Jack Terral - Seals (2005)

"I'm not sure, John. But it would be a start." He looked over at Zinkowski, thinking that back in the old country she would be Zinkowska. "Try Afghanistan plus Durtami. The last one is spelled D-U-R-T-A-M-I."

Zinkowski's fingers flew over the keyboard, then she pressed ENTER. "It's come up," she announced.

"Print it out, please," Commander Jones said.

Seconds later the Lexmark Optra E312 printer buzzed on a table in the corner of the room, then began printing ten pages of data. When it finished, Zinkowski went over and got the document, carrying it to Colonel Turnbull. He read it, then passed it over to Commander Jones.

Jones took the pages. "Ah! A SEAL operation. A platoon is in the area to pick up a defector." He flipped over to the last page. "They're also expected to be ready for any additional missions assigned them. They're still in-country." He shoved the report over to Joplin.

The State Department undersecretary settled back and read the official cold, almost indifferent words that described a dangerous mission to pick up an indigenous defector. He knew the operative name Ishaq from other Middle Eastern missions. Joplin was intrigued by the contingency that the mission could be expanded because of the unstable situation in the OA. He took out his pen and wrote a few lines across the top of page one, then put his signature under it and on all the other pages. He nodded to Turnbull and Jones.

"You are now authorized to put in an order that the SEAL platoon in the area is to affect a rescue of the two hostages held by the Afghanistan warlord named Ayyub Durtami. Further instructions will follow."

Turnbull glanced at Zinkowski. "Do the paperwork." "Yes, sir!"

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WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP

16 AUGUST

0600 HOURS LOCAL

THE mortar round hit during the middle of the morning watch, detonating a hundred meters down the far side of the mountain. Since Delta Fire Team was on watch, Chief Matt Gunnarson was at the CP acting as duty petty officer. His LASH headset immediately buzzed with simultaneous transmissions from Adam Clifford and Bruno Puglisi.

"Ever'body shut up but Puglisi," he said back. "What the hell's going on?"

Another round exploded a hundred and fifty meters to the south. "There's some rat bastard moojee-hadeen shooting funny little mortars down in the valley from the base of East Ridge," Puglisi reported. "Looks like two crews. Are they coming in close up there?"

"Negative," Gunnarson replied. 'They either can't hit shit or they're not sure of our exact location."

"It's prob'ly a little of both," Puglisi opined. "They're kinda spastic with them things."

"Can you reach them with your M-203?"

"Negative, Chief," Puglisi said. "They're out of range."

"You guys stand fast and keep your heads down," Gunnarson said. He glanced over at the Skipper, who was looking at him quizzically. He made a quick report. At that moment the senior chief came up, just as two shells struck on the opposite side of the mountain.

"Get your Bravos together, Senior Chief," Brannigan ordered. "That incoming is from a couple of mortars out there in the valley. You can get the exact locations from Puglisi. Evidently they're out of range of the M-203s, so you'll have to take 'em down with your CAR-15s. And that means paying them a personal visit."

"Aye, sir," Senior Chief Dawkins said. "Although I hate to just barge in without an invitation." He gave the Skipper a salute, then turned to trot over toward the Bravo positions while another explosion, too far away to do any harm, went off. "On your feet, Bravos. There's a couple of mortars that want knocked out."

In the passing of only a few short moments he was leading Connie Concord, Gutsy Olson and Chad Murchison on a circuitous route down the side of the mountain toward the valley.

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0635 H0URS LOCAL

THE Bravos worked their way a short distance up the side of East Ridge, and found cover and concealment within a hundred meters of the mortars. They had an excellent view of the two weapons as the mujahideen made adjustments, then dropped the small shells down the tube.

"Jesus!" Connie Concord whispered through his LASH headset. "Them little mortars don't make hardly no sound at all."

"There isn't a flash either," Chad Murchison remarked. "And they don't just drop the shell down the tube. They pull a trigger there to fire it."

"That means a cartridge of some kind is involved," Connie said, thinking out loud.

Gutsy Olson, who had been sent a bit higher to recon the mountainside, now came back. "Them dumb bastards don't have no protection on the flanks. They're out there all by themselves just having a ball."

"Okay," Dawkins said. "Me and Murchison will take the far crew. Concord and Olson take the near one. Semi-auto. Let's make this fast. On my command." Everyone took aim, and an instant later the senior chief said, "Fire!"

Four of the six men on the site were hit by the single shots pumped into their midst. The other two, with one limping badly from a wound, abandoned the position to scramble higher up into the rocks. The SEALs rushed down toward the now abandoned mortar position, and the senior chief sent Gutsy and Chad to chase after the pair of escapees.

After examining the four sprawled corpses, Connie picked up one of the mortars. "I'll be damned!"

The senior chief gave it a close inspection. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this."

"Me and Puglisi know this baby," Connie said. "We even fired it a few times when we went back to Fort Bragg for that weapons training at the Special Warfare Center." He tossed it to the senior chief. "See how light it is? Ten and a half pounds. It's nothing much more than a tube with little bitty base plate. See the carrying strap? You can sling that baby over your shoulder about as easy as a rifle."

"The damn thing is almost silent:'

"Yeah," Connie said. "It's French. They call it the Fly-K. The ammo is fifty-one-millimeter and only weighs a couple of pounds."

Chad and Gutsy came back, and the latter made the report. "The wounded guy that was limping collapsed. I guess he bled to death. His buddy got up too high in them rocks for us to follow. He's prob'ly hauling ass over the top of the ridge by now."

"Okay," the senior chief said. "Our job is done here. Let's police up these two mortars and them ammunition pouches. How many of them is there?"

Connie counted. "Ten, Senior Chief. Each holds five rounds. That gives us fifty."

"There's a couple over here that are opened," Chad said. "One is empty and the other has three rounds in it."

"Bring it along," Dawkins ordered. "We can split up the weight between us. These sweet li'l babies could come in handy."

"Puglisi is gonna be surprised to see all this," Connie said.

"Yeah," Dawkins said. He smirked at Connie. "God! You said, 'Little bitty base plates.' You make it all sound so cutesy."

"Well, shit, Senior Chief," Connie said with a frown, "they are little bitty!"

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BASE CAMP CP

1730 H0URS LOCAL

FRANK Gomez hurried from his commo site, across the ridge line to report to the skipper. He plopped down in front of the platoon commander and shoved a message pad page at him. "Big doings, sir!"

Brannigan took the paper and quickly perused the missive written in the radio operator's neat block printing style. "Damn!" He looked over at the small smokeless fire where Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were diligently boiling water for coffee. "Assad! Go fetch Lieutenant Cruiser and the chiefs!"

"Aye, sir!"

Mike leaped to his feet and rushed over to make a circuit of Bravo, Charlie and Delta Fire Teams. In less than a minute-and-a-half he was back with the lieutenant, Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson. He returned to his buddy Dave just in time to have a canteen cup of hot coffee handed to him.