The warrior code, p.21
The Warrior Code, page 21
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
They crawled up on the bank, repeating the security drill exercises earlier. Once the triangle was established, Matt gave Oby a little push. Oby stood up and began to patrol toward the flickering lights. Matt took one more look over his shoulder. The high trees on the opposite bank of the Ariari river were clearly silhouetted against a light pink sky. They weren’t going to make the timeline.
Oby eased forward, step by painstaking step. Listening, scanning, and then moving. Matt had no exact idea of how far the perimeter of the camp might be, so he trusted in Oby’s skills and watched his flank. For now, he was a rifleman.
After fifteen minutes, the dawn was bright enough it interfered with the NODs. Oby stopped and placed the headset in his side pouch. He waited for Matt and Oby to do the same. When they were ready, Matt squeezed Oby’s arm.
Oby moved again, crouching more now that he didn’t have the fires and lights of the camp to guide him. A few minutes later Oby froze. He raised his left hand up and made a fist signaling a reason to halt. Then he turned his hand over as if he was palming a basketball. It was the hand signal for a building; the recon team had arrived.
DEA Camp Twenty-Six - Colombia
FOXTROT Platoon was directed to exit the two aircraft and move to the far right of the landing pad. Jared watched the refueling operation, but from time to time he looked skyward. The little birds were late.
The Boeing MH-6 helicopters were a versatile aviation platform designed to carry a maximum of four men. They could be configured in ground-attack mode with rocket pods and machine guns added, but they were too light to carry a lot of ordnance.
Their preferred use was as a scout for route reconnaissance or as an airborne sniper platform. Two of Jared’s long gunners stood off to the side of the platoon a little, waiting for their ride to the target.
A minute or so later, Jared saw rather than heard the small helicopters. They did look like little birds from this distance, he mused. The refueling hoses were being pulled back from the Blackhawks. The SEALs would wait until the little birds were on deck and loaded with the two snipers. Then Jared and the rest of the platoon would board the larger aircraft.
He checked the time, a quarter to five in the morning. Here on the raised plateau, it was easy to see the spreading light of the dawn across the far skyline.
It took another ten minutes for the little birds to top off their tanks, load, and be ready to lift off. The departure was dramatic: four black war birds powering up and surging into the Colombian sky. Jared watched the DEA camp get smaller and then disappear; that’s when the warm, moist air of the jungle hit him.
He knew they weren’t acclimated for this mission; he’d petitioned for FOXTROT to stand down to be replaced by another team more used to the environment, the tactics, and the climate. His request was shot down, and here he was, leading men into combat for the first time and knowing they weren’t ready, not at their peak performance level.
The two MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters cruised side-by-side with the little birds trailing behind by fifty yards. The SEAL platoon and the insertion platforms had been advanced methodically by the mission coordinators in Tampa, Florida; but as they left the DEA camp, control was handed to a mobile special operations unit onboard the USS San Diego.
The USS San Diego was an amphibious transport dock designed from the keel up for advanced amphibious warfare support. Normally the San Diego carried a complement of Marines and their support capabilities, such as landing craft and helicopters; but it also served as the command vessel during amphibious landing operations.
The ship and its crew were now home to a JSOC command and control team and twenty Army Special Forces soldiers, staged onboard as a quick reaction force or QRF. If the SEALs found themselves in deep shit, the green berets were the reinforcement force riding to their rescue.
Jared had the entire picture in his mind. The hand off the ship, the QRF, it all had been briefed to the SEALs in their isolation area back in Panama. It seemed too complicated to Jared; too many things could go wrong.
Chief Sampson was a student of war, and he frequently stated that too much help added too much complexity. Historically, complex plans fell apart upon contact with reality. Better to plan simple and adapt on the way. Jared saw his chief’s point even more clearly now. This operation could turn into a royal clusterfuck.
In keeping with their preference for simplicity, Jared and Chief Sampson had worked out a plan that didn’t rely on split-second timing or perfect coordination on the ground and in the air. Rather than vertically assaulting the camp by fast roping into its interior, they’d figured it was best to infiltrate by sliding down fast ropes onto a jungle path two hundred yards away from the guerilla base camp.
Jared’s intelligence petty officer had detected a path on the satellite photos that ran parallel along the river and straight into the encampment. If it was visible to a satellite, then the helicopter pilots should be able to locate the insert point quickly from the air. The little birds would release and start their orbit around the perimeter of the camp, the two SEAL snipers engaging targets on the ground.
An air force door gunner with a machine gun sat on the side opposite the snipers. The little birds could fly in figure eight patterns that brought either side to bear against the enemy below.
Precision sniper fire or devastating machine-gun fire, it all worked when it worked. Jared’s hope was that this part of the plan provided his ground team the distraction they needed to cover the two hundred yards to the camp.
Jared also was hoping for an assist from the reconnaissance team in position on the edge of the camp. All they needed to do was to eliminate critical threats to the assault force, such as killing anybody who manned or shouldered an anti-aircraft weapon.
They also should be mindful of the hostages. If the guerillas became desperate or vengeful, they might kill the Americans or even use them as human shields to aid in their escape.
He knew this guy Barrett was a pro from reading the man’s record of combat service. He would do the right thing. It was time for Jared to clear his mind of the bigger picture; the time for planning was over, it was time to lead.
Lieutenant Jared Stone checked his watch; it was five twenty-five in the morning. From the helicopter’s point of view, they could see the sun peeking over the far horizon.
A voice crackled to life in his headset. “Lieutenant Stone, we have received the execution checklist code phrase CHEESE WHIZ, I say again CHEESE WHIZ. Your team is cleared hot for insertion. Good luck!”
Jared’s palms began to sweat. For some reason, he’d half expected the mission to be aborted. Things usually didn’t go this smoothly on SEAL missions. Jared twisted around to give a thumbs-up to the seven other men on his bird. The same code phrase had been passed to his chief in the second Blackhawk. Jared thanked the pilots and then removed the headset.
The helicopters were already dropping rapidly. The closer to the jungle canopy they got, the faster they flew. By Jared’s best calculations, he put them next to the camp in five minutes. He signaled his men by passing an okay hand signal.
Each man, in turn, flashed the same signal back at Jared. They had a 120-foot-long fast rope just in case; but as Jared glanced at the aircraft’s altimeter, it hinted that the treetops were only twenty- to thirty-feet high in this area. A shorter drop and less time exposed to enemy fire. So far so good.
The rapidly approaching dawn was a concern he couldn’t shake. Maybe the guerrillas would be groggy from sleeping in. They surely weren’t expecting an air-to-ground special operations assault on their camp. Satellite coverage showed little to no activity that might indicate a heightened state of readiness.
Jared checked his watch one last time before moving to the door. They were the world’s most deadly killers. FOXTROT Platoon would execute; they would lay waste anyone who tried to stop them. Jared was supremely confident in himself and in the long process that had brought him to this moment of truth.
The right side door gunner patted Jared on the shoulder then held up one finger. Jared repeated the one-minute warning for the rest of the SEALs. It was showtime.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Oby held up his fist and then slowly sank down until he was in the prone position. Matt and Boone mimicked the body language of their point man and once on the ground began to crawl up until they could also see the camp.
There were two feet of leaves and branches shielding their position from observation by anyone in the camp. Matt saw that they were on the high ground, a perfect place to work from. A sound to their left alerted the three men, and they flattened their bodies, pressing down into the soft earth.
Matt watched as three men walked up the steep hill, making a beeline for a large wooden box. When they stopped at the box, one of the men bent down and fumbled with something before standing up and backing away.
“Come, come now!”
Matt was surprised to hear English. He was even more surprised when after a few seconds’ delay, he watched a large man crawl out of the box, moving with great difficulty. There wasn’t enough light to positively identify him, but he looked too big to be Senior Chief Auger.
Another of the armed men stepped up and delivered a severe kick to the ribs of the man on the ground. This didn’t speed things up; the man moaned and collapsed, holding his side.
The man who originally called for the prisoner to come out shoved the overly aggressive guerilla with his rifle at high port. He said a few terse words and then ordered the two men to help the prisoner to his feet.
The man was at least six feet tall, clearly not a Colombian. He was so dirty it was hard to confirm he was Caucasian. The man in charge moved around the prisoner and poked him in the back with his barrel. “Move, general.”
Alexander! Matt was looking at one of their two objectives. He stared at the second box. Was Auger in the other container? The three SEALs stayed quiet as the general and his escort moved down the hill and into the camp. The hostages were separated. This wasn’t good.
Matt had an idea. If he could confirm exactly where they’d taken the general, then he, Boone, and Oby could snatch Auger and pass the results to the assault force. Right now they were only twenty yards away from the two wooden boxes. If they moved around to the right some more, they could cut the distance in half.
Matt turned to his partners and presented the plan. Boone’s only amendment was to communicate the plan to the assault force now before they moved. Matt agreed. He pulled out the UHF handheld radio dedicated to aviation communications. The assault team was flying by Blackhawk, and the call signs were given to Matt before they’d left Panama.
“CYCLOPS FOUR TWO - CYCLOPS FOUR TWO - this is DAGGER ONE - SITREP - OVER.”
The response was immediate and strong; they were close. “This is CYCLOPS ONE - GO.”
“CYCLOPS ONE - this is DAGGER ONE. Sitrep to follow. Time five one four, position northwest perimeter of the camp. Little activity in camp. Hostage One moved from containment to the main camp. We are twenty yards from Hostage Two. Will extract Hostage Two at time five two five. Pass to DAGGER TWO. DAGGER ONE out.”
“Copy all DAGGER ONE - good luck - CYCLOPS FOUR TWO - out.”
Matt smiled. That was all the other two SEALs needed to see. Oby eased back four feet and turned right. Matt and Boone followed close behind. The tree line curved in close to the back of the second wooden box, and the height of the hill made it impossible for anyone in camp to see them as they crawled out of the jungle and toward their friend.
Auger was weak from lack of food and barely heard the guards take the general away. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness for a day now. The sleep never was deep enough to refresh him. He was aware he was no longer able to contemplate an escape. He would either be rescued or die here in this box.
His mind had been playing tricks on him: hallucinations, weird lights, and sounds. So when he heard his name whispered he didn’t react. The second time the voice was louder and more emphatic.
“Auger, you piece of fucking shit, are you in this fucking box or not?”
Auger twisted around to look at the back of his wooden prison. The back wall was solid wood; only the front had slats to allow air into the small space. Auger’s memory was triggered by the voice, it was familiar.
“Damn it, Auger, if you’re in there rap on the box with your fist. It’s Boone.”
Auger’s eyes opened wide. That voice, it was familiar because he knew that voice. He freed an arm and knocked on the wall three times. “I’m in here, I’m here!”
Oby and Matt had been studying the back of the box. They didn’t know if there was a lock on the opening, but they didn’t have a way to remove the lock anyway. Shooting it off would wake up a hornet’s nest of shit in the camp below.
Boone pulled out his Leatherman tool and began to separate the one-piece wood backing by wedging the tool in between the seam and rocking it back and forth.
Matt took his knife and did the same thing on the other corner while Oby maintained security. It was five twenty-eight. Three minutes past the time they told the assault team they’d be done, and the sun was filling the jungle with light all around them.
The creaking of the wooden panel seemed like a siren going off, but they were committed now. The back came off in two pieces, and suddenly they were looking at Auger’s shredded shoes.
“Fuck you, too,” Auger said hoarsely. “Now get me the fuck out of here.”
Matt and Boone pulled the senior chief out a few inches at a time, while in the background Matt heard the camp waking up. Men’s voices, metal clanging. When was the assault going to hit the camp?
Once Auger was out of the box, they continued to drag him to the tree line and another four to five feet beyond that. Matt set him upright in a sitting position. Auger’s eyes opened in shock.
“You? What the fuck. It’s you?”
“Hi, senior chief.” Matt gave the man a hug. “We can catch up later. Right now I need to get you as far away from this place as possible. All hell is about to break loose.”
Auger’s response was interrupted by the sound of a SAW machine gun stitching a line of death across the center of camp. The attack had begun. “Move!” Matt pulled Auger to his feet and followed Oby as the point man punched through the dense foliage heading northeast.
If the assault went sideways, the guerillas would be swarming the jungle looking for their precious hostages. Matt’s improvised plan was to move fast, putting distance between them and the camp. Once in a safe location, they could always make comms and call in an emergency extract. For now, it was time to haul ass.
The escort from the camp had been waiting at the rendezvous point for his special visitor for hours. Their leader was excited. He’d never met Chavez, and it was certainly a great honor to meet him personally and escort him into their camp.
The rumor going around was that Chavez was coming in to kill the hostages himself. He was smart enough to know Chavez would be angry if anything happened to the two Americans, but especially the older man.
Once in camp, the guerillas had quickly matched General Alexander’s photo to the taller American. They assumed the second American was either an assistant or a survivor of the personal protection detail ambushed a week earlier.
He’d ordered the general moved today into the interior of the camp, closer to the entrance. He’d be standing there when he brought Chavez in from the jungle.
He’d already received a radio signal from the patrol escorting Chavez telling him they’d be at the rendezvous location in fifteen minutes. He tried to relax by getting his mind off the impending visit. He liked his life; it was simple, but again everybody in Colombia led a simple life.
His position in the guerilla army gave him dignity and a sense of purpose. He was a good leader, trusted and respected by his men. If he handled himself well today, he might even get a chance to work for Chavez. They all knew Chavez looked for talent; and if chosen, a man could advance as a member of the drug lord’s inner circle.
At the very least he should receive a promotion. A promotion meant being put in charge of more men, possibly a sector of his very own to control. It wasn’t about money or rank. It was about power. He was ready, and maybe, just maybe, Chavez would think so, too.
A sound reached his ears, something different, a sound coming from the direction he expected Chavez. His eyes widened as the sound grew louder; he knew this sound. The Americans! Just then a long, ripping sound of machine-gun fire filled the morning air behind him.
The two MH-60s flew in low, skimming twenty feet over the water, one helicopter at point and the second close behind. The lead helicopter used its advanced navigation system to determine the exact location of the insertion point.
The light from the blossoming dawn helped the army pilot to identify key terrain features in the jungle and the surrounding hills. According to the map, the large bend in the river corresponded with the bend in the trail.
The insertion plan was going to lean heavily on established procedures. Nothing fancy. Pop up off the water to an altitude of a hundred feet when they were three hundred yards short of the loop in the trail. The Black Hawk shifted upward in small increments until it reached the right altitude. His co-pilot pointed ahead. The bend was easily distinguishable.
In clipped professional tones, the lead helicopter pilot explained to the trailing aircraft where he was and what he was about to do. At the same time, the little birds were attacking the camp, providing the confusion the SEALs needed to insert nearby.
The lead Blackhawk banked hard right at the bend in the river. He slowed down and eased his nose up slightly. The crew chief reported the bend in the trail, ten seconds to go. The pilot gained a visual and began the maneuver to slide the helicopter sideways until it was directly over the terrain feature below.
The crew chief yelled, “GO!”
Jared was the last man down the fast rope. A few yards away, the second helicopter was unloading the chief and the rest of FOXTROT Platoon. Jared’s troop held security until the two Blackhawks rose up into the air and flew away. He knew they wouldn’t go far.
