The warrior code, p.20
The Warrior Code, page 20
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
Isolation hangar – Republic of Panama
The air force major’s breakdown of the recon team was thorough and impressive. The three SEALs were hardcore combat vets, solid operators, and more importantly, they’d worked together as a team before. This Matthew Barrett was impressive in his own right.
A senior lieutenant probably up for lieutenant commander very soon, Jared guessed. A planner, a thinker, and a proven war leader. Jared waited for the brief to end, but he’d made his mind up; FOXTROT Platoon was dealing with professionals they could rely on. Now came the waiting.
After the intelligence presentation, Jared walked outside the container and became immersed in his own thoughts. Chief Sampson exited the container and walked up to the lieutenant, waiting patiently for Jared to acknowledge him. Jared snapped out of his fog and smiled at his chief.
“Get a load of this heat! I think we should go touch base with the aircrew. Let the guys chill out for a while longer.”
“Sounds good to me, LT. I’ll have the rest of the platoon spread out in the hangar and stage their mission gear for a quick departure, then stand them down for a few hours. When do you want to visit the pilots?”
“As soon as you finish with the platoon. I’ll wait here for you.”
The chief spun around and made his way to the gang of young men nervously standing by the pile of equipment. Jared made a mental note to set aside enough time for one last personnel inspection of the group in full mission gear.
Jared wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Some of the men already were starting to look a little pink, he observed. The heat here was different than the desert. It was wet and sticky and seemed to suck the energy right of you.
Jared watched as Chief Sampson passed the word for everybody to drink as much water as they could hold. He knew from painful experience that dehydration snuck up on you when your body was preparing for battle. Anxious warriors forgot the basics. It was his job to remind them.
The heat just made it worse, of course. The chief directed everyone to add an extra canteen to their loadout. Jared knew they were already carrying about twenty-five pounds of water each. That might cause a little grumbling; but one thing was true about water, once you drank the precious liquid, you didn’t have to carry it around anymore.
The SEAL officer walked over to a situation map pinned to a large bulletin board on the side of the container wall. The situation map showed the Ariari river area and the suspected location of the base camp where the two hostages were presumably being held.
The op plan was straightforward: let the recon team find and fix the FARC target and report. Passing the confirmation code phrase CHEESE WHIZ meant the American captives were located and that phase one was complete. That was FOXTROT’s signal to board the two Blackhawks.
It would be a straight flight to the target from Panama, taking just over two hours. Once inserted near the target, the Blackhawk helicopters would climb up to a higher altitude, conduct an air refueling event, then drop down into a low orbit one mile from the camp.
The SEAL platoon would assault the target and rescue the two Americans. Once they were safe, phase two was complete. The phase three role of the Blackhawks was to provide fire support if needed and extract the team and the hostages when alerted to do so by the SEALs on the ground.
On a table nearby lay a metallic clipboard with the words Top Secret printed in large red letters. Jared flipped the top metal flap back to reveal three inches of intelligence message traffic relating to the operation.
He read the material with interest. The briefings had been excellent, but the underlying story unfolding in the United States and in Colombia hadn’t been discussed fully. The messages made for tedious reading, but the details were there and worth the effort.
Ten minutes later Jared found a series of short messages covering the assassination of General Alexander’s family. He read with sadness at first; but as the gory facts piled up, he became angry. He hoped Chavez was really coming to the camp to kill the general. That put him on a collision course with the United States and, more specifically, FOXTROT Platoon.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jungle trail–Colombia
Even with the flashlights illuminating the ground, it was difficult to see where he was going. Chavez tripped for what seemed like the hundredth time on an unseen root reaching out across the path. He was getting too old for this shit.
For the young men who were escorting him, this was their way of life. To be comfortable in the jungle required time, and Chavez was out of practice, even growing soft in the last couple of years, flying wherever he wanted to go, a limousine taking him here and there.
His workout routine was strict; but he never pushed himself that hard, not this hard. They’d been moving on the jungle trail for three or four hours, taking only one fifteen-minute break. Chavez ran out of his water quickly, but the men around him weren’t going to let “el jefe” suffer.
All he had to do was look thirsty, and he was offered a canteen. The escort patrol consisted of twenty-five fighters, warriors he’d paid for and nurtured at a distance. He knew they were aware of his patronage and felt proud to be chosen as a member of his escort.
Their plan was to continue moving through the night until somewhere near the camp they would link up with a group coming out from the base camp. The rendezvous point was near a large loop in the river, where the trail meandered to within fifty yards of the fast-moving water.
The loop was easily visible from the air and easy to identify when you were walking on the trail. Except for that terrain feature, the trail tended to follow a straight line moving north by northeast. Chavez peeked at his digital watch.
He still had a ways to go before the linkup. He knew he had to suck it up and put a good face on it. He must show these men that he was tough, tough like them. Chavez straightened his back and tried to walk with a sense of purpose.
Nobody seemed to pay attention. They were too absorbed in patrolling and professionally scanning the jungle for threats. A few more hours, he thought, a few more hours. The thought of putting a bullet in the brain of General Alexander suddenly gave him a second wind.
The Ariari River–Colombia
It was time. Matt reached across to squeeze Boone’s shoulder. Boone nodded acknowledgment and repeated the gesture, giving Oby the signal to swing in toward the riverbank. They only had ten yards or so to swim before their feet touched the shallow muddy bottom.
The SEALs formed a triangle, with Oby focused on the potential threat from the jungle immediately above them. They spent five minutes at the water’s edge, looking and listening. Trying to absorb the natural sounds and condition of the jungle after the numbing ride down the river.
Oby eased forward and leaned on the bank, extending his M-4 rifle. That was Boone’s cue to exit the river and crawl ashore. He established a defensive position four feet to the left of Oby and squatted down. Oby next exited the water and stepped a few feet to the right before kneeling down.
Matt watched the quiet exercise in combat discipline until it was his turn. He exited the Ariari and took up a position between and just forward of the other warriors, created a new triangle. It was time to look and listen again.
The SEALs were known as violent commandos, sliding down fast ropes, zooming in on attack boats, and kicking down doors. The myth was far from reality. SEALs were thinking warriors, men who used anything and everything to gain an advantage.
Stealth was a key component in SEAL tactics. As the old-timers from Nam used to say, better to kill the bad guys in their beds than get into a pissing contest.
Matt took a quick look at his GPS display; as he did so, Oby moved forward a few feet to relieve Matt at point security. There wasn’t a need to plan every move or give endless commands. His men knew what needed to be done. Endless hours of training had resulted in a feel for each other and the job that was instinctive.
They were shivering. They’d been in the water for a long time, and the light wind blowing down the river wasn’t helping. To make matters worse, the three men had consumed nearly all their water. The muscle cramping was becoming a real problem, a problem they hadn’t anticipated. Matt studied the digital readout and checked it one more time.
According to the GPS, the bearing from their position to the target was parallel with the river, but the distance was two hundred yards. He was surprised. He checked his figures one more time. It was hard to believe they could already be so close to the FARC base camp.
Maybe the intelligence guys plotted the camp’s location incorrectly on the terrain map, or Matt’s beer math on their speed of movement was way off. In either case, they were dangerously close to the enemy.
Matt gestured until Oby noticed and slid sideways to hear what Matt had to say. On the other side, Boone saw the movement and copied it, easing next to the lieutenant.
“The GPS has us two hundred yards upriver from the camp. I’ve checked it twice and there’s no mistake.”
“Next move, sir?” Oby whispered back.
Matt checked his watch. It was three forty-five in the morning. If they tactically moved through the jungle, it would take approximately an hour to move the two hundred yards. Once there, they would move into an observation position on the edge of camp and take a look.
A concern he had was visibility. They might have to go right up to the edge of the camp’s jungle perimeter before seeing anything of value. The rising dawn was going to make it worse.
Matt wanted Boone’s advice. Boone was a great point man, and he’d have an opinion on their ability to move through the dense cover and make the timeline. “Boone, can we make it through this mess in the time we have left?”
Boone thought for a second. “No, I doubt it. But I’ve got an idea, boss. Why don’t we go back into the river and move down about another hundred yards or so? That should only take about ten minutes. Then we’d only have to patrol the remaining hundred yards through the jungle. By that time our NODs should pick up campfires and any other lights in the base camp. Then we’ll move up to the edge of the jungle and establish an observation position. Of course, it’s your call, LT.”
Of course it was his call. Matt understood. It was always his call, his decision to make. What were the odds this camp was holding the American hostages? What were the odds Auger hadn’t already been dumped off someplace on a jungle trail, an expendable piece of baggage? Matt struggled to erase the negative thoughts from his mind. He had to make a decision. The shivering wasn’t helping.
“All right, guys, let’s get back into the water. We’ll swim until we can determine the position of the camp, then we’ll go back onshore.” Matt had a sudden inspiration. “What kind of range can we expect to get from the NODs?”
Oby answered for Boone, “You’ll only be able to see campfires when we get sixty yards out.”
Boone disagreed, “Forty yards is more like it, boss, especially with no moon through this dense growth.”
Matt smiled in the dark. “Good, then that is what we will do. We won’t move a hundred yards down river and get out. Instead, we’ll keep moving down the river until we hear or see something; then we’ll exit the water. That will give us more time to sneak into the observation position.”
Matt heard whispered responses; they were onboard with the plan. “Boone, you take point. Oby and I will move behind you. We’ll float and swim in single file. Maintain physical contact. Boone’s responsible for looking forward and spotting the camp, I have left flank security, and Oby has the right side. All good?”
“You got it, boss!” Oby whispered.
“Roger that, sir.” Boone was good to go.
The three SEALs eased back and into the river. The water seemed ten times colder now, Matt thought, sucking in his breath. They immediately took hold of each other’s cammie pants with one hand and started down the river, swimming and bobbing and drifting their way closer to the enemy camp.
They stayed closer to the riverbank, and as a consequence, they were making contact with the muddy bottom and getting tangled in the loose vines dangling from trees that leaned out over the river. Matt suddenly had a thought: what kind of creatures were moving around in this muddy soup?
His imagination conjured up images of deadly schools of piranha staring at his legs and licking their little lips in anticipation. He didn’t even know if there were any piranha in Colombia. He shut down the movie playing in his mind and focused on the right bank. He had a job to do.
Matt felt Oby’s body shivering under his cammie shirt. They’d been in the water for a long time, no thermal protection and nothing warm to consume that might raise their core temperature.
He wasn’t sure how early the dawn expressed itself here in the jungle. He glanced across the river from time to time to see if the treetops were visible from the growing backlight of the rising sun. Once that happened, daybreak would come fast.
At best they would have thirty to forty minutes to stalk through the underbrush and get into the recon observation point. The GPS map indicated that they would be on an elevated ridge to one side of the camp, allowing them to look down and see most of the activity there. He realized if they didn’t get set up soon, he’d be flirting with the mission’s expressed abort criteria.
Well, he was committed to trying, he thought. They owed it to Auger to make it work. While Matt was daydreaming, Boone had stopped. Matt bumped into his point man. Oby ran into Matt next. The three SEALs dropped their feet into the muck and crouched together, shivering, their weapons held at the ready.
Matt and Oby waited patiently for Boone’s verdict. Instead of saying anything, Boone raised his right hand touching two fingers to his eyes. The hand and arm signal communicated that he was looking at the enemy.
Boone extended his index finger, pointing at the shoreline. He changed his hand position, spreading his fingers wide and slowly bringing them together until there was a very short distance between his fingertips and his thumb. That indicated the bad guys were very close, too close.
The shivering stopped immediately as the three SEALs forced their bodies, through force of will, to face the threat. Matt and Oby moved up alongside Boone. They both realized from the last hand signal that they must be so close that someone could hear or spot them at any time.
Once Matt was up next to Boone, he was able to see what Boone was seeing. Through the NODs, he watched three or four spots of light dancing and flickering through the trees. The spots of light he knew to be campfires from the way the light moved back and forth. He heard a sound that sounded like pots or pans being hit together. Then Matt saw the two men sitting on the edge of the river.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Matt couldn’t take his attention away from the two guerillas. They appeared to be sleeping, slumped against the trunk of a large tree. He reached to his left and squeezed Boone’s shoulder. Boone watched as Matt placed his free hand against his neck and made a cutting motion.
Boone understood the command. He slid his hand across his chest and placed it on the rubberized grip of a pistol hanging under his left arm. Boone pulled the weapon out of its specially designed holster. The holster was extended to allow for the four-inch silencer.
Oby observed his friend’s body language and eased his weapon up. He wouldn’t open fire unless Boone failed to take out the two men on the riverbank. Boone raised the pistol an inch at a time until he was finally sighting down the short black barrel.
Normally, he’d double tap a target, placing two shots into each man. But he needed to finish these men in a total of just two rapidly aimed shots.
Boone squeezed the trigger, focusing on the front sight of the weapon. The pistol jumped in his hand as the first round was fired into the forehead of man on the left. Boone didn’t wait to see the result of his marksmanship. He smoothly shifted his point of aim to the second man, taking up the trigger slack as he moved the weapon.
The pistol spit out the second shot, hitting the target squarely between the eyes. The quiet zipping of the bullets was as loud as the smacking sound their impact made. The jungle would absorb the louder sound of the automatic pistol’s slide going back and forth as it fired, ejected a spent casing, chambered a second round, and fired. Both guerillas were dead and the SEALs were falling behind schedule.
Matt swept the shoreline one more time before turning off the night-vision scope. He didn’t need to congratulate Boone. The point man knew this was only the beginning. Matt leaned toward Oby and cupped his hand around his ear.
He brought the sniper up to speed on what had transpired since the two guerillas weren’t in his direct field of view. He then explained their next move. Matt then repeated the instructions to Boone.
Boone was to move down the shoreline closer to the camp. All three of the men knew they were in great jeopardy. Eventually, someone would come looking for the two dead men.
Once the alarm was sounded, the chance of rescue for General Alexander and Auger would be lost. The recon team’s survival was also at risk; the three SEALs didn’t have the firepower to fight a protracted battle if tracked down by searchers from the camp.
Matt had instructed Boone and Oby that, if detected before going onto land, the three of them should go under water and allow the river current to take them away from the camp.
That was the same plan for getting hit or spotted on land. Head back to the river and go under. It was a lame way to end a rescue operation, but Matt’s responsibility was to preserve the lives of his two teammates as much as it was to recover the two American hostages. There were never any easy choices in combat.
