Jack Terral - Seals (2005)

Brannigan went straight to the subject at hand when he addressed his small staff. "Two things going down, gentlemen. When Commander Carey back in Isolation told us this mission had the potential to evolve into something a hell of a lot more complicated, he wasn't just whistling Dixie. We're getting a resupply drop at" he checked his watch" eighteen-thirty hours. That's less than an hour away."

"Great!" Cruiser commented. "I was starting to sweat the ammo and chow inventory."

"As was I," Brannigan said. "And I'm in no fucking mood to start living off the land." He scanned the message again. "Now this second bit is going to curl your toes. We are tasked with rescuing a couple of hostages being held down there in that warlord's compound."

"Our reconnaissance and the sketch map we updated will come in handy, sir," the senior chief said. "We noted they was two prisoners being held in one of them supply storage containers. They must be the hostages. We're gonna have to skirt the village and go through the vehicle park to get to it."

"Good to know," Brannigan said. "But first things first. We've got to concentrate on the resupply." He turned to Cruiser. "Figure out a good DZ up here on the ridge, and put out some panels. It'll still be light when the aircraft comes in."

"Aye, sir," Cruiser replied. "What kind of airplane is it going to be? And will they use parachutes or just dump the stuff out as they whip by?"

"Why should they give us all that information, Jim?" Brannigan said with a sardonic grin. "We're just the poor dumb bastards in the OA. If they dropped all that shit on our heads, we would be expected to be grateful just the same."

Cruiser got to his feet. "I'll get the panels."

"In the meantime, I'll use that sketch map to figure out some brilliant tactics to rescue those prisoners," Brannigan said. He nodded to the senior chief. "Stick around."

"Aye, sir."

.

1815 HOURS LOCAL

THE members of the crack AFSOC are little known by the American public. When the average citizen turns his mind to Special Forces, he thinks of SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers and Force Recon. He is unaware that there exist dedicated people in the United States Air Force who play a vital role in all SPECOPS. Those other, better known outfits would have a tough time without their courageous support. AFSOC provides infiltration and exfiltration services, resupply, fire support in combat situations and merciful MEDEVAC and rescue services at the risk of their own lives.

One of the aircraft vital in these services is the MH-53J Pave Low helicopter. This extraordinary aircraft is equipped with FUR that allows it to fly at low altitudes at night to arrive right on target. As well as having one of the most sophisticated navigation systems in the world, it can go six hundred miles without refueling. The choppers and their elite crews have proven themselves over and over, from the time of Desert Storm, where they led U. S. Army Apache helicopters in to destroy Iraqi radar positions, all the way through to the current campaigns in the Iraqi War and Afghanistan.

LIEUTENANT Bill Brannigan sat next to Frank Gonzales at the Shadowfire radio. He glanced out at the DZ that Cruiser and Chief Gunnarson had hastily organized with panels. They also had some smoke grenades handy, though no signal arrangements had been made for the use of the pyrotechnic devices. Brannigan had decided to follow the usual procedures, i. E., green smoke meant go, yellow smoke indicated go around again, and red was the signal to abort the mission.

The Shadowfire came to life with the voice of one of the Pave Low's six-man crew. "Delta Zulu, this is Chopper. We are fifteen minutes out. Supplies are on three pallets and will be pushed out the ass end at an altitude of zero-zero-low. We've been apprised of your coordinates, but we need an azimuth. Over."

Brannigan grabbed the mike. "Chopper, this is Delta Zulu. We have laid out panels indicating direction of flight. Use them as your first target. Azimuth is sweet and simple. Fly due north. Over."

"This is Chopper. Out."

.

1830 HOURS LOCAL

THE Pave Low could be seen flying south, then it made a slow turn and lined up on the crest of the ridge. Immediately it began spewing countermeasure flares that blossomed thickly and brightly around it. The pilot brought it in at such a low altitude that the aircraft appeared to be almost on the deck. Just as it passed over Cruiser's panels, the first bundled pallet slid out and hit the ground, skidding forward. Then a second and third quickly followed. With the load delivered, the power was increased and the aircraft made a rapid climb and turn as it sped back up to altitude.

The platoon members rushed out to the pallets, unbuckling the heavy nylon straps holding the bundles to the wooden platforms. The rations and ammunition issues were greatly appreciated. But the unexpected four cases of beer put there by the thoughtful Air Force crew elicited cheers of sincere gratitude.

.

2200 H0URS LOCAL

THE supplies--and beer--had been distributed among the four fire teams, and now the entire platoon was gathered in a semicircle around the CP for the briefing on the hostage rescue mission. All the extra weapons and ammo had been packed away, and the men, each with a six-pack of Michelob, were in a good mood as they waited for the skipper to begin the briefing for the upcoming operation.

Brannigan took a sip from a can of beer, then raised it high. "Here's to the magnificent guys of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command. God bless 'em!"

"God bless 'em!" came back the shouts with fifteen cans raised high in a toast to their comrades-in-arms of the flying branch.

"Now hear this!" Brannigan said. "Let's get down to business. The mission requires us to get into that warlord's compound and pull out two poor bastards he's holding there for ransom. I'll discuss the details of my OPORD following personnel assignments. Listen up!"

Both chief petty officers gave the platoon a careful look to make sure everyone was paying attention in spite of guzzling beer.

"A diversion will be created by the entire Second Squad," Brannigan continued. "Meanwhile the First Squad will move in and set up firing positions as close to the compound wall as possible. I will take Assad and Leibowitz with me over the wall and into the compound to the storage container where the prisoners are locked up. We'll get 'em out of there and over the wall. We'll join up with the rest of the squad and move to a rendezvous area where the Second Squad will join us. From there we come back here. Any questions so far?"

Chad Murchison raised his hand. "Are the hostages going to be exfiltrated from the base camp any time soon?"

"I don't know at this point," Brannigan said. "Once we have 'em here, we'll radio into SOCOM in Bahrain. Someone will have to make a decision:' He checked his notes. "All right! Here's the execution phase of the mission."

Everyone instinctively leaned forward.

Chapter 8

OPERATIONAL AREA SECOND SQUAD

17 AUGUST

0030 HOURS LOCAL

THE entire Second Squad, under the command of Lieutenant Jim Cruiser, had spent three careful hours traveling across the barren area between East Ridge and the warlord's compound. The night vision goggles were helpful in finding their way under the cloudy night sky, and they traversed the terrain, showing green-white through the viewing devices, as rapidly as security precautions allowed. They knew the mujahideen would be nervous and angry in this volatile situation. That meant the ragheads on guard duty would be especially edgy and watchful at night. Thus, any careless sound such as an inadvertently kicked rock or one piece of equipment banging against another could bring salvos of incoming fire on the SEALs.

Now, sweat-soaked from the dangerous trek, the Second Squad was two hundred meters from the southeast portion of the walls around the warlord's compound. This put them in a position exactly opposite of where the First Squad would be located during the hostage rescue portion of the mission. Bruno Puglisi had one of the French mortars slung over his muscular left shoulder while his M-16/M-203 hung on the right. Joe Miskoski had been chosen to be his assistant gunner, and he had rigged haversacks from a couple of the ammo packs for use in carrying the shells. They both breathed the proverbial sighs of relief when the squad reached its objective and they could drop the extra weaponry to set up a mortar emplacement.