The Way Home (28 page)

Kandahar Air Force Base, end of October

S
trapped into the copilot seat,
Ty glanced over as Mike lifted the Mil-17 chopper they’d dubbed the “Reaper” off the helo pad. His brother still had the gift. The bird moved effortlessly into the night, seemingly guided by Mike’s thoughts alone. Ty had had that kind of connection with his own bird in Iraq. He felt a moment of nostalgia for his Nighthawk and hoped there was a heaven for helicopters, because she had died saving his life.

And now they might die trying to save the life of a man who had, by all accounts, died a long time ago. A man who, if he ended up being alive, would kill any chance Ty had of marrying the woman he’d planned to share his life with . . . and that was the last place he needed to go tonight.

Head back in the game, he sensed that as they spun up higher and headed toward the mountains, the thin, dry air coupled with a full load of weapons on the outboard pods and the weight of the team in the back caused the chopper to handle
a little sluggishly. It didn’t bother Mike. He flew the bird like the pro he was.

“Piece of cake,” Mike had assured him after their brief but intense mission prep minutes before takeoff. “She’s not much different from the Mil-8 I flew in Sierra Leone. Nuance, bro. It’s all about nuance.”

Nuance, hell. Ty had studied the crap out of the Mil-17 in the event he had to fly this Russian-made bird, which was different from any he’d ever flown. Even the rotor spun clockwise rather than counterclockwise like his old Nighthawk. Major difference. If something happened to the aircraft, the direction the rotor spun could make a difference whether they crashed or gently landed. But he was ready. He could take over if he had to—he just hoped he didn’t have to.

Ty glanced over his shoulder. Everyone sat quietly, no doubt rerunning the mission plan and their final briefing over and over in their minds.

“Once more for posterity, boys and girls.” Nate Black addressed his fourteen team members, his face somber.

“Operation Aces High Assault Plan: Zero one hundred hours, we fly the Mil-17 chopper, code name Reaper, from Kandahar en route to the target village of Salawat, Mike Brown at the controls, Ty Brown in the copilot seat. Waldrop will be your flight engineer for this all-expenses-paid trip to the wild and wacky world of Taliban land.”

“Sorry, guys. I’m fresh out of peanuts and soda.” Waldrop’s ad lib earned him a few snickers and cut the tension in the room.

“Zero three hundred hours,” Black continued, “Bravo squad consisting of Reed, Green, Jones, Mendoza, Coulter, and yours truly, along with Alpha squad Cooper, Taggart, Santos, and Carlyle, will fast-rope down to the south edge of the village and make
our way to the dwelling identified by drone surveillance as possibly housing Special Forces Medical Sergeant Jeffery Albert.

“From zero three-fifteen to zero three-thirty hours, we conduct a search of the dwelling, attempting to find and ID subject. If found, we will secure him and the two Pashtun civilians who have assisted him, make our way back to the extraction point, and return to base.

“The operation will be monitored and assisted from home base with drone surveillance and operational management by Charlie squad members Crystal Reed and B. J. Mendoza.”

“I can promise you more than peanuts and soda if you guys keep your heads down and come back safe and sound.” Crystal flashed a smile tempered with concern.

“Just to be clear,” Johnny Reed cut in, “that wasn’t an all-inclusive
you
my wife made a promise to. That was an all-inclusive
me
—and thanks, babe.” He winked at his wife. “Keep your motor running, ’cause Daddy’s gonna hold you to that promise when he gets home.”

Black gave Reed a “Seriously?” look. “You done?”

Reed grinned. “Just getting started.”

“Zip it,” Black ordered, then glanced around the room. “Questions? No? Well, there should be, because we’ve received updated intel indicating there’s increased radio traffic from the Taliban, who have recently upped their numbers in the area as they apparently broaden their search for an escaped prisoner. Guess we know who that might be.

“So look sharp, people. We could run into some heavy resistance, and I don’t want to have to explain to Crystal here or anyone else why I brought you home with bloodstains on your tighty whities.”

He looked around the room, seemed satisfied that all teams
were aware the danger meter had ticked up several clicks, and continued. “Contingency plan: If the extraction helicopter is lost or damaged during the operation and/or the team is engaged by enemy combatants, Charlie squad here at base will assist remotely by calling in necessary air or land support. Ground teams will commandeer local vehicles, then make our way to FOB Shaker to be extracted during normal resupply missions.

“We good?” Black added, to nods all around.

“All right, let’s not screw this up. If Albert is out there, let’s bring a hero home.”

It wasn’t ten minutes later that they loaded up and headed out. And yeah, Ty thought, fully aware of the ten-man ground team in the bird with them, he figured they were all thinking about what lay ahead. Most likely, they were also thinking that they were putting their asses on the line on very sketchy intel. While intel had originally put Taliban numbers at fifty, Black’s recent announcement upped it to more in the range of “no idea to a shitload.”

One thing was in their favor, though. DOD had come through with the promised assets. The plan was for a drop-in sneak and peek. If Jeff Albert wasn’t there, they were on their own getting out again. If Albert was actually on-site, they were to snatch him and get him the hell out of Dodge.

In case things went south, though, they were loaded for bear. Twin pods of twenty unguided 80mm S-8DF missiles hung farthest out on each outboard wing pylon; 23mm gun pods were also mounted on either side, closer to the fuselage. Major odds eveners.

The best weapon, however, was the team itself. Ty had been happy as hell to see Nate Black as team leader, along with Johnny Reed, Gabe Jones, Joe Green, Rafe Mendoza, and
Luke Coulter. All were first-class warriors, but Coulter was also a damn fine medic. From Mike’s team, Jamie Cooper, Bobbie Taggart, Enrique Santos, Josh Waldrop, and Brett Carlyle were as good as it got. And back at Kandahar AFB, Johnny’s wife and Mendoza’s wife—Crystal and B.J.—were running the air show. Both women were fearless, steady under pressure, and brilliant strategists.

Ty settled in for what was left of the two-hour ride. Time and miles and mountains rolled by in the dark beneath them, barren and forbidding and hostile. Was Albert alive? Ty wondered. And if so, was he in any shape to survive what could turn into a full-out firefight if things didn’t go as planned and they ran into a buzz saw?

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from straying back to Jess and the pain in her eyes when he’d left her. This was the right thing to do, he reminded himself. It was the only thing to do. He didn’t want to lose her, but he couldn’t live a life with her knowing he hadn’t done everything he could to help bring Jeff Albert home. What kind of a man would that make him if he’d done nothing? Not one he could live with. Not one Jess could respect. What happened next was anyone’s guess. He’d live with Jess’s decision either way.

“Five minutes, ladies.” Mike’s voice was rock-solid steady through his headset, breaking Ty out of his thoughts.

He let out a deep breath as they approached the drop site, knowing questions about his and Jess’s future would be answered soon enough.

To his left and behind him, Waldrop held up three fingers, notifying the team that it would be three minutes before the drop.

They all set their goggles, checked their equipment, and
made sure the ropes at both the rear and the left door were clear. Mike took the Reaper down fast, swooping low over the hills, then down into the valley that led to the village.

Ty’s pulse raced with adrenaline. This was it. Do or die.

“Two minutes.” Mike alerted the team.

Ty kept his hands close to the controls, ready to take over if necessary, while the side door opened and a gust of wind sliced through the aircraft. Seconds later, Mike cut speed and hovered the bird near the outside wall of the family compound in the target village. Immediately, Green kicked out the rope coils, and the bird shifted with the weight of the men and their weapons as they fast-roped down.

One by one, Reed, Coulter, Green, Jones, and Mendoza, then Cooper, Taggart, Santos, Carlyle, and finally Nate Black hit the ground, quickly shouldered their M-4s, and disappeared into the shadows.

“All clear,” Waldrop reported, and Mike swung the helicopter up and away, barely missing a rooftop antenna as he cut in close.

He flew out and away from the village, hovered, then started to set down about a half-mile away to await word from the ground team.

“Now we wait,” Mike said, his voice tinged with tension.

Only they didn’t wait long.

“Tracers!” Ty yelled, as flashing lights lit up the night with glowing balls of green tracers arcing toward them. “We’ve been made.”

Mike swore and abruptly lifted the bird, then veered around the tracer rounds working their way out of the target area. “So much for sneaking in unnoticed. Take out that freaking gun!” he yelled, pedal-turned, and Ty dumped a burst from the 23mm at the gun spewing the tracer rounds and live fire.

The ground gun kept firing, sharpening their aim.

“They’re getting closer!” Mike yelled. “Take out the SOB!”

Ty laid off the 23mm and lined up the missiles as glowing green basketballs flew straight at them.

He pulled the trigger, and three missiles shot out of the pods toward the spot where the tracers streamed out of the enemy gun.

“Shit, shit!” Mike yelled when the flash from the missile fire glinted off the fuselage and temporarily blinded him. “Take the controls! I can’t see!”

“I’ve got it.” Ty gripped the stick and flipped the weapons selector back to the 23mm guns, then twitched the copter directly toward the machine gun and fired. He walked the rounds right into the throat of the muzzle flashes, then pulled up abruptly before his shells made a direct hit that lit up the ground for twenty feet around the gun.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Waldrop crowed in one breath, then shouted in another, “RPG! Break right! Break right!”

Ty dumped the stick and hit the chaff and flare buttons as he twisted the bird away from a rocket that flashed past the right side of his windscreen.

“Too damn close!” Mike muttered, still rubbing his eyes as more tracers streaked up from the ground. “How many big guns do they freaking have?”

“The correct answer,” Ty said, as he hopped the aircraft over a hill, “would be too many.”

Beside him, Mike grinned. “Nice flying, baby bro.”

“You’re celebrating a little early, don’t you think?”

Something smashed into the tail section of the bird, answering his question. The chopper shuddered, almost stopped, and smoke billowed into the cockpit.

N
ATE QUICKLY MOVED
the team into position. They’d all seen the ground fire aimed at the chopper and knew their position had been given away. This was the exact last thing he’d wanted to happen. Shades of the Bin Laden raid all over, as any hope of an easy in, easy out flew out the proverbial window.

Damn
. They’d landed in the middle of Taliban country and he had no desire to have a video of American heads being hacked from their bodies showing up on the Internet.

It wasn’t enough that he had to worry about the ground team. He was anxious about Reaper. Mike and the guys had taken a lot of fire. It seemed every idiot with a gun and a grudge was determined to take down the team’s only way out. Since the chopper had danced away through the fireworks and out of sight, he put his trust in the guys flying the bird to do their job.

In the meantime, they needed to step it up. Several dwellings surrounded by private walled courtyards stood in the general area of their target building. According to their Predator video feed, which had spotted the letters on the roof, the house was the one next to a storage shed of some sort.

No dogs barked in this section of the village, but it seemed every hound in the surrounding area had set up a ruckus that would wake the dead, much less any bad guys.

With M-4s shouldered, Alpha squad—Cooper, Taggart, Santos, and Carlyle—headed for the courtyard to gain access through the back door. Bravo squad—Coulter, Jones, Reed, and Mendoza—headed to the storage shed to clear it, then scooted around to the front of the house. Back at Kandahar AFB, Charlie squad—Crystal Reed and B. J. Mendoza—monitored
their action via drone surveillance and coordinated everything, including contingencies, with U.S. military assets. Nate had a bad feeling they were going to need them.

Hanging back in the shadows, Nate, along with Green, waited during the Alpha and Bravo teams’ entry to keep control of any enemy engagement and as lookouts. Nate fingered the trigger of his M-4 as the main building team stacked alongside the doorway, breaching charge already in place. Overkill? No way. They still didn’t know for certain if they were dealing with friendlies or hostiles, and he wasn’t taking any chances.