Seals (2005) (2 page)

"Is that why you aren't dressed for PT?" James Bradley asked, thinking of the pretty San Diego State University coed he was currently romancing.

"That's it," Dawkins answered. "Me and Chief Gunnarson was hauled out of our racks at oh-two-thirty for notification of the alert. Unfortunately it took so long to brief us, I wasn't able to arrange early chow for you this morning. It looks like you'll have to wait for box lunches to be brought into Isolation at noon."

"How about you, Chief?" Joe Miskoski asked. "Did you get early chow?"

"If you don't get to eat, then I don't eat," Dawkins answered. "I just hate having a guilty conscience. It was the same for Chief Gunnarson."

The men weren't surprised that the two had purposely skipped a meal because none of the others in the platoon would have breakfast that morning. This was typical in the SEALs, where bad luck, danger and food were shared equally in times of feast and famine, regardless of rank or position.

"Okay, now," Dawkins continued. "When I fall you out, go into the platoon but and grab your alert bags. You can change into the uniforms you got in 'em when we get to Isolation. Albee! Murchison! You two get the Skipper's and Lieutenant Cruiser's. All right! Fall out!"

The men went inside to grab the parachute kit bags where their field gear, extra clothing, boots and other items needed for operations were packed. Once alerted, all they had to do was grab the bags and they were ready to go. In less than three-quarters of a minute they were back outside in formation with the baggage.

"So let's get ourselves into the middle of this exciting happening, shall we?" Dawkins said. "Atten-hut! Right, face! For'd, harch!"

The platoon marched out of the garrison toward the barbed wire and sentries in the Isolation area.

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ISOLATION

0645 HOURS LOCAL

SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins called the room to attention at the moment the door opened. The thirteen SEALs slid out from the desk chairs and braced. The first officer through the door was the Skipper, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. He was followed by his 21C Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser. Commander Thomas Carey, the team N3 officer, and a swarthy, bearded man in a civilian suit followed. Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer, the N2, brought up the rear.

"Take your seats, guys," Brannigan said. He was a tall, muscular man with light brown hair and bright blue eyes. His features had been coarsened by continued exposure to sun, sea and wind. The result was the rugged handsomeness that fascinated women, yet made them a bit uneasy. He grinned at his subordinates. "Good morning and welcome to the SEALs' favorite place in the world--Isolation. This is an auspicious occasion since it is the first time since our activation, and believe me, I'm as surprised to be here this morning as you are." He gestured toward the others who had followed him into the building. "Everyone knows our N2 and 3, and we have another guest. The gentleman with them is Ishaq. He is our asset for this mission, but circumstances preclude him from accompanying the platoon into the OA. He is here to supply us with all the useful information he can."

The SEALs knew that anyone introduced with only one name would be from that deep, dark world of clandestine operations where secrets, double-dealing and deadly encounters abounded.

"Therefore," Brannigan continued, "without further ado, I shall turn this session over to Commander Carey."

Carey went to the podium. "Although I know all of you, I'm pleased to meet you as Brannigan's Brigands. You already have a good reputation in the team. I hope you guys are rested and eager, because there's a hell of a job for you to do. First of all, the mission statement: You are to infiltrate into northeast Afghanistan and retrieve a defector." He paused a moment, adding, "That sounds simple enough, but let's get into the specifics."

Jim Cruiser chuckled. "Is this going to be one of those good news/bad news situations, sir?"

Carey shook his head. "This is bad news and worst news, Jim. I know everyone in the SEALs has become uneasy about the new tactical and strategical situations that have grown out of Nine-Eleven. We're used to quick hit-and-run raids in coastal areas. We always like to keep one foot in the water, but now we have to make deep penetrations into outlaw country and stay there awhile. On this particular operation, however, you have an estimated time limit of ten days. After that, consider it a lost cause."

"Just how far into Afghanistan are we going to penetrate, sir?" Brannigan asked.

"Approximately six hundred miles," Carey replied. "I say `approximately' because we don't have any accurate maps of the location. Even Queen Victoria's troops in the heyday of the British Empire were unable to fight their way that far through the native tribes. I should mention you'll have roughly two hundred miles of Pakistan to fly over before you reach the Afghan border." He paused to let that bit of unpleasant information sink in. "You'll go from here to Station Bravo in Bahrain. From there you'll launch the operation to the OA, where you'll meet a guy at a certain location. Unfortunately, it was impossible to arrange a definite time for this linkup. But once you've gotten your hands on him, you can go into your exfiltration mode and bring him back with you. Questions? None at the moment? I'll be available for any that might pop up."

That ended the N3's briefing. There wasn't much to it, only a mission statement with some explanation hitting the basic intentions and goals. The execution portion of the OPLAN would be worked out by the Brigands among themselves.

They would have to relate that information to Carey in a session termed the brief back.

The next speaker was the N2 Berringer. He was a heavily muscled young man who was balding perceptively and prematurely. He spoke in a businesslike manner, delivering his introduction with military precision. "Your OA is in a territory tightly controlled by a local warlord who is decidedly unfriendly to infidels from the west. If those outsiders happen to be American, he goes ballistic. Anybody falling into his hands can expect an unpleasant, lingering death. In the overall strategic and tactical situation in Afghanistan, it is most important--I say again--most important to either win over or neutralize the warlords. The basic objective of the permanent removal of the Taliban along with the destruction of Al-Qaeda depends on controlling the warlords. The successful completion of your mission will be one step closer to reaching that goal. Now I'll turn the floor over to our asset Ishaq who will take over this intelligence briefing. He will be able to handle any questions that you may have."

The SEALs noticed that the man appeared haggard and tired as he walked to the podium. Although he was obviously a Middle-Easterner, when he spoke, he did so in a clipped, upper-class English accent:

"Good morning, gentleman. I have recently returned from your OA and I am quite familiar with that particular territory. As Commander Carey said, the area where you will make the linkup is uncharted, but I have prepared some hand-drawn maps for you that should prove at least a bit helpful."

Mike Assad raised his hand. "Are they to scale, sir?"

"I'm afraid I was only as accurate as my drawing hand and estimates permit," Ishaq said apologetically. "The terrain in which you shall be operating is in the highlands. There exist two prominent mountain ridges running north and south. They eventually break off into other ranges that have rugged foothills marked by deep ravines. A rather long and wide valley also dominates the area. However, none of this will affect you."

"Are you speaking of steep terrain?" Dave Leibowitz asked.

"Not so much that men in excellent physical condition would have trouble ascending the hills," Ishaq answered. "You'll need no mountain-climbing gear. There are also flat arable sections in the OA where the local farmers raise wheat, barley and the inevitable opium poppies."

Brannigan looked up from his note-taking. "Who's running the show in that particular spot?"

"The area is tightly controlled by a rather nasty chap who goes by the name of Ayyuub Durtami. He is the warlord and absolute ruler, collecting taxes, forcing young men into his fighting band, and in general has qualified as the poster lad for cruelty and despotism." He smiled. "I'm afraid that is about all I learned of him during my ninety-day stay in his fiefdom."

"How many men are in his private army?" Chief Matt Gunnarson asked.

"There is no exact count since he's continually adding mujahideen to his roster while chopping off the heads of the poor blokes who displease him," Ishaq said. "But I can confidently tell you that you can expect him to be able to muster somewhere between two hundred and three hundred able-bodied fighters." He showed a sympathetic smile. "I see there are sixteen of you chaps."

"We'll each have to whack around eighteen to twenty of the rat bastards," Bruno Puglisi remarked. "No problem."

"Right," Ishaq said. "Warlord Durtami operates out of a fortified compound that is surrounded by a mud-brick wall some twelve feet high and a yard thick. It is approximately seventy-five yards on each of four sides. He has firing positions all along the perimeter and machine gun posts in sandbagged towers at each corner. At least a third of these firing positions are manned twenty-four hours a day."

"What sort of weapons can he deploy?" Petty Officer First Class Connie Concord asked.

"The AK-47 is his basic issue," Ishaq answered. "He's short of RPGs since most of those have been snapped up for the nasty blokes in Iraq. He has a brother-in-law by the name of Hassan Khamami. Khamami as a warlord makes Durtami look like a juvenile delinquent. He has an extremely large fighting force and controls a vast area of land. I recommend you avoid him if at all possible."

"We'll sure as hell try," Brannigan said. "Who is this defector we'll be linking up with?"

"His name is Omar Kariska," Ishaq replied. "The meeting place is a bombed-out village marked on the map. The challenge will be to mention a number between one and nine in the Pashto language. The password is to reply in a number that adds up to ten when applied to the challenge."

Brannigan frowned. "None of us speak Pashto."

"I have written out the pronunciation of the necessary numerals," Ishaq said. "You will have to memorize them."

As Ishaq continued to deliver his description of the enemy, the N2 passed out copies of the hand-drawn maps along with satellite images of the OA. When the asset finished his presentation, the SEALs felt somewhat better informed, but the lack of precise information was acute enough that it was hard to come up with meaningful questions.

Brannigan summed it up by saying, "In other words, this will be a typical mission where we will have to make up the rules as the game progresses."

"Correct," Berringer interjected. "And the penalties for erroneous reasoning or guesses can * easily result in things going terribly wrong."

Commander Carey took over the proceedings. "Okay, men. That's all we've got for you. It's pretty sketchy, so you're going to be carrying quite a load when it comes to forming your OPLAN. Are there any questions?"

"A pretty basic one, sir,"-Brannigan said, standing up. "It may not be our business or only need-to-know information, but I'm curious as to the long-range benefits of bringing this Kariska guy out of the OA."

Berringer fielded that question. "Simply stated: he has a hell of a lot of valuable information."

"This is a cog in the wheel that is turning Afghanistan into a secular democracy," Carey explained *further. "The latest intelligence, most of it garnered by Mr. Ishaq, is that the warlords are doing their damnedest to stop all efforts to democratize Afghanistan. If they succeed, we can expect decades of war in the. Middle East. It will become a base of operation for every Islamic terrorist group that exists. That is all, gentlemen. We wish you a good day and will see you for the briefback."

The three visitors trooped out of the Isolation area, and Brannigan took the floor, checking his notebook. "Okay. Here're your assignments." The men listened carefully to the pre-mission jobs that were so important.

Petty Officers Second Class Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were assigned to work out the route from the DZ or LZ to the meeting place with the defector. The two, who served as scouts and recon, were known as the "Odd Couple" among the other members of the platoon because Mike was an Arab-American and Dave Jewish. But despite that mix that could have been volatile, they were the best of buddies. They had a lot in common. Both had been disappointments to their families for their lack of interest in religion, making money or getting an advanced education. Each disliked Palestinian terrorists and Israeli settlers, who moved into disputed areas with equal intensity. Assad and Leibowitz were dedicated SEALs and Americans who liked taking direct actions to solve problems.

The responsibilities for medical matters were handed over to Petty Officer Third Class James Bradley. This quiet African-American had graduated from the premed course at Boston University, but had decided against pursuing his MD degree out of deep patriotism. He enlisted in the Navy and volunteered for the SEALs to fight against terrorism. His background made him a natural to score a hospital corpsmen's rating, and he planned on taking advantage of the NCP later on to become a Navy doctor.