CHAPTER 3
They certainly were getting everything they asked for. Early the morning after next, they were aboard a C-141 flight from Benning to Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas. Their gear was crated and palletized with them. Once at Nellis, the sun barely up, they were urged aboard a USAF Pave Low helicopter, and taken out somewhere in the middle of nowhere. “We’re going to use you as a search-and-extraction exercise,” the Pararescue master sergeant told them. “I understand you’re doing a mountain exercise? Shooting?”
“Something like that,” Kyle agreed over the assorted turbine noise, blade beats, and wind. “We’ll be most of the day.”
“No problem,” the PJ agreed. “You’ll call for extraction, we’ll come and get you. They briefed you on flares and smoke?”
“Sort of,” Kyle agreed. “They gave us photocopies from the manual.”
“Good enough. You practice your thing, we’ll practice ours. Hopefully we’ll get all the bugs ironed out. If not. . .”
“That’s why we’re training,” Wade supplied.
“Yup.”
Soon, they were flaring out over a relatively flat, high plateau. Wade and Kyle dropped out, turned in the whipping wind and grabbed their bulky gear, turned back and trotted away, low to avoid the downdraft.
Then they were alone. The bulky helo was away and disappearing fast into the cerulean sky.
“Well,” said Wade, “the good news is, it’s friendly territory and we have GPS and a computer. Not to mention cell phones.”
“Right,” said Kyle. “The bad news is, we have no idea where in hell we are, and it’s as hot as hell already.” It had to be ninety-five degrees if it were anything.
“At least it’s dry,” Wade said, looking for any shade. There was none to speak of.
“And dusty,” added Kyle, as the wind wafted more grit in his eyes.
“And hot.”
“I already said that.”
“So I’ll say it again.”
He nodded. Wade had a cheerful sense of humor about things, which was good. “Yup. Let’s find a place to start shooting. Then we can take a hike north, according to this map, and we’ll be met about there,” he pointed.
Wade looked and grimaced, “Ten kilometers? That’s going to be a hell of a hike.”
Kyle looked around at the bleak terrain. “ Yup. But it’ll be cool this evening. Or cooler. For now, let’s just amble northerly for a good spot until it’s too hot to bother.”
The day went adequately. Both were trained for harsh climates, and apart from the heat it wasn’t bad. Besides their rucks and full CamelBaks, they had an M-107, the Army designation for the Barrett M-82 .50-caliber autoloading rifle. Kyle carried it, Wade the spotting scope, radio, and extraneous gear, along with an M-4 carbine with grenade launcher. He wouldn’t use it here, but it was part of the equipment they’d deploy with, so he was carrying it to make the exercise more realistic. They made about three kilometers before they found a good place to shoot. By then, both were sweating, though their clothes were quite dry, the desert air evaporating the moisture as fast as they exuded it.
Looking around at their chosen position, Kyle said, “Think we’ve got about three thousand meters clear?” Kyle asked.
“I’d say so,” his partner said. “That would suit me fine as a range to nail this guy. No reason to court counterfire from his buddies or those Russian howitzers they might have.”
“Yeah, though getting more than a thousand accurately is a problem.”
“I know that,” Wade said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and we can nail some explosives near him. You’re the one who insisted on the fifty.”
“So spot me,” Kyle said. “And we’re taking this because it was suggested, because our target might be in an armored vehicle or behind cover.” The Barrett was a huge piece of equipment, though it did have slightly better range and much better penetration than the 7.62mm M-24.
After inserting earplugs, they each took ten shots, slowly and methodically. Precision shooting is as much science as art, and they recorded every shot and its impact for later review. The brass would go back with them. Not only was it good discipline for concealment, but the gunsmiths—“small-arms repairers”— liked to examine them for wear to ensure the weapons were performing to their utmost.
The weapon was already adjusted for good accuracy. Wade called, “Reference: upright rock. Base. Small boulder with yellow striations. One one five zero.”
“Got it,” Kyle said. He squeezed, and God kicked him in the shoulder.
A puff of dust erupted back from the left of the rock. “Again,” he said, placed the reticle on center, squeezed, and fired.
“Both to the left, twenty inches,” Wade said.
Kyle made two minor corrections to the scope. “And again,” he said.
“Same target?”
“Sure.” They had similar climatic conditions to what they could expect, so they’d keep shooting until they were happy.
Kyle’s next shot chipped the boulder, the fragments spinning off into the air. The fourth missed to the left again. There were limits to the accuracy of the weapon, and Kyle thought they were reaching those limits. He could hit reliably with a .5 minute of angle weapon or better. The Barrett was only a 3 MOA weapon. But for armored targets or vehicles, it was what they needed. He would have preferred to take a 7.62mm M-24 as well, in case they could get a closer shot, but there were weight limitations. Three weapons cases would be a royal pain in the ass, as well as obvious. He’d made the decision, but he wasn’t very happy with it. They should have a larger team for this.
“Slight adjustment to the right should do it,” Wade said.
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, coming back to earth. A trickle of dust blew into his face as the wind eddied, and he spat drily.
Two more shots hit the small rock and reduced it to a pile of sharp-edged pieces of rubble. A .50-BMG round delivers better than 13,000 foot-pounds at the muzzle, more than twice that of most elephant guns and five times that of the 7.62 cartridge. It was better than a jackhammer for demolishing rock.
He twisted his lip and said, “We could tweak it more, but it's not going to get appreciably better.”
“Agreed,” Wade replied. “So take a few more, let me at it, and then let's get that other seven kilometers done.”
By the end of forty minutes, twenty rounds had screamed down the barrel and delivered better than 200,000 foot-pounds of energy to what was now a sad-looking little splinter amid a pile of sand, sitting in front of a badly chipped boulder.
Seven kilometers isn’t a bad hike. When lugging basic gear, an AN/PRC-119 radio, spotting scope, and a forty-eight-pound rifle, up and down stark, hard terrain, it’s a serious workout. The snipers climbed and scrabbled up steep inclines, slid down others, passing the gear back and forth to keep it safe, and were abraded, dusty, and exhausted by the time they finished.
“Glad we brought the extra water,” Kyle said, dousing his throat again. They both knew it was necessary to stay hydrated, and were drinking frequently. Besides, the more water in the body, the less there was to carry as gear.
“This should be about it,” Wade said. They were on another plateau. He checked their position by GPS, then by compass and three peaks as landmarks. That done, he fired up the radio.
In short order, the Pave Low appeared as a large, intimidating insect to the southeast, and dropped in for a landing. They scurried in close, shoved the gear aboard, and clambered in.
“Good hike?” the PJ asked them.
“Good enough,” Wade agreed. Kyle just grunted.
Yes, it had been a good hike and shoot. But how would it be in hostile territory, surrounded by witnesses and without close backup?
Kyle suspected the real mission was going to be quite a bit tougher. And he still had his own doubts to fight, too.
*****
The next morning was their last before deploying. They were both short of sleep, after the grueling fifteen hours of flight and ten hours of climbing the day before. They’d snoozed on the planes each way, but were still groggy. The general was sympathetic, but didn’t offer any slack. Nor did they expect it. Lack of sleep and food was the Army way, and they were both experienced with it.
“I’ve arranged cash,” Robash told them. They were in the same classroom they were so familiar with, as was another NCO. “And I brought a staff with me to take care of all this at once. I’d rather cut TDY orders for people to come to you, than have you shuffle around playing games.” He nodded, and the staff sergeant in the corner came over.
He said, “Fifty thousand dollars, gentlemen. It’s split into two packages of three currencies each. Sign here and count it. Please note that it’s expendable, and spend what you need. We’d like it back if there’s any left over, but don’t sweat it.” Kyle was glad of that phrase, officially attached to the document. Many covert soldiers had later been busted for “embezzling” funds that had been issued to them. It seemed Robash was the straight shooter he’d shown himself to be already. They weren’t going to get screwed over this. Of course, they still might, die.
The money was ten thousand dollars worth each in Afghan and Pakistani currency and the balance in good American cash, useful almost anywhere on the planet. They each counted their half. “Try to keep the nonlocal stuff hidden,” Kyle said to Wade, “and stash it in several places to minimize loss.” Wade knew that, of course, but this was all dotting of i's and crossing of T's.
The finance sergeant left right after he checked their signatures. As soon as the man left, the general resumed his brief.
“Now, guys, let me give you your contacts. You can write this down, but lose it before you cross the border into Pakistan, and lose it well. You’ll meet with General Kratman at Kandahar Airport and give him this letter.” Robash handed them each a sheet, and they both stuck them in their increasingly bulging folders. “It authorizes you to take any routine equipment and charge it to the mission. Vehicles, ammo, small arms, anything reasonable. Though I’d think very hard before taking U.S. vehicles, as you’ll stand out like a hooker at a Madison Avenue wedding. Kratman knows you’re coming, but not what you’re doing. My phone number is on all these documents. If there’s any questions, call. If I’m not there, my XO and my civilian assistant are briefed on what to do, and can be reached by cell phone twenty-four seven. You’re both on my call-through list. I’ll bitch like hell if it’s not important, but I’m here to support you on this mission. Use me if you need me.”
“Yes, sir,” Kyle and Wade agreed together. It certainly seemed as if he meant it, and that by itself was a huge morale boost. General Robash apparently knew what a lot of officers had never learned: that troops who feel they have support will do almost anything for their commander.
“Once in theater, you’ll meet with a local tribal leader named Qalzai. He’ll take you in and spot your target. He doesn’t speak English, but he has a translator. He’s very reliable on intel and anti-Taliban operations, so you’re safe with him, but we have no idea who’s in his unit. If you feel compromised, abort and exfiltrate, either on ground or by chopper. But get the hell out of there. We want you alive and our target dead, not the other way around.”
“Right,” Wade said.
Kyle considered that. There was a hell of a lot of risk in this operation. But it was too late for second thoughts. They were just nerves anyway, he thought.
“The chain of command for this is Kyle, Wade. You’re officially commanded by a colonel in the Pentagon, but I’m the Operations guy, so it’s very odd, but very simple.
“Now, we go see Lieutenant Bergman for flight arrangements. From what I understand, you’re going to be in the air a long time.”
“Yes, sir,” they agreed. That last wasn’t unexpected; they were going halfway around the world.
“The last item,” Robash said, “is that commo is going to be a bitch. I’m sorry guys, I tried, but there’s no way to get the radios working properly. You’d need forty batteries for ten days, and there’s no way to ensure you can recharge.”
“Hell,” Kyle said. It was the handicap of modern radios. They scrambled by shifting across 280,000 frequencies, but if they weren’t powered into the net from the beginning, they wouldn’t be synchronized with the scramble code, which changed daily. They either needed a constant supply of charged batteries to maintain contact and scramble, or else any transmission would have to be in the clear. Neither was good. The batteries were three pounds each.
“ ‘Hell’ is correct,” Robash said. “You’ll have a 119 for final call to the helo, because they can’t handle Iridium phones. But you can call direct to the JSTARS with the cell phone, and to me in an emergency. You’ve got a whole list of numbers for backup. But final extraction is going to require that you coordinate through the JSTARS, then use the radio at the last minute. And be brief, because some of those Taliban bastards have radios and translators.”
“Oh, lovely,” Wade said.
“Yeah, it sucks to be you,” Robash nodded. “But you have my thanks, and I want it to be a good mission.”
By lunchtime, they had orders, more disks for the laptop, more documents to hand out en route, extra maps, and all the miscellany they’d need. With nothing else to do, they parted ways and headed back home to rest up and finalize personal gear.
The logistics experts at the transportation office would crate all their weapons and heavy equipment up in form-fitting expanding foam surrounded by wooden frames and sheathing, if it wasn’t already packed in hard cases. Everything was receipted and accountable. It pained Kyle to hand over his personal stuff, and he was nervous in case anyone complained about his personal weapons. But no questions were asked and he accepted the receipts for file.
There was the M-107 Barrett .50 caliber, scoped and with bipod and with twenty rounds of match-grade ammo in a sealed pack. Its case fit tightly around the disassembled components, cradling them in foam. It probably wouldn’t need to be resighted when they arrived in theater, as the scope was zeroed to the weapon and attached to a precision rail. They’d do a check when they could, of course. The scope was actually more important than the weapon; it could be transferred, and it could also gather intel. Everything that could be done to protect it was a good thing.
The M4 carbine which Wade would carry most of the time was in there, with its emergency folding sight flat and taped, and the Eotech Holosight encased. It was the backup weapon. It wasn’t likely they’d use it beyond 100 meters, and the iron sights and the Eotech were good for 400. It had side-sling mounts at gas block and the rear of the receiver, so it would hang across the shooter’s front, ready to deploy. Spare batteries for the Eotech were in a rubber plug in the pistol grip. Batteries were often more important than ammo in the modem army. It had an underslung M-203 grenade launcher for social engagements. It didn’t seem like much, but it was likely they could get 5.56 ammo in country, and this was supposed to be a sniping mission. One shot, one kill, as the cliché went. It was Kyle’s experience that it almost always took more than one shot, and sometimes a lot of suppressing fire, too. At least they would have a claymore and fragmentation grenades and smoke, once they drew them in theater.
In addition to his two pistols, Wade would have one, also. It was a standard issue M-9 Beretta 92F. “Standard GI everything, huh?” he’d asked.
His partner shrugged. “I like other stuff better. But issue stuff is easy to get parts for. And if it goes missing, Uncle Sam can weep, not me. I’d hate to lose that lovely piece of yours,” he said, in reference to Kyle’s Ed Brown custom .45.
“Me, too,” Kyle said. “But it makes me feel safe,” he joked. It should. The 1911-style frame had the mainspring housing contoured into a rounded, easy-to-conceal shape. The magazine well was welded and flared to make reloading easy. The expected palm-swelled grip safety, Commander-style hammer, and deeply cut front strap let it sit low and securely in the hand. It had low profile, almost guttersnipe sights. The barrel was conical for a tight lockup. Then the mechanism was ramped, polished, and the ejection port flared. Outside, it was smoothed and phosphated with Pachmayr grips. It had cost two-thousand-and-nevermind dollars, but it was easy to find ammo for, accurate, reliable, and Kyle’s best friend. It was going with him. He’d had it in Bosnia last. . . which wasn’t something to dwell on.
His backup to that was a little nickeled Colt Mustang .380 that he could fit in a pocket. He never thought he’d use that on duty, but it was the ideal gun for the situation. It wasn’t much of a distance weapon, but if it came down to that, things weren’t good anyway, and it would reliably put out bullets.
*****
Then it was home and a last night to prepare. If this had been a unit deployment, the unit would go out on a riotously fun drunk and decorate a bar or club. As it was supposed to be a TDY for an exercise, it was officially no big deal. So he’d sit at home, Wade in billeting, pondering the future and going through whatever rituals they wished to keep calm and thin the tension. Beer seemed the logical choice.
Kyle sorted through his personal gear and checked his list of what to take, making additions. Actually, there wasn't much debate. He'd take a couple of uniforms for blending in on military installations, both in three-color desert. His ID and the cash they were issuing him. They were shipping the weapons. A CD player would get lost or stolen or confiscated by some foreign security goon, so he didn’t bother. There’d be no time to listen to music, anyway. He hated reading airport bestsellers, so he’d take a couple of cheap paperbacks to read while traveling. He was amused by the amount of action the characters in books could experience within the first hundred pages, and was glad that his own life was far less exciting. So it was down to underwear, socks, toiletries kit, and the essentials.
“The Essentials” evolved over time, but basically stayed the same. He had the large CamelBak for keeping hydrated, and he worshipped the man who’d invented it. He took his own small GPS to back up the one crated. He had the SOG Powerplier pocket tool he preferred to the issue Gerber, but had an old Gerber Predator BMF he’d carried for years. Sometimes, nine inches of steel was what you needed to do the job, whether that job was prying open a door, cutting a stretcher, or, theoretically, killing someone. He’d never been close enough to worry about that, but it could happen. Then he had the Sebertech pocket tool on his keychain and the Kershaw automatic with the four-inch blade in his pocket. He took an extra Lensatic compass for last-ditch escape. He had burlap and tan canvas sewn to a desert uniform to make a functional ghillie to blend-in in an arid mountain environment. He’d used the same ratty pair of gloves for shooting for fourteen years; everything one could do to make the conditions of every shoot predictable improved the odds of success. He had a calculator and measuring tape, and the M-22 binoculars. A laptop with ballistics information, language programs, and tech manuals. Parachute cord was always useful, whether lashing sticks, building a stretcher, or tying gear down. An empty sandbag that could be filled and turned into a rest was stuffed in. He carried extra triangular bandages to use as head covers or “do rags,” as camouflage, slings and, well, bandages. A compact of makeup, in earth tones and greens was in there, rubber bands and a sewing kit for repairs and to improve camouflage, as well as a lighter and matches, and an eye patch to let the off-eye muscles relax during long pauses, pencils, and an AA Maglight. Then there were the necessary chocolate chip cookies, Cajun beef jerky, and a box of shoestring potato snacks, which tasted almost as good as chips and wouldn’t crush into powder when carried. All told, it was about thirty-five pounds, which was light enough to not be a hindrance, but packed enough tools and weapons to save his ass. He had permission for personal weapons this time, or more accurately, it wasn’t an issue, this being a clandestine and deniable mission. Even had they forbidden it, though, he would have tried to smuggle the stuff through. You could never rely on dear old Uncle Sam to have what you needed, and a good soldier took his own supplements. The whole load when added to his issue gear would break 200 pounds.
Wade would have the M-49 spotter scope, AN/PVS-6 laser range finder, AN/PRC-119 radio set and blade antenna, night vision for both of them, a field surgical kit, a roll of 100 mph tape, a small toolkit, cleaning kits, and his own issue plus personal necessities like toothbrushes.
The guns were already loaded along with the issue gear, radios, and scopes. The rest packed, and set to go with him as luggage. All that was left was the waiting.
He could spend the night out, seeking entertainment or women, but he really wasn’t in a sociable mood. He didn’t want any emotional entanglements, and a bar quickie near base wasn’t worth the effort. He could drink at home.
But he wouldn’t, he decided. There just wasn’t much point. And he wouldn’t be drinking in Pakistan, so he should minimize the booze now. Heck, it would be good for him. He’d fallen into a rut of teach class, NCO club to be seen by the sergeant major for brownie points, then home to eat and drink. It had been a year. Time to get out of that cycle.
He crawled into bed and turned the light out. Eventually, he slept.