Jack Terral - Seals (2005)

The PRC-112 in the commander's hand came to life. "Brigand One, this is Falcon Four. We're fully briefed by the Navy aircraft. Get your heads down! Over."

A trio of F-16s came in low, speeding toward the enemy on the east side. MK-83 GP bombs were loosed and fell in gentle arcs to the ground. The resultant explosions swept down that part of the mujahideen lines in orange and black flashes of fire and smoke. The Air Force flight made a steep turn and came back to begin a series of strafing runs that spewed 20-millimeter rounds from the M-61 guns mounted on each aircraft. They continued the attack for fifteen minutes, until their ammunition was expended. Then they formed up and made a wide circle around the area.

"Brigand One, this is Falcon Four," came over the radio. "Our view of the target area indicates it is destroyed. Over."

"This is Brigand One," Brannigan replied. "From where we sit that is great news. Over."

"Anything else we can do for you? Over."

Brannigan grinned. "Are they all dead? Over."

"I'd say them that wasn't wished they was," the pilot replied. "We think a helicopter may have gotten away but we destroyed the other. Anyhow, we'll turn you back to that Navy guy. Good luck. Out."

The next voice was from the aircraft that had followed the beacon signal to the site. "This is Ears Three. It looks like that part of the world belongs to you now. We've passed on your location and situation. Orders have been sent for us to relay to you. You are to remain where you are until contacted. Some choppers will be dispatched to your location. They should arrive tomorrow. Understand? Over."

"Affirmative," Brannigan said. "Who are you, Ears Three? Over."

"We're an EA-6B off the Jefferson," came back the answer.

Brannigan stood in humble silence. His wife and her friends flew EA-6Bs. Those were the same people he had shown so much contempt to back at the Officers' Club at North Island NAS.

.

0800 HOURS LOCAL

THE SEALs were in a line of skirmishers as they moved along the lines that now consisted of nothing more than dead, dying and wounded mujahideen. The weaponry of the F-16s had turned most of them into hunks of raw meat. None of the living offered resistance, only staring in fearful confusion at the men who had somehow destroyed them at a time when they had been assured of Allah's blessing and a quick victory. Most thought the airplanes belonged to the infidels who now walked so confidently among them. The Brigands dropped the canteens they had been using to pick up fresh ones from the conquered foe.

Brannigan noticed that the ragheads had state-of-the-art infantry weaponry and equipment. One platoon seemed to be fitted out in modern American webbing gear. They even had the letters "U. S." stenciled on them. A gift from the CIA back in the 1980s no doubt.

Lieutenant Jim Cruiser joined Brannigan as the tour of the enemy lines continued. Cruiser sighed and shrugged. "It's impossible to make an accurate prediction in regards to the fortunes of war, huh, sir?"

"Yeah," Brannigan agreed. "Did you notice the damaged chopper sitting over there? There was another one that flew out of here after the air support boys left."

"Yes, sir," Cruiser said. "They must have had it stashed out of harm's way. I suppose that means the big chief escaped."

"I hope what happened today is enough to defeat him," Brannigan said. "I sure as hell don't want to see another battalion of those sons of bitches charging over the hill."

"Amen to that!"

"I'm also wondering if we're finally going to be relieved when those choppers arrive tomorrow."

Mike Assad yelled at them from a hundred meters off to the left. "Sir!"

"What'd you find?" Brannigan shouted back.

Mike bent over and stood up, dragging an uninjured man to his feet. "It's a European, sir?'

"Bring him over here."

Mike pushed the survivor along in front of him, up to where the two officers waited. When the stranger arrived, he seemed to be dazed by the aerial attack that had pounded the enemy positions. He recovered slightly by shaking his head, then assumed the position of attention. He raised his hand in the Russian version of a salute, introducing himself in a thick accent. "I am Warrant Officer Gregori Ivanovich Parkolov. Soviet Army."

"There isn't any more Soviet Army," Brannigan said.

"I am prisoner of war," Parkolov, aka Mohammed Shariwal, said. "Warlord Khamami forcing me to be helicopter pilot. When American airplane attack, I run and hide. I want for to go home. I am here for many years." He pulled a faded red I. D. book from his pocket and opened to the front page, showing the Cyrillic writing to Brannigan. "Is my name and is my rank," he explained. An old photograph of a young, rather sad Russian soldier was beneath the printed words:

.

Brannigan could see that the younger man in the photo and the older man standing in front of him were one and the same. "All right," he said. "What do you want from me?"

"I tell you I want go home," Parkolov said.

"I'll see what can be done for you," Brannigan said. "But right now consider yourself a prisoner of war."

"Of course," Parkolov said. He grinned. "I know how to be prisoner. I got lots of experience."

"I'll bet you do," Brannigan said. "And I have a few questions to ask about your former captors. The first is: will they be back here with reinforcements?"

The Russian shook his head. "Nyet--no. You have defeated them. The leader and his staff have run to hide."

"All right," Brannigan said. He gestured to Senior Chief Dawkins. "I'll let you do the rest of the interrogation."

"Aye, sir," Dawkins said. He took the prisoner by the arm. "Let's go, Russki."

Parkolov was deliriously happy. "May I have American cigarette please? Maybe you are having Lucky Strike, nyet?"

Chapter 20

THE BATTLEFIELD 1 SEPTEMBER

0800 HOURS LOCAL

THE platoon stood in the midst of the shrapnel-slashedand-burned corpses that were dismembered and scattered around the area in grotesque positions. Many were naked, their clothing blown off by the violence of the aerial bombardment.

The "chop-chop" sounds of a half dozen UH-60 Black-hawk helicopters approaching in trail could be heard in the distance. When the aircraft were within a kilometer, four of them broke off from the formation, while two came straight in. All six settled down to gentle landings, and when the four that had separated from the flight touched the ground, a squad of 101st Airborne Division troopers came out of each one. The soldiers formed up in two columns, then marched out to take up security positions around the area.

The other two choppers had settled down close to where the fourteen SEALs awaited them. Two figures disembarked from the nearest, walking rapidly toward the spot where Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser waited. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Latrelle, the Army civil affairs officer, and Afghanistan government envoy Zaid Aburrani came to a sudden stop when they finally noted they had walked into the midst of charred and mutilated human carnage.

"Holy Mother of God!" Latrelle exclaimed. "Did you guys do all this?"

"Well, part of it," Brannigan said, offering his hand. "The F-16s did most of the killing. How are you, sir? It's nice to see you again."

"Same here," Latrelle said. "You remember Mr. Aburrani, do you not?"

"Certainly," Brannigan said.

The Afghan shook hands with the two SEAL officers. "Your victory is complete, gentlemen. You have every reason to be proud of yourselves."

"Not exactly," Brannigan said. "The big chief got away. All we've got is a prisoner of war, and he's a Russian who claims to have been held by the mujahideen and forced to fly a helicopter for them. He told me the warlord escaped in the one surviving chopper. His two field commanders are evidently among the dead." Brannigan turned and waved at Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and Chad Murchison. The two had a man between them, and they brought him over.