Battlecraft (2006) (6 page)

PAKISTAN-AFGHANISTAN BORDER

22 SEPTEMBER

0430 HOURS LOCAL

THE
al-Mimkhalif raider group moved silently along the path that led from the foothills down to the plain where the mission objective--a police border guard station--was located some twenty-five meters inside Pakistan. The moonlight was intermittently blocked by clouds, but visibility was good enough that the mujahideen had no trouble in negotiating their way down the steep rocky terrain toward lower ground.

Mike Assad was toward the rear of the column of two dozen men. This superbly trained and experienced U. S. Navy SEAL had been playing the role of a not-too-bright amateur soldier since his insertion into the terrorist group. Consequently, he had been assigned the lowly position of ammunition bearer for the operation rather than being a member of the attack group. The rag-doll figures of mujahideen in their baggy clothes were barely visible to him in the semidarkness as he made his way within the column. Mike's strong physique easily supported the thirty-five kilograms of shells he carried in the ammo pack on his back.

Mike had already passed on the details of this raid through his dead-letter drop a few days earlier. At that time he was unaware that he would be a participant in the operation, and there was a good chance he had inadvertently put himself in a great deal of danger by revealing the raid. There was no doubt the Pakistani military would see this as an excellent opportunity to give al-Mimkhalif a very bloody nose.

Now his companions were at the end of the grueling twenty-kilometer march across rough mountain terrain, and the fatigue that dogged them was heavy and punishing. They were heartened, however, by the knowledge that at the end of this early morning attack, they would have police vehicles to carry them back most of the way to their base camp.

The leader called a halt at a signal from the two-man scout team ahead. The well-trained outfit immediately knelt down, each man facing toward his assigned firing area. Mike and the other ammo men squatted together in the middle of the formation.

The scouts came up and informed the leader that the target was close by. Orders were passed down to the sub-leaders to take their teams and position them in a semicircle formation that almost surrounded the police station. All this had already been worked out on an improvised sand table back at camp, and the mujahideen moved quickly and efficiently into position.

Mike followed his mortar squad to a predetermined location where they could fire their 51-millimeter shells to best advantage from the small French mortars. As they prepared the weapons, the others settled down to wait for the first sign of the rising sun over the eastern mountain ranges. After a passage of ten minutes, the only sounds were deep breaths now and then, though a snort of a snore erupted from time to time when a sleepy fighter dozed off. Such security infractions were followed by angry hissings and the smack of an open hand across the offender's face from his team leader. But mostly these warriors of Islam were silent, grateful for some rest after the exhausting hike.

.

0515 HOURS LOCAL

THE
first pink showings of dawn brought a slight stirring to the crowd. Dozing men were shaken awake, and the mortar teams prepared for unleashing a short-range barrage that would blast the small police building to bits. This was not an important mission; its purpose was to do no more than harass the Pakistanis, who had sided with infidel Westerners to destroy true Islam. However, it would also give these men of al-Mimkhalif the practice and confidence that could be gained from a successful operation.

The top of the sun could now be seen on the horizon, and the orange of the early morning was being melted by ever-widening streaks of growing daylight. The loaders on the mortars laid out the shells that Mike Assad had borne on his back for many hours and kilometers. The squad, like the others, was now ready to begin firing at the leader's order.

Then all hell broke loose.

Automatic fire swept through the clusters of al-Mimkhalif fighters, knocking them into twisted bloody heaps. Skulls fractured and facial features imploded under the steel-jacketed onslaught along with ripped flesh and broken bones in body hits. Mike, his SEAL instincts now kicking in, went immediately to the ground. The spurts of earth around him indicated the mortar section was getting particular attention, and he low-crawled rapidly away from the emplacement. A quick glance brought him the sight of the dead and wounded mujahideen, and he continued on until reaching a stand of rocks.

He ignored potential snakes and scorpions and went into the cover as the firing continued.

Mike stayed hunched down until the flying bullets lessened noticeably, then stopped altogether. After taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and made a run for a distant patch of woods.

"Wakkif! Durkawam!"

The command to halt and turn around was in Arabic with an Urdu accent. Mike complied immediately, finding himself facing a scowling Pakistani paratrooper. The man pointed back up the hill, and Mike walked in that direction with his hands high above his head. The two made their way through the scattered dead mujahideen to a spot where a quartet of dejected prisoners squatted in the midst of more paratroopers. The captured men's hands were tightly and painfully bound behind their backs.

Mike laughed inwardly at the irony of the situation in spite of almost being killed. Here he was a prisoner of war as a result of his own intel report. The guys back in Brannigan's Brigands would think the situation hilarious.

.

ACV
BATTLECRAFT

BAY OF BENGAL

VICINITY OF 10 NORTH AND 90 EAST

1100 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Battlecraft
was into its first real patrol, skimming the waves at
two-thirds
speed, hitting exactly 61.99 miles per hour. They were not alone on the mission. A patrol of F/A-18 Super Hornets from a nearby carrier battle group shadowed them as aerial support.

Inside the ACV's office, Paul Watkins kept an eye on the direction indicated by the compass, making a few small corrections as the wind pressed unexpectedly from one or another direction. The next thing to get installed on the AVC would be an autopilot, but he enjoyed the hands-on experience. It made the veteran helmsman feel like a real sailor in the finest traditions of the United States Navy.

Lieutenant Veronica Rivers monitored the radar and kept a close eye on the electronic warning indicator. The First Assault Section had the duty that day, while Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's Second Section stayed behind on the
Dan Daly
doing PT and weapons PM. They were not in a good mood about being left behind on the first patrol, but when Lieutenant Bill Brannigan issued an order, it was his way or the highway. These administrative and/or tactical decisions were not open to discussion.

At that moment, Lieutenant Jim Cruiser and his two fire teams were topside, relaxing and taking in some sun with their weaponry close at hand, while Bobby Lee Atwill, the only crew member not at his station, lounged in the wardroom, slowly and happily consuming cold fried chicken from his box lunch prepared by the galley crew of the USS
Dan Daly.

Lieutenant Bill Brannigan sat in the skipper's seat, glad to simply relax and enjoy the ride across the blue expanse of water while his crew concentrated on their duties. He noted Veronica Rivers getting up and going to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. She glanced at Atwill and frowned at his oil-stained fingers. "You should wash your hands before you eat."

"Well, ma'am," the turbine technician replied, "engine grease is a nutrient to me. I've soaked up so much it's in my system and has to be replenished from time to time. I'm addicted, ma'am. I'm as much a grease-head as them NASCAR mechanics." He winked at her. "Except I ain't paid near as much."

Veronica laughed and got her soda. She went back to her console and sat down at the exact moment a blip appeared on the radar screen. She quickly called out, "Contact! One-one-niner. Distance ten miles."

"Go to course one-one-niner," Brannigan ordered.

"Go to course one-one-niner, aye, sir," responded Watkins.

Brannigan picked up the microphone on his command communications system and raised the F/A-18s, who were keeping far away enough not to alert any potential ships with contraband. "We've got a reading and turning to one-one-niner," Brannigan reported. "We'll be in visual contact within approximately six minutes. Over."

A pilot's voice came back immediately. "Roger,
Battlecraft
." The aircraft turned slightly to get on course.

Now, standing ready on the
Battlecraft
, the First Assault Section eagerly awaited a chance to jump aboard a bad guys' ship and do some real serious ass-kicking. Jim Cruiser scanned the horizon to their direct front through his binoculars.

Bruno Puglisi, holding his SAW, squinted his eyes in his eagerness to sight something ahead. "See anything yet, sir?"

"Affirmative!" the lieutenant answered. "One o'clock!"

Petty Officer First Class Connie Concord, leader of Bravo Fire Team, shifted his view to the right a degree or so. "Yeah!"

Paul Watkins, acting on orders from Brannigan, went to
half-speed
and then
one-third-speed
. When they drew close enough, they could see it was a tanker heading on a course of two-two-five. She was riding high enough in the water to show she was empty.

"Probably headed for the Persian Gulf to make a pickup," Brannigan remarked. "Okay, Watkins. Bring her about."

"Bring her about, aye, sir."

"Lieutenant Rivers, give us a course back to the
Daly."

"One-niner-two," Veronica reported.

"Got that, Watkins?" Brannigan asked.

"Course one-niner-two, aye, sir."

The
Battlecraft
, her first patrol now over, headed for hearth and home. Up on top, Petty Officer Garth Redhawk, a rifleman in Alpha Fire Team, was not happy. "I was hoping for a little more excitement."

His team leader, Chief Matt Gunnarson, glanced over at him. "I thought you Indian guys were the patient types."

Redhawk shook his head. "Not when it comes to fighting."

.

POLICE HEADQUARTERS

BALBANDIN, PAKISTAN

23 SEPTEMBER

0830 HOURS LOCAL

THE
mud brick building was a typical provincial lockup with two large cells separated by a single corridor between them. Mike Assad and his four al-Mimkhalif companions rested uneasily in one of the confinement areas without the benefits of mats or blankets. The only thing they had plenty of since their capture had been beatings--the first within a half hour after they surrendered; the second before boarding the trucks for the trip to the jail; and the third when they arrived and got off the vehicles. Even the two men who were wounded received their share of physical punishment. Now the most seriously injured mujahideen seemed to have gone into shock. He had taken a belly wound when a paratrooper's submachine gun stitched him across the body. Mike and another man tried to help the poor fellow, who had lost a large amount of blood, but their rudimentary ministrations did him little good. The Pakistani police had grudgingly provided some dirty rags for bandaging the wounds, but it was obvious he was not going to survive long without proper medical treatment.

Now, sitting in the bare cell, Mike observed his companions rather dispassionately. They had been full of fervor during the sermons bellowed at them by the clerics in the camp, and danced around shouting pro-Islamic slogans that promised death and hellfire to Westerners and fallen Muslims. These demonstrations of outrage included the burning of crudely made American and Israeli flags that were then leaped on and trampled by the ferocious untried rookies.

This was something Mike hated to do, but he participated as was expected of him. He had learned during his
SERE
training that if the enemy wanted him to chant, "The American Flag is a dirty old rag," he was to go ahead and do it. His job was to stay healthy and maintain his cover. Any unwise demonstration of patriotism would accomplish nothing but compromise the mission.

The previously defiant mujahideen, after being caught in the murderous cross fire of a cleverly laid ambush, were crestfallen and frightened. They hadn't even had time to kill any of the enemy before the paratroop detachment opened up on them. What was supposed to have been a quick but bright victory had turned into a noisy scene of death as bursts of automatic-weapons fire plowed into them. They had been stunned into inaction by the unexpected onslaught.

No food or water was provided for the prisoners during the first twenty-four hours of confinement, and the police had begun to pull them out of the cell one by one for interrogation. Mike knew the reason behind this method; a comfortable prisoner can be a defiant prisoner under even rigorous interrogation. But someone who is stunned, hungry, and thirsty is aware of the power his captors have over him. It gives the captive a feeling of isolation and hopelessness.

Each of these periods of questioning had gone on for close to an hour, and when the captives were dragged back to the cell, they showed signs of additional mistreatment above and beyond that which they had already endured. Mike was the last, and when they pushed him out of the cell block, he fervently hoped the cops had expended most of their energy beating his predecessors.

He was wrong.

The two guards who had fetched him shoved him into the interrogation room, sat him down in a chair, tied him to it, then took turns punching him in the face. They didn't hit him hard enough to break his jaw or nose, but when they finished smacking him around, blood poured from his nostrils and his face was badly bruised. The initiation process didn't stop until an officer entered the room. He walked to a spot in front of the prisoner and glared at him with all the hatred he had for the foreign troublemakers in his country.

"Where are you from?" he asked in Arabic.

Mike knew he would never be able to pass as a citizen of an Arab country, so he quickly spoke up, saying, "I from America."

The Pakistani sneered. "
Hakkan
--truly?" Then he asked in English. "Where in America are you from?"

"New York," Mike replied, using his cover story. "I lived in Buffalo."

The Pakistani's eyes opened wide. "By Allah! You
are
an American!"

"Yes, sir."

The Pakistani laughed loudly. "So you are what they call a Johnny Jihad, eh? Well, my fine fellow, we have special instructions on what to do when we get our hands on a Johnny Jihad." He spoke over Mike's head to the two policemen. They also roared with laughter, and one slapped him hard across the back of his head.

"Is it really necessary to punch me so much?" Mike asked.

"Of course it is," the Pakistani said. "We will turn you over to the American Embassy and you can go home where they will coddle you and read you your rights, then put you in a nice comfortable American penitentiary with color television. We hear they even bring in whores for the convicts' enjoyment." He scowled. "But until you get there, we'll make your miserable life a hell on earth."

It took all of Mike Assad's inner strength and self-control to bear up under the beating that followed. He could tell they weren't hitting him hard enough to cause permanent damage, but it hurt worse than if they were trying to really kick his ass bad. He wasn't going to faint or pass out under open-handed slaps and kicks to his shins.

The three Pakistanis wore themselves out after twenty fun-filled minutes, and Mike was untied and dragged to another part of the jail to be thrown into solitary confinement.

Chapter 5.