The warrior code, p.23
The Warrior Code, page 23
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
The Blackhawk door gunners had picked up the tempo of the air assault over the camp. He needed a sitrep. Chief Sampson had pointed to a body in the center of the perimeter when Matt initially asked where the officer in charge was.
He’d never met Jared Stone, but grieving for a fallen brother would have to wait. General Alexander was the mission, and with nineteen SEALs and air support, there was still a good chance they could succeed.
Matt spoke up, “Chief, I know this is an awkward moment, but I’m taking command of FOXTROT Platoon. We had more than enough strength to make a rescue attempt and we owe it the general. We don’t leave our warriors behind.”
The chief was relieved. He wanted payback almost as much as he wanted to complete the mission. “Okay, sir. What’s the plan?”
Chapter Forty-One
Chavez halted the escort patrol leader for the tenth time. They were lost. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the map of the camp area. Without navigation aids, their big hook movement had become a wandering noodle. They should have found the camp by now; but when the helicopters stopped shooting, he’d lost his reference point.
Chavez opened his eyes and grabbed the patrol leader. They would turn hard left and walk until they found the river. Then once at the river, they would turn left and that way they’d find the camp.
He gave the order and the patrol began moving again. A minute or so later, the American aircraft began shooting again. He needed to keep that sound to his left and that would guide them to the Ariari.
The patrol leader brought his welcoming committee into the camp at a run. The bunkers were crude, deep holes in the earth lined with logs, but they were positioned away from the center of camp and therefore difficult to see and strike from the air. He asked where the camp commander was, and a terrified teenager wearing a camouflage shirt pointed to the next bunker.
The patrol leader sprinted to the next bunker and found his commander. He poured out the story of his patrol’s attempt to meet Chavez and his escort only to witness a vicious gun battle. He told him he wasn’t sure if Chavez or any of the escort patrol survived.
The camp commander waited a moment before responding. When he did, the patrol leader felt a huge weight fall off his shoulders. He was ordered back to the other bunker; he was no longer responsible for anyone but himself.
Oby led the long line of determined SEALs back through the jungle heading for their earlier observation point above camp. He was being cautious, but moved fast. Matt watched his point man’s back, but his brain was working overtime. His plan was simple, but nothing in combat was simple and Murphy’s Law was always in play.
He intended to place Oby and the two FOXTROT snipers on the hill overlooking the camp. Their job was to find the general and, when Matt started the assault, to kill any guerilla within thirty yards of the hostage.
Matt had briefed the Blackhawk pilots and they were onboard. Matt would take sixteen SEALs down to the river and turn right until they assembled on the edge of the camp. On his signal, the SEALs would run out and stretch across the open area where the camp met the riverbank before pivoting right. As one long skirmish line, they would sweep the camp from the water to the main gate.
The Blackhawks’ task was to keep the Colombians pinned down long enough for Matt’s new command to cover the fifty yards, killing everything in their way. If all went according to plan, the snipers would preserve the general’s life and the SEALs seeping up would find the hostage and rescue him. Matt didn’t need to secure the camp or defeat everyone there. His mission focus was the general.
Matt watched Oby and the two other SEAL snipers detach from the patrol and head up to their firing point on the hill. He waited a minute or so to give them time to cover the thirty yards to the top of the hill, then moved forward. Boone assumed the point man position, and the SEALs patrolled in silence for another two minutes.
Above their heads, the Blackhawks continued their race track orbit above the camp. There were few targets now; the guerillas were staying under cover and many had run away. Boone froze and sunk down low to the ground. Matt and the long string of warriors behind him copied the point man’s body language.
A few seconds later, he turned slightly to wave Matt up to the front. Matt crouched low and slid up next to Oby. “There you go, boss. The camp stretches that way, across the gap, for about seventy yards. If the guys space themselves out in five-yard chunks, they’ll be able to cover all of the exposed riverbank.”
Matt studied the camp and agreed with his point man’s assessment. He turned and whispered his final instructions to the man behind him in patrol order. The man standing behind him was Senior Chief Auger, and he was carrying a SAW.
Matt realized it must have belonged to the wounded machine gunner in FOXTROT. Well, better to have the senior chief along for the ride as a fighter rather than a liability.
Auger turned and passed the word down the line. Matt waited another sixty seconds before standing up. Boone stepped off to the right side, and Matt motioned for Auger to join them on the side of the trail. He called Chief Sampson up and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“Good luck!”
Sampson grunted, took a deep breath, then let it out. Matt thought the senior enlisted SEAL was having second thoughts; but in the blink of an eye, he was gone, sprinting as fast as he could run to the opposite end of the camp.
The rest of the SEALs chased after Sampson. The Blackhawks saw the move and opened fire on the camp’s perimeter bunkers, forcing the guerillas to eat dirt and hopefully giving the SEALs a chance to get into position before they had to fight.
Oby had his spotter scope set up and would act as spotter and shooter for the three-man sniper element. He scanned the camp from the water to the camp entrance. As he was doing so he missed Chief Sampson’s sprint along the riverbank. He focused on the area around the only substantial building in the camp, which he presumed was the headquarters structure. It had windows and, fortunately, they were open toward his point of view. Inside, on a chair, sat General Alexander.
Oby told his two partners and they confirmed they could see the general through their scopes. There was no one else in the building; the guerillas were all hiding in the dirt bunkers outside. He briefed them on the drill and that is when he spotted the long skirmish line stretching from one end of the river opening to the other.
The Blackhawks had accomplished their objective. The SEALs were able to deploy without being engaged. Oby watched Matt, Boone, and Senior Chief Auger trot into the center position of the line, and as they did so the SEALs began to move.
Oby didn’t need the spotter scope anymore. The three snipers adjusted their bodies into a firing posture and snugged their rifles onto their shoulders. Oby took a breath and let it out slowly.
He felt his pulse and watched the end of his barrel move slightly in rhythm with the blood coursing through his veins. If anyone even took so much as a step in the direction of the building, they’d be dead before their body hit the ground.
Matt jogged along keeping pace with the formation. It reminded him of the first phase of BUD/S when he’d learned how to do a beach survey. All the students were dropped from a speed boat. The twenty or so swimmers were to swim away from each other and get online, twenty-five-yard intervals between each man.
The student in charge would move them forward in twenty-five-yard chunks until they reached the beach. Once there, the entire formation shifted right and headed out to sea. The students collected depth soundings all the way in and all the way out. The drill was always a total mess.
Some swimmers swam too fast and others too slow. Matt was watching closely for this same problem to manifest as the skirmish line advanced deeper into the camp.
Chief Sampson was doing his part to keep the left part of the line in order, and Matt had to wave the right side back twice to keep the line straight. They were thirty yards into the camp when someone finally spotted the SEALs and the shit hit the fan.
Matt opened up and it was as if a timed explosion had been set off. The SEALs of FOXTROT Platoon were out for blood. Every man was advancing, riflemen picking point targets and SAW gunners sweeping the guerilla positions.
The Blackhawks broke off their attack, fearful they might hit the advancing special operators. One took station to act as a blocking force further up the trail in the jungle while the second aircraft orbited the riverfront.
The pilot in the second helicopter saw two bodies left behind by the SEALs, two men wounded or KIA. He radioed the DEA camp to expect more casualties.
Oby spotted a guerilla running to the headquarters building. Apparently, someone realized their ace in the hole was tied up inside. He took up the slack in his trigger, but the gun next to him cracked and jumped before he could shoot. Oby saw the runner drop and remain still.
“Nice shot!” Oby observed.
“Anytime you want some instruction, old timer, just let me know.” The younger SEAL cracked a smile.
“Fuck you, man child,” Oby responded. It was game on. All he needed was a few targets to teach the punk a lesson.
The FARC camp commander directed the men in his bunker to focus on the center of the approaching line. He had spotted the man with blond hair giving commands, and he knew that removing the Americans’ leader might break up the attack.
Matt suddenly felt the pressure of rounds zipping all around him, tearing up the ground but only around him. It took a second for him to determine their origin. They knew he was in command and they were trying to decapitate the attacking force.
He gave the command for the left side to leapfrog forward. As they moved the right side of the long line provided covering fire. Once the lead group reached their objective, they went to ground and opened fire, allowing Matt and the right side to stand up and advance.
On the hill, Oby saw a man in the bunker to the far left of the camp entrance waving his hands around. The other men in the dirt pit were deferring to him and reacting to his commands. Oby aimed one mil dot to the left of the man’s head and fired.
Oby watched the camp commander flip sideways in mid-sentence. Two of his men had acted on his last command and were already out of the bunker, sprinting for the headquarters building.
The FARC camp commander’s eyes were staring blindly up into the overhanging jungle canopy. Oby looked through his spotting scope. No one else was picking up the reins of leadership.
The SEAL sniper farthest from Oby marked his target. “I’ve got the squirter on the right.”
The other FOXTROT sniper responded, “ROGER - I’ve got the one on the left.”
Both long guns fired at the same time. Seventy yards away and down the hill, both guerillas took rounds in the center of their chests. After sixty seconds of direct assault, the hostage was still safe. So far so good.
Matt got up for the last time and ran forward. His side of the line was now at the cluster of buildings; so when he went down, he refrained from firing and took stock of their situation. He saw three bodies lying in front of the headquarters building, testimony to his plan to protect the general using his snipers.
The left side of his new command was up and running directly at the closest bunker. The SEALs threw grenades as they closed the distance, and once on the lip of the dirt hole they fired into it for a second before shifting fire to the next bunker. There were five such defensive positions, and each was assaulted in much the same way.
Matt pointed to the entrance to the camp where the trail ended at the camp perimeter. He had Senior Chief Auger and two others secure access to the camp and then took three men into the headquarters building. The firing behind him ended abruptly. The camp belonged to the SEALs.
Chief Sampson called in the Blackhawk to evacuate two of his men who were hit during the assault. The wounds were not life-threatening, but both men were hit in the leg so they couldn’t move on their own. He left a small perimeter around the wounded SEALs and jogged over to the headquarters building.
Matt went into the building and directed his teammates to untie the general. The older man was unconscious and beat up pretty badly. Bruises and cuts covered the general’s body. He was pale and Matt yelled for a corpsman. They lay the general on the floor as one of the FOXTROT Platoon corpsmen entered the building. He immediately checked the man’s vital signs.
“Weak pulse and possible concussion. He’s lost a lot of blood, but my biggest concern is sepsis. He’s been in the jungle for two weeks, and this is a bad environment be exposed to in his condition.”
Chief Sampson entered the building and appraised the scene in front of him before reporting to Matt. “I have a Blackhawk coming in to evacuate two of my--I mean our--men. We need to get the general out there, too. I’d like to send half my guys, say five, out with the bird. The other Blackhawk is staying on station to provide whatever services we request.”
Matt nodded. “That sounds like a good plan, chief. Can I ask a favor?”
“Shoot, LT.”
“Take Senior Chief Auger, too. He’s manning a SAW at the main camp entrance. He’s operating on pure adrenalin, but he’s bound to crash soon if he hasn’t already.”
“Sure thing, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Chavez fell hard. His plan had worked; they’d found the river. The downside was the effort it was taking to bash and crash his way through the much denser vegetation close to the water. He was exhausted but not demoralized.
The six men traveling with him were not saying much. They’d all heard the massive escalation in gunfire at the camp, and after three minutes, the eerie quiet that followed. He wiped his brow and redoubled his efforts to reach the camp.
As the pilot turned for what must have been his twentieth orbit over the river, the right side door gunner reported armed Colombians on the riverbank. The enemy combatants were only fifteen yards from the camp perimeter and definitely moving toward and not away from the camp.
“We are still weapons-free, gentlemen. Let’s do a gun run. Standard figure eight flight pattern. The right side is up first then left side. How copy?”
The two door gunners rogered up and braced themselves. The figure eight maneuver was a dynamic roller coaster ride that allows first one side then the other to fire at the ground. The pilot shot out of the orbit and flew away from the camp and downriver before pitching over and racing back toward the enemy patrol.
On the hill overlooking the camp, Oby was collecting his gear, getting ready to link up with the rest of the SEALs down below. He watched the Blackhawk turn up the river and then come roaring back down river.
He heard rather than saw the M-240B firing from the right side of the helicopter. Then watched as the aircraft turned its nose up into the air and fell back to earth ending up with its nose pointed upriver. The left side door gunner was ripping the riverbank to shreds. Oby half wondered if they were just having fun.
A constant stream of machine-gun bullets were ripping apart the jungle all around Chavez. The ground at his feet came alive as it jumped and popped with the impact of the hundreds of rounds. His men tried to return fire, but half were wiped out with the first blast from the American helicopter.
After the second gun run, most of his guerrilla escort lay tossed about the jungle floor like rags dolls. A few were moving here and there, but most were dead. Chavez was furious. More bullets shredded the ground at Chavez’s feet, showering him with debris. He drove to the right and rolled, screaming a command.
“Open fire!”
There was nobody left alive to obey his command.
The Blackhawk helicopter landed in the center of the camp and waited as the SEALs loaded the two wounded men into the aircraft, followed by General Alexander. The rest of the men designated to leave climbed in and buckled up. Matt grabbed Senior Chief Auger by the arm and held him back.
“We need to spend some quality time over a beer when this is all over. It’s been way too long.”
Auger nodded. His face was etched with fatigue and he was unstable on his feet. The adrenalin had worn off, and the sum total of his ordeal challenged his ability to remain conscious.
“LT, we will definitely need to do that. But let’s make it a case of beer; we have a lot of things to catch up on!”
“Will do!” Matt responded with a grin.
“Hey boss, do me a favor.”
“Sure what do you need?”
“Get a message to the general. Tell him – Hardywood Bourbon Barrel Porter.”
Matt was confused. “What’s that?”
It’s my favorite beer, he’ll understand.”
Matt shook the senior chief’s hand and helped him into the helicopter. A few seconds later the Blackhawk rose up into the air, turned north, and then roared away, disappearing beyond the treetops. He looked at the river. Why was the second Blackhawk still attacking?
The second Blackhawk pilot asked the door gunners if there was any movement on the ground. The left side door gunner responded. “Sir, I think we should do one more run and then break contact. It’s time to get the SEALs off this target.”
The pilot acknowledged and then pushed the nose to the right in a tight turn. The Blackhawk screamed down the river dropping a little lower to get a better visual of the kill zone on the riverbank.
The right side door gunner had just finished reloading a belt of ammo into the gun and was waiting until the bodies came into view before firing. As he watched, a man staggered out of the trees lining the river and began moving toward the camp.
The M-240B burped a stream of fifty rounds into the lone target on the riverbank then put another thirty rounds into the area where the bodies were lying. The young staff sergeant didn’t realize it, but he’d just killed one of the worst drug lords in the world.
Boone put down the binoculars. He’d watched the last helicopter gun run and saw the guerilla at the edge of camp ripped apart in seconds.
