Exposure (Jackson Chase Novella Book 1) (9 page)

“
J
oe
,” I said. “Get on the horn to JSOC and let them know. They can push it up the chain to ISAF”. JSOC was the Joint Special Operations Command that ran special forces, which included SEALs. The ISAF was the International Security Assistance Force, the NATO coalition force that ran the allies’ ever-shrinking involvement in Afghanistan.

“We don’t have too many guys left there, Jackson. And they’re spread pretty thin. We might want to think about this a minute.”

I know why Joe wanted to pause. The situation in Afghanistan was different these days. We had truly passed the baton to their defense force and local police, and it was their job to defend the country. During the course of the US drawdown, they had essentially said thank you, but we can do this for ourselves now. And that meant it wasn’t our place to trample about telling them what to do. Add to that the growing tension between the US President and Karzai himself, and you had a situation where they could tell us to simply get lost.

“Joe,” I said, “I understand that it’s complicated. But we have knowledge of a possible attack on the president of a sovereign nation. It’s our responsibility to inform them, despite the frosty relationship. We need to do just that, and give them the choice to adjust security or not.”

Sterba nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I turned to Clark. “Can you get word to the right people at the Agency?”

“I can, but this might not be solid enough for them, or the Afghans for that matter.”

“Maybe not, but we have to try.”

“Agreed.”

I turned to Chen. “What’s the best way to find this truck?”

“If it isn’t giving out any targeting signals, very little.”

“How about visually? Can we look at satellite imagery, or something like that?” I asked.

I pointed to her computer, where she had a picture of the Grad on the screen. “I mean look at that thing. It’s positively gigantic. Surely we could use that.”

Chen thought for a second, and then began tapping on her computer.

“Maybe there is a way. Facial recognition software looks for geometries, certain angles and proportions, and calculates them against preset formulae. There are ways we can use that, to take the dimensions of the truck and make it recognizable.”

I thought for a second. “It’s going to be disguised. If the full National Assembly is meeting with the president, there will be plenty of security. Hell, the Taliban have tried to take out Karzai a half dozen times already. The disguise for the truck would need to be simple, something they can remove quickly. If they gave it a wrapping - maybe to look like a bread truck - the geometry should be really close.”

“They have bread trucks in Afghanistan?” Chen asked.

“Who knows. But we do know that most trucks in a city like that are small. We’re looking for the odd one. The one as big as a house.”

Sterba returned with a grim look on his face. “ISAF can’t move on this. Too thin for them.”

“What can they do?” I asked.

“Not much. They’re alerting local forces, but they can’t connect with Karzai’s security directly. Remember, a lot of the shine has worn off.”

“Can JSOC at least get us a ride there?”

“Nope. Nothing today.”

“Darn it.”

Landon returned from the living room where he had been making his calls.

“Langley has a few men on the ground in Kabul. They are going to notify the locals and begin to run their own search. But you know what it’s like there, Jackson. Big city, lots of torn up buildings, and plenty of places to hide.”

“Can you get a drone orbiting the palace site, covering a suitable radius?”

“Yes, I heard you and Haley talking. I’ve requested a UAV, which will give us better resolution than satellite.”

Chen looked up from her keyboard. “A drone would be perfect.”

“Nice work, Landon. How about getting us there.”

“Took care of that, too. We have a C-37 coming up from Singapore for us now. We can be wheels up in about six hours.”

“You can rustle up the Air Force’s version of a G-5 with just a couple of calls?” Joe asked, amazed.

“Even dinosaurs know a few tricks,” Clark replied.

O
ur eight hour
flight to Kabul was overnight, and we did our best to grab a few hours sleep not knowing what the morning would bring.

Two hours out, Chen was able to get a datalink with the UAV orbiting the palace. She sat in the sleek jet hunched over her computer, watching the screen turn pictures into numbers.

We knew chances of a hit were low. The Mullah’s forces would likely keep the Grad hidden from ground security that would be undoubtedly patrolling the city in advance of the event. It would be hidden in a patch of trees covered with camouflage netting or simply parked inside a warehouse or workshop.

Clark and Sterba were on and off the phone with their superiors, getting more frustrated by the minute.

“They’re not changing a thing,” Sterba admitted. “Karzai’s meeting with the National Assembly is still on. The Afghans think we’re overreacting to bad intel and need to butt out of their national business. And frankly, our forces aren’t too convinced, either.”

“The issue here is that Langley and JSOC haven’t heard anything about this threat other than our warnings. We’re not going to get any support other than the drone. If we get visual confirmation, they’re willing to step in,” Landon explained.

“By then it could be too late,” Sterba concluded.

We’d have to do this on our own. Assuming Chen could find the Grad, we needed quick mobility to the vehicle, and a way to defeat the men guarding and operating it.

And if the CIA and our special operations command wouldn’t help, there was one last card to play.

Sterba read my mind. “Any of your old squad mates still in town?”

W
e touched
down at Bagram Airfield, about 25 miles north of Kabul, at 06:30. As we taxied across the ramp to hangar Lima Six, the impact of the international draw down was clear. What was once a bustling city of its own, the massive airfield felt almost empty.

The aircraft hatch opened up to reveal an old, open top Land Rover. As the stairs unfolded, two men in battle dress hopped out of the vehicle and stood at attention as Clark, Chen, then Sterba debarked. I exited last.

When my feet hit the ground, I was greeted with two perfectly synchronized salutes and a “Welcome back, Lieutenant!” Firm enough to satisfy even the toughest drill sergeant.

I returned the salute, “No need to show off, lads. The Americans know you’re just a couple of bloody wankers!”

Chen and Clark looked aghast at my response.

Sterba knew better, and while he addressed me, his eyes were on the two men. “These boys from your silly little summer camp in New Zealand?”

One of the soldiers turned to me. “Is this the Hollywood poser Fish said would try to hit on us?”

Joe and the boys laughed. Blustering out of the way, I introduced Nigel Johns and Hahona Mana, otherwise known as Peeps and Hona, from the New Zealand SAS. By the looks on their faces, my former squadron mates seemed to be happier to see Lieutenant Commander Chen than yours truly.

“Get your tongues back in your mouths, boys.”

Peeps turned to me with a cheeky smile. “Right, then. Let’s get you set up.”

And with that, they took us to the hangar.

Through the door of the familiar space, I noticed how quiet it was. In my year-long Afghanistan tour with the SAS, the building was a hive of activity. We had thirty men here, along with a support staff of forty more. Today, only two men were left in country along with a few technicians to mind the gear.

I was, however, very pleased to see an MH-6 Little Bird front and center, just inside the main hangar doors. This egg-shaped helo was small, and great for weaving in and out of tight environments. It was perfect for what we had in mind.

“Poms were kind enough to loan it to us,” Hona said, pointing to the helo. The Poms were, in Kiwi slang, the British.

“Good on them. It’s perfect, Hona. Nice work.”

Turning to Chen, Hona said, “Commander, you can set up over there. You’ll have a secure link to your drone and radio contact with us.” He pointed to a set of tables containing tangles of wires and switches.

Turning back to me, he said, “We have some kit ready for you and the Chief. Over here.”

Sterba and I walked with him to the bunk area, where two bunks were covered with everything we’d need.

“Kit up, and we’ll meet by the Commander in ten.”

W
e met
at the tables where Chen had set up. And while not exactly the senior officer, I had assembled this little team, and someone had to take the lead.

“Ok, boys - and Commander, sorry - Karzai is due at Darul Aman Palace at 10:00 hours for a ribbon cutting, followed by a meeting with the full National Assembly. Mullah Zahir has purchased a BM-21 Grad multiple rocket launcher, and we suspect he will use it to take out Karzai and the Assembly at the palace today.

“Our mission is to locate the launcher and relay the location to the Afghan National Army. They’re skeptical it’s out there. But if it is, they want the takedown.

“Commander Chen will be here on the drone feed churning the images. As she gets likely targets, she will relay the coordinates to Sterbs, Peeps, Hona and I in the Little Bird for a closer look.”

“Afghan national forces have been alerted to our overflight, so they shouldn’t shoot us down. But this is Afghanistan, so you never know,” Peeps interrupted.

“Understood,” I said to Peeps. I then turned to Clark. “If we identify the launcher, you will call in the troops. Despite the drawdown, ISAF is still our point of contact. But go to the locals directly if they’re slow to react.”

Clark nodded.

“We will stay in the area to help coordinate ground forces. Peeps, Hona, and Sterbs will be ready to assist if necessary.

“Questions?”

“I have a couple dozen,” remarked Sterba. “But time is tight, so we’ll have to play this one loose.”

He wasn’t kidding. We were flying by the seat of our pants here. Frankly, I hoped our conclusion on how the pieces of the puzzle fit together were completely wrong, and this would be just another day.

F
rom the air
, the Darul Aman Palace was impressive. Ornate, newly planted gardens surrounded the stately building in a rectangular pattern, giving it the appearance of a storybook castle laid atop a beautifully colorful quilt. Beyond the grid of gardens, fields of crops spread for acres and acres in every direction. The framing effect they had only furthered the dramatic beauty of the palace built nearly one hundred years ago as King Amanullah Khan’s residence.

Flying at 1,000 feet AGL, we could easily make out the crowds of people that had gathered to watch the reopening of the palace that had been destroyed not once or twice, but three times in the last fifty years.

Unfortunately, we could also see that there were literally thousands of places to hide the BM-21 Grad. While east of the palace was largely farmland, to the north was a maze of small streets and buildings. And to the south and west, the clusters of trees tucked into every little crevice offered literally hundreds of places to stash the vehicle.

Hona and Peeps ride the Little Bird’s exterior troop benches. I knew they, too, were scanning the scene below.

Sterba sat next to me. His head twisted up to look through the glass canopy, likely trying to catch a glimpse of the orbiting UAV. Little chance of that, as the unarmed drone Clark had commissioned for us would be all but impossible to see.

“Dilbert better be good with her computer, because there are a lot of good spots to hide around here,” Sterba said over the intercom.

“I know. She’s going to have to catch it in transit to the place where they’re going to launch,” I replied.

“Which means she needs to be fast, and that UAV needs to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Where would you fire from?” I asked.

Sterba continued scanning outside the canopy.

“I’d want high ground. The city area is great for cover, but I wouldn’t have a sight on the target, and exfil would be tough.”

“Agreed. Avoids the sweeps through the streets the locals are doing for the event.”

I keyed the mic trigger on the cyclic all the way down, which put me on the radio channel we shared with the hangar, “Dilbert, Spear flight. We are going to focus on the hills to the southwest. Our best guess while we wait for you to call out likelies.”

“Roger, Hillary.” She seemed to put a lot of emphasis on that, obviously still upset about the call sign Sterbs had given. “Nothing yet. Will keep you appraised. Out.”

Hona came over the aircraft-only intercom. “She just call you ‘Hillary’?”

“Long story, Hona. Now keep your eyes out for the Grad.”

Two clicks came over the circuit, and all of our eyes began scouring the hillsides. Chen came up with two possible hits. Both were smaller trucks, though they had a similar silhouette.

The ribbon cutting was in less than 15 minutes. And in my mind, if you were going for a symbolic strike, that would be the time.

To fire the BM-21 Grad, the truck itself needed to be parked at an oblique angle to the target, lest the exhaust and fire coming out of the launching missiles melt the cab of the truck itself. Once the truck chassis was in a stable position, the box containing the 40 launch tubes would be rotated to the correct direction. Next, an optical rangefinder collects distance and elevation to target, which were used to calculate the angle of the launch pod.

Finally, the cables connecting the trigger device are connected at the rear of the vehicle. The Grad can be fired from the cab, though 40 9-foot rockets lighting off at about one per second right next to your head would be rather unpleasant. My bet was that most infantrymen opted for the fifty meters of cable that could be unrolled to trigger launch from a distance.

According to Chen’s research, this process takes a trained team of three just over three minutes. Given the fact that the Mullah’s men likely had very little training, I had to guess it would take them at least five minutes to set up and launch, if not ten.

Just as I was beginning to worry that we were spending too much time on the mountains, Chen came over the radio. “Hillary, I have another one for you. Hill’s right next to you. Come around to 250 degrees. Coordinates going to your nav ... now.”

A beep sounded through my headset, and a dot with location data appeared on one of the navigation displays.

“Roger,” I replied, and then toggled the radio to intercom. “One klick to Chen’s next target. Look down the port side.”

I banked the Little Bird slightly right, following Chen’s course. Two minutes later, we approached the rounded top of a ridge that ran north to south. A dirt road wound up the east side, terminating in a cloud of dust.

The wind pushing up from the warming valley below blew the dust away to reveal the nose of a truck. And, as we watched, revealed the rectangular pod of launch tubes.

I maintained my course parallel to the ridge as if we hadn’t seen the truck. Our distance was enough that I hoped we’d gone unnoticed.

“Tally ho at your coordinates, Dilbert. It’s the Grad.”

“Roger,” she said. “Images and coordinates have been sent to ISAF and the Afghan National Army. Landon is on the phone with them now. Wait one.”

I clicked the mic twice.

Once we were ten kilometers away, I turned left and went into a slow orbit. I didn’t want to spook them.

“Dilbert, Hona,” came over the comm net. “Can you take a closer look at the large patch of brush about half way up the south side of the ridge’s terminus? Wondering if I saw a security team there.”

“Will do, Hona. Wait one,” she replied.

“Good eyes,” commented Sterba, who had been looking for the same thing.

Firing from an elevated position was great, but only if you were concealed. If you’re going to use the high ground openly, you needed support. In a situation like this, where the Grad was placed essentially on an elevated peninsula, you needed a perimeter defense team that was strong on the southeast side, as that would be the most likely path a security team from the palace would take.

“Hona, Dilbert. Confirm your security team sighting. We’ve got about a dozen men midway down the southern end of the hill. Four men are working the Grad at the top of the hill. On the mesa up top, I only have a cluster of horses and one guy that looks like a shepherd.”

“Copy all, Dilbert,” I replied. “What’s the status with local forces?”

“Afghan National Army has a team inbound. ETA ten minutes,” reported Clark over the net.

“That’s going to be too late,” I said, voicing the conclusion we’d all drawn. I took the helo out of our holding pattern, dropped it down low and tight against the west side of the hill and laid on the juice.

“We’re going to have to do this ourselves, aren’t we?” came the voice of Hona in the back.

“We are,” I said. “Hona and Peeps, I am going to drop you on the west side. Joe and I will pop over to the other side and hit them from above on the opposite side.”

Two clicks came in reply. I knew the boys were doing a last gear check and positioning themselves to leave the aircraft.

I brought the helo down to the side of the hill, kissing the skids to the earth as a cloud of dust erupted from the rotorwash. Hona and Peeps jumped off the benches, and I pulled back on the cyclic and up on the collective, pulling us up and back while further concealing Peeps and Hona in the dust cloud.

I rotated the airframe beneath the rotors, allowing Sterba’s open hatch to face the Grad as we arced over the top of the hill.

The Grad was in position, with the launch tubes pointing in the direction of the palace. Two men worked on the control panel on the back, while the other two raised AKs in our direction.

Sterbs raised his M4 to his shoulder and laid two trigger pulls on the men by the control panel. One went down, while the other dashed around and jumped into the cab.

Juking the Little Bird around, Sterba and I were able to see that Hona and Peeps had taken out the two with AKs, but had just been engaged by some of the Mullah’s men that had come up from the south side of the hill to aid their comrades.

As we turned for a return pass, Sterbs focused his fire on the cab of the truck. While some of his rounds made their way through the window, only sparks and dents showed on the roof.

“Can’t penetrate the roof,” he said with a grunt. “More guys on Hona and Peeps,” he then said. “They’re having a hard time making it to the truck.”

As I maneuvered the Little Bird around for third pass from the back side of the launcher, I could see the situation unfolding. The full force from the hillside was now on the SAS boys. And I could see that for every one they took down, two were replacing them.

Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came out of the back of the launcher. From Chen’s research, we knew this was warming the rocket propellant — a precursor to immediate launch. There was no way Peeps and Hona would get across the hill in time.

“Hold on, Sterbs. This is gonna hurt.”

Feeling the aircraft’s shift along with my warning caused Sterba to look ahead. “Oh, shit,” he said, and tightened his harness.

We needed to stop the launch this very second, and there was only one way to do it.

“That truck has got to be a dozen tons, Hillary!” he exclaimed. And while he didn’t know the exact weight of a Little Bird, he did know that we were seriously outclassed.

I was lined up directly behind the launch pod, which was turned to a 45 degree angle off the truck chassis’ direction, and angled up slightly. My only hope was that the Grad’s balance was precarious with the launch pod turned this way, and designed primarily to prevent rocket launches from tipping it backwards. My guess was that it would therefore be easier to tip the whole thing over by pushing it forward.

But it still was just a guess.

I put on some speed. And as the nose of the helo was centered on the back of the launcher, I dropped the collective and pushed forward on the cyclic, ramming the nose of the helo onto the launch pod.

We rode up its slight incline like a ramp, metal grinding and plexiglass popping beneath my feet. We felt the heat blast of the first rocket firing, and I pushed the cyclic forward to get as much downward pressure as possible.

Just as we were about to slide off the top, I felt it give way beneath us.

The truck tilted sideways, and the business end of the launch pod drove into the ground just as the first rocket launched. It’s onboard proximity sensor prevented it from detonating, though it continued to belch fire as it drove itself into the loamy soil immediately beneath us.

The strength of the propellant firing beneath the Little Bird was strong enough to blast the tail section straight up, pushing us ass over teacup. The ground before us slammed into the front of the canopy. The rotor blades made horrendous shrieking noises as they sheared off. We flipped completely upside down, landing on the roof as the engine cut out and the rotor hub seized.

Thank goodness for harnesses and helmets. While the cockpit of our upside down bird was shattered in dozens of places, Sterba and I remained intact.

“Nice landing, Hillary,” Sterba said with a groan.

My witty reply was cut short by the sound of a round plunking the bulkhead of the crew space behind us.

“Time to bail out, Sterbs,” I said as I twisted the harness release. Sterba did the same, and we both landed on our heads and shoulders on the top of the cabin.

We rolled out the doors on each side. Sterba had his M4 up and ready as he hopped to his feet and went around to the cab of the Grad. Three shots let me know he had taken out the Taliban that had operated the launch controls.

I had my P226 in a two hand grip as I went around the other side of the helo, using the tail section as cover. I popped up, weapon in front of me to find one of the Mullah’s men standing less than ten meters in front of me, his AK pointed at Sterba.

I squeezed the trigger twice, taking him center mass. I continued to swivel as he collapsed in my peripheral vision. Twenty meters further, two men came over the hillside. Just as Sterba and I had them in our sights, they collapsed. Peeps and Hona had taken them.

While disconnected from the comm unit on the helo, both Sterba and I had MBITR radios in our tactical vests, each of which chirped now.

“Nice landing, Hillary!”

“Whatever works, Hona,” I said followed by “break” to clear the channel as Chen and Clark would still be on the net. “Grad is down. Repeat, Grad is down. Status of locals?”

“ANA is on site below you, Hillary,” came Landon’s voice over the radio. The Afghan National Army was finishing off the members of the Mullah’s team defending the Grad’s position. “Wait one.”

The sound of M4 and AK fire from below the southern edge of the hill confirmed his report. There was a final three round burst of M4 fire followed by silence.

“ANA says the hill is clear,” reported Clark. “Dilbert has the man with the horses bugging out. They must have planned to scatter on horseback after the attack.”

“Roger, Landon. Please make sure the locals know the hilltop is secure, and there are four friendlies up here.”

Two clicks came over the channel just as four men in combat uniforms crested the hill, weapons down. Sterba and I lowered our own as the lead soldier shouted across the hilltop, “Lieutenant Chase?”

I holstered my sidearm and walked towards him. As I approached, I could see his shoulder boards showed a star and two crossing swords.

“Major, I am Lieutenant Chase,” I said, extending my hand instead of saluting.

He was a short but burly man, with dark brown eyes and a tidy, dark mustache that turned up with a smile as he said in the British flavor of English common in this part of the world, “Major Ahmad, Lieutenant. It appears that we should have listened to your warning.”

I returned his smile. “Well, Major, all’s well that ends well.”

Sterba, Peeps, and Hona came to my side.

“This is an historic day in the history of Afghanistan. And thanks to you all, it will end very well indeed,” he said to us, with genuine appreciation in his eyes. “Our nation owes you a great debt of gratitude.”