recent passerby to the skilled eyes of the Pashtun friends. It was a clear indication that the enemy they followed, though skilled and crafty, was growing tired and careless. Both could remember when even the elite Soviet Spetsnaz troopers, highly trained and motivated, compromised themselves at times during long, arduous missions. Their carelessness was mostly dropping cigarette butts when their senses were dulled with exhaustion. They also urinated anywhere they pleased, leaving wet spots in the ground easy to identify if one stuck one's finger in the dampness and sniffed it. Human piss is much different from that of animals.