American Operator, page 15
part #4 of Tier One Series
He didn’t make it and succeeded only in hooking his left arm around the sideview mirror as his legs dragged along the dirt. He pulled the mirror into his left armpit; it creaked but did not rip off under his weight. His head smacked against the driver-side window, leaving a greasy, bloody smear across the already cracked glass. Their eyes met. The driver screamed and then went for his AK-47 on the passenger seat. At the same time, Dempsey cocked his right arm and smashed his gloved fist into the driver-side window.
He felt a sharp pop in his hand as the glass exploded into a thousand shards. His fist kept going, however, and struck the driver just behind his left ear. The driver grunted and clutched the wheel with both hands. He glanced at Dempsey, then at the stone wall along the drive. With a malevolent grin, he accelerated and pulled the wheel left, apparently intent on smashing Dempsey into that wall, but Dempsey was too quick. He hooked his right arm around the man’s neck, pulled the driver into a headlock, and then let go of the mirror with his left arm. His boots skidded and kicked in the dirt as he pulled and twisted. He felt a nauseating crunch as the bones in the man’s neck gave way under the wrenching twist of his full weight. Then he let go, tossing both arms up and over his head a beat before he hit the dirt. The left rear tire whirred past, missing his face by mere inches as he rolled clear. Metal shrieked and groaned as the sedan plowed into the wall and scraped along until it came to a stop.
Dempsey allowed himself one more roll and then used the momentum to propel himself back to his feet. A beat later, he was sighting over his rifle and advancing on the vehicle. Through the passenger-side windows, he could make out a figure slumped over in the driver seat. He flung open the front passenger door and looked inside. The terrorist’s head was leaning against the steering wheel, his eyes open and wide with terror. The rest of the man’s body, however, was flaccid and limp in the seat, muscles no longer receiving commands from his brain, thanks to the torn spinal cord in his neck.
The driver’s bloody mouth moved in a plea: “Fadlika . . . Idrukni.” Please . . . Leave me alone.
Dempsey fired a single round through the man’s forehead. Then he grabbed the back of the dead man’s collar and pulled him roughly out of the car. Unslinging his rifle, Dempsey slid into the driver seat. He put the transmission in reverse. Metal screeched as he accelerated backward, until he managed to steer off the wall. He whipped the sedan through a 180-degree turn, shifted into drive, and piloted the old Peugeot back to the compound, where the outbuilding once housing Amanda Allen was now a smoldering pile of rubble. He put the gear shifter in park, climbed out of the car, and sprinted to where he’d last seen Theobold. Spying a booted foot, Dempsey waded through the debris and began frantically clearing chunks of broken lumber.
The leg moved.
“Sean!” he barked. “You alive?”
A hand came up and pushed aside a hunk of corrugated roof panel to reveal a bloody, soot-covered face. Theobold blinked twice, and then his gaze came into focus. “Fuck me,” he said. “Did I just get blown up?”
Dempsey grinned tightly, his hands now flying over the battered body beneath him looking for mortal injuries. “Yeah, afraid so, brother. Where are you hit?”
“Right flank, or maybe right chest. Just outside my body armor. Can’t tell now. Hurts everywhere.”
Dempsey felt Theobold’s wet shirt, soaked with blood. Then he quickly checked his pulse. The man’s heart was pounding fast—but strong—meaning he’d not lost too much blood . . . yet. He was talking and breathing fast but not gasping, which meant the right lung wasn’t collapsed.
“I’m gonna get you home, Sean.”
“But the girl.”
“They got away,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna take care of you first. Then I’m going after her.”
He dragged Theobold out of the rubble and then tried to raise Ember: “Boeing One . . . Olympus . . . This is Atlas One. Anyone up?”
No response.
“Kadir, check in,” he barked.
No response.
Over the rear wall of the compound, he could see the taillights of the two fleeing vehicles on the horizon, just now disappearing from view. Based on the vector, Dempsey decided they were probably headed to Raqqa. It was a guess, but where else could they go? If he hurried, there was a chance he could intercept them. If he hurried, he could still save her.
“Kadir, I know you can hear me, asshole. Answer me or I will come find you and shoot you myself.”
“I am here. I am in the vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Right where we left it.”
“Come to us.”
“There is no road.”
Dempsey was growing irate.
“The terrain is fine. The SUV can handle it. I’m moving toward you now.”
Sean’s eyes were still clear, his jaw clenched in pain.
“I gotcha, man,” Dempsey said. The urge to tear after Amanda Allen’s kidnappers was pulling at him, but one way or another, he’d get his chance. For now, he focused on his commitment to the Special Warfare ethos.
No man gets left behind.
Dempsey looked down at Theobold. “I’m going to get you up into a carry.”
“All right,” the operator said.
Dempsey executed a Ranger roll—grasping the injured man’s arm and leg and pulling them together across his chest with his own arms as he rolled over the top of the reclined operator’s torso. He grunted and pressed up onto his feet, Theobold up and in a fireman’s carry position across his shoulders. He moved rapidly toward the wall and slipped over it with the man still on his shoulders, smoothly dropping to a knee on the other side.
“Fucking ouch,” Theobold said.
“I know, bro. Hang tough.”
He could see headlights tearing toward him, bouncing up and down. He wished Kadir had the sense to turn the headlights off, but it didn’t really matter anymore. The bad guys at the compound were all either dead or gone. Moments later, the white SUV with the blue “UN” emblazoned on the side skidded to a stop nearby.
Dempsey opened the passenger door and set Theobold as gently as possible on the seat.
“What happened?” Kadir asked, his brow furrowed.
“He got shot. That’s what happened,” Dempsey growled. “Do not go back to al-Bab. Do you understand me? You need to go north, back to Turkey through the border crossing at Elbeyli.”
“And cross how? How will I explain this?” Kadir asked, terrified.
“You tell them Dr. Theobold was shot during an ambush while we were taking samples north of al-Bab. That’s a story the UN team leader will know, and it’s what you stick to,” he said as he removed Theobold’s body armor and pulled the NVGs from his head. “The NOC will hold up. Get him to medical care.”
“And what about you?” Theobold asked, his expression pained.
“You tell Turkish officials the last you saw me, the bad guys were dragging me off towards a truck. Tell them you think I’m dead. But when my people get in touch, tell them the truth and that I’m headed east towards Raqqa. Tell them I’m gonna get Allen back or die trying.”
“You’re headed to Raqqa alone?”
“I’ve got to. They know we’re coming for her now. She probably doesn’t have much time left,” Dempsey said, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and smiled. “Thanks, Sean. For being the warrior you are. And I’m sorry the op went to hell. Looks like you were right after all. Shoulda waited.”
The man shook his head. “No, man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t get her out . . . We were this fucking close,” Theobold said, holding his fingers up in a pinch.
Dempsey nodded and turned to leave.
After a beat, the former Delta operator called out, “Hooyah, frogman.”
A smile crept across Dempsey’s face, but he didn’t look back.
Hooyah, brother . . . Hooyah.
CHAPTER 17
Heart pounding, Grimes rolled away from the sniper rifle, scooped up her Rattler, and moved swiftly toward the air-handling unit on top of the hangar roof.
She could hear voices.
Someone was coming for her.
Taking cover behind the stout metal structure, she dropped to a knee at the corner. She adjusted her NVGs, and the green targeting laser streaming from her weapon reappeared. Exhaling to calm her nerves, she sighted around the corner and put the green laser a foot below the top of the ledge where the ladder cage accessed the roof.
She waited . . .
Tink . . . tink . . .
A face materialized and peered over the ledge—male, bearded, no NVGs. In high-resolution green-gray night vision, she watched his eyes scan the roof. The decision she had to make would likely determine her fate. Did she shoot him now and prevent him from gaining access to the roof, or did she wait? Killing him now was the easier option, but she didn’t know how many others were behind him, and killing the leader would alert them to her presence.
And I have to be sure he’s not a friendly . . .
If she’d thought to come up here for base defense, then other coalition SOF operators might do the same.
Damn it.
Her pulse was pounding so loudly in her ears, it was all she could hear. She watched as the man slipped over the ledge and went into a crouch. He was dressed in dark pants and an untucked shirt, not a uniform and not unmarked tactical clothing. A rifle strap angled across his chest. She could see the end of the muzzle sticking above his left shoulder, but she couldn’t discern the make or model. Seemingly satisfied that the roof was clear, he turned and called out to someone behind him in what sounded like Arabic, but she couldn’t be sure. A beat later, another head appeared over the ledge. This dude was wearing a keffiyeh—a long patterned scarf—and had it wrapped around his head, neck, and mouth in the style common to Middle East fighters. Her finger tensed on the trigger. Is it enough to make the call?
No.
She had worn them on Middle East operations, and Dempsey typically wore a keffiyeh when he was embedded. The second man dropped onto the roof and then looked back over the ledge and motioned to someone else farther down the ladder.
Shit. How many are there?
The second man was standing now. He began walking toward the north side, when he abruptly stopped—his gaze fixed where her sniper rifle rested, propped up on the ledge by its bipod. The man hollered back at his companion, who quickly brought his rifle around—an AK-47.
All the data considered together was enough to act.
She dropped the first terrorist with a two-round volley to the chest. As he crumpled to the ground, she shifted her aim to shooter number two, the one whose face was hidden by the shemagh, and dropped him with a headshot. She sighted back to the ladder egress, ready for a third insurgent, but she didn’t see anyone. She surged to her feet, advanced around the corner of the air handler, and sprinted to the ledge. She resisted the urge to peer over, lest she get shot in the face. Instead, she drifted right, giving herself an offset. She took two quick breaths, sighted over the ledge, and spied four dark figures lined up inside the ladder cage like a column of soldier ants climbing the building. But these guys weren’t climbing; they were furiously retreating back down the ladder, the top fighter shouting in panic.
It was fish in a barrel . . .
A moment later, they were all corpses. She squeezed off a few insurance rounds into the bodies, then knelt to peek over the ledge and scan the grounds on this side of the hangar, looking for movement and additional threats. Seeing nothing, she jogged to the WinMag and settled back into position behind her long gun. A firefight raged to the north, near the B61 vault, and she saw additional vehicles screaming across the base in that direction. But in this corner of the base, everything seemed to have gone abruptly quiet. She looked right, toward the Boeing, to check on Munn and the QRF contingent but didn’t see any people or vehicles on the tarmac. A rush of panic washed over her.
“Where’d they go?” she mumbled, scanning around the Boeing and the damaged Osprey but not finding anyone. A knot began to form in her stomach.
Damn it.
She was overwatch. She was Zeus, the WinMag her thunderbolt. As with her other default sniper call signs—God and Mother—her role on the team was to watch over and shield the operators on the ground. The implication was not subtle; a sniper’s job was to dole out death with absolute discrimination from on high. Protecting Munn, Latif, and Martin was her responsibility, and she’d failed them. She had a perfectly valid excuse, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that when they’d needed her most, “God” had been busy.
“If I just had fucking comms,” she grumbled, “I could at least—”
A figure appeared on the top landing of the Boeing’s air-stair, then turned and waved in her direction. She switched her optics from thermal to night vision and saw that the figure was Munn. She exhaled with relief. He waved for several more seconds, then just stared in her direction. She wondered how to signal him, but then he made it easy for her by raising a handheld scope to his eye and looking at her. She waved and stood up enough that her IR strobe would be visible to him. It worked because he waved again, then gave her a thumbs-up. Next, he cupped a hand to his ear and gave her another thumbs-up.
“Did you fix comms?” she said, feeling a surge of excitement, hoping that her earbud would come alive, but Munn’s familiar voice did not greet her in response.
He was still spotting her with his scope, so she cupped her hand to her ear and then dragged a straight index finger across her throat. Munn nodded in understanding, then gestured for her to come down. She screwed up her face.
What the hell? The base is still under attack.
He traced his index finger in a circle in the air above his head and then made a gesture with a hand shooting out toward the horizon, which, combined, she took to mean: Wrap it up; we’re bugging out. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he disappeared back into the Boeing. Certainly the plane wasn’t fixed. Maybe he’d gotten the portable comms unit up and running. Her thoughts went immediately to Dempsey: Did they have comms back with Dempsey? Was Amanda Allen confirmed at the compound? Had the terrorists tried to move her? Had Dempsey intervened? Did he need the QRF? Were they already too late?
She shook her head.
I’ll know soon enough . . .
She was about to pack up the WinMag when she noticed a white pickup truck heading down the tarmac in the general direction of the Boeing. She leaned in for a look on the scope and increased her magnification. It was hard to tell in the monochrome world of night vision, but she thought she could make out a winged United States Air Force emblem painted on the side of the door. She clicked the magnification again. Two men were seated in the cab. They didn’t look like American servicemen, but again, on this base, that didn’t count for much. She swept left, back to the air-stair, and saw Latif carrying a load of gear down to the tarmac. Martin was already at the bottom setting down two large duffel bags. A beat later, Munn stepped out of the plane, arms burdened with a full load of gear. None of them appeared to notice the truck, which was approaching from the other side of the plane. None of them seemed alarmed. They must be expecting it. Made sense; they were going to load their gear in the bed and hitch a ride to whatever air asset Adamo had procured for them.
Satisfied, she eased back on her haunches . . .
But something still didn’t feel right.
She shifted back into shooting posture and assessed the truck through the scope. These guys should be slowing down. She increased the magnification and looked through the windshield at the men’s faces. This is all wrong. Trust your instincts, she told herself. After that, she stopped thinking, and the sniper took over. She selected her target—the engine block—but it would be a tricky shot. The vehicle was coming in at a narrow angle, and its speed was hard to judge. She did the math in her head, corrected for wind and speed, and aimed.
She exhaled.
Trigger squeeze.
The WinMag kicked. She chambered a new round. At first she thought she’d missed, but as she corrected for her next shot, steam suddenly erupted from the grill and corners of the hood. The truck veered right toward the Boeing and then stopped. Two men hopped out, pulling AK-47s with them. The passenger was wearing something bulky under his shirt and held something small in his left hand. A detonator? She increased the magnification another tick, zooming in. Yes, she was sure. She needed to drop him now, at barely a safe distance from her team and the Boeing.
Exhale.
Squeeze.
The man’s head spit gray and black out behind him and he crumpled to the ground. His partner opened fire in the direction of Martin, Latif, and Munn. She prayed they’d taken cover behind the air-stair. She closed her eyes to protect her night vision from the impending boom.
A dull whump echoed from the tarmac.
She counted to three and then opened her eyes.
The suicide bomber was gone—completely evaporated. The second insurgent was on the ground, writhing in pain from the injuries sustained when the dead man’s switch had blown his partner to bits. Then, with an apparent surge of adrenaline and renewed purpose, he lunged for his AK-47.
Grimes sighted.
Exhaled.
And sent him to join his friend in hell.
“Clear,” she said, even though no one could hear her, and scanned left. She counted one, two, three operators—all intact and on their feet. Munn turned to face her and gave her an appreciative salute. Feeling redeemed, she scanned the entire tarmac one last time before packing up and heading to the Boeing to rejoin her team.
“Thanks a lot for taking out our driver and blowing up our ride,” Munn said with a toothy grin as she jogged up to meet him several minutes later.
“I thought I told you guys never to call an Uber.”
With a laugh, he wrapped her in a big bear hug, which she returned awkwardly. “You saved our asses, girl,” he said, releasing her. “That was some fine shooting.”
