Risk Taker Page 6

  A lush and virtual wilderness is encamped

  Next to your orderly hymns, and it is a telling, glowing omen

  That a symphony of melodies is vibrating and humming

  Beneath your outer carapace.

  We thought we had glimpses of your depth, and our own

  In truth, we had barely scratched the surface of being.

  (to be continued as poet gets time)

  Sarah sighed softly, allowing the words to vibrate through her. This felt so real. As if this man were reaching out and invisibly sliding his finger down the slope of her cheek, softly touching her lower lip with his grazing thumb. Her heart opened, and heat pooled in her lower body.

  Sarah wondered again when Ethan was placing the envelope beneath the tent. She never heard his footsteps again after that first day. Was this whole thing a game for him? Intuitively, she didn’t think so. If nothing else, Sarah thought, as she slowly read each luscious, juicy word Ethan had written, his poem gave her hope and solace. His words, how he saw her and himself, were far removed from the daily violence surrounding their lives here at this forward operating base. His words fed her starving soul in a way she couldn’t describe but could only feel on a deep, visceral level. His words were healing and gave her hope.

  *

  Ethan sat with three other SEALs on the end of the runway in a QRF, quick reaction force, Black Hawk helicopter piloted by Night Stalker pilots. He had Beau, Teddy and Mac in his team. The noontime sun was beating down on them as the Black Hawk idled on the runway, awaiting orders to lift off. He had his helmet and an earpiece on, listening to all the communications between their helo and a Marine squad that was pinned down by a Taliban ambush near the Pakistan border. His heart beat slowly as he listened to the gunfire, the cursing and orders between the Marines. They were in the thick of it, having triggered a Taliban attack that had cut off their only route of escape on a hill above a valley thirty minutes east of Bravo.

  Ethan shifted, one leg hanging out the open door of the Black Hawk, the other pulled up against his body as he leaned back on the airframe, listening intently. SEALs often provided QRF to Special Forces, Delta, the Army and the Marine recons in the area. It was his turn today to take his team into the fray if they were given orders to launch. A QRF was exactly that: reacting swiftly, decisively, to any enemy force that was trying to overwhelm another U.S. force out there in the badlands.

  Master Chief Gil Hunter’s voice came over his radio headset. “Avalanche Actual, this is Avalanche Main. You are authorized to engage.”

  That was what Ethan wanted to hear. He threw a thumbs-up to his eager team, who were more than ready to enter the fight. “Roger, Avalanche Main. Out.” He quickly switched channels to speak to the Night Stalker pilots who would take them into the firefight. Sweat trickled down his temples. Adrenaline started leaking through Ethan, but his heart rate remained slow and steady. The Black Hawk’s powerful engines engaged, and the gravity pushed him downward as it rose into the air. The wind felt damn good against his sweaty body; all the gear he wore held in the heat.

  Normally, QRFs took place at night, the Taliban’s time to be on the move. A day patrol being attacked, in Ethan’s experience, meant it was a much larger force that had been waiting to ambush the Marines. Wiping his mouth, he pushed his wraparound sunglasses snugly against his face. The sun was blindingly bright and it was over a hundred degrees midday. It was going to be a sonofabitch of a battle because men dehydrated so damned fast under these types of brutal conditions. He’d made sure his shooters had eight quarts of water in their rucks as well as the CamelBak they carried on their backs.

  The wind whipped around him, tearing at his body as he rode on the lip of the helo, his M4 rifle nose down and hanging off the nylon harness across his right shoulder and chest. It was safed to make sure no bullet accidentally got fired off into the helicopter, potentially causing a crash or accidentally killing someone. Ethan’s mind churned over the intel and he closed his eyes, visualizing where the Marines were trapped. The hill was a small one, and there were Taliban coming up two sides of it, the north and east. Rocks sat on the top of the hill, where the ten-man Marine force had taken cover and were fighting for their lives.

  He picked up a CIA transmission, alerting him to the fact a drone was now overhead, streaming back real-time video of the firefight. Ethan set his rifle inside on the deck, pulled his ruck over and opened it up. Quickly, he pulled out his Toughbook laptop, opened the lid and fired it up. In a minute, he was looking through the drone’s orbiting eyes. Dammit. These Marines were in real trouble. He saw at least forty Taliban on one side of the north side of the hill, fighting and firing RPGs at the Marines on top. On the eastern flank of the hill, at least sixty Taliban attacked.

  Ethan called SEAL HQ and talked to Master Chief Gil Hunter. He relayed the streaming video intel, telling him the four of them weren’t going to make a huge difference in this fight. The master chief agreed and switched over to the Black Jaguar Squadron, requesting immediate Apache support.

  Ethan watched the dry, yellowed and rocky earth far below skim by; the helo was at max speed. The Night Stalker pilots were skilled at making insertions and exfil for black ops groups. They flew at a high enough altitude so that the RPGs carried by the Taliban couldn’t reach them.

  Ethan studied the laptop, trying to decide where to insert. If they didn’t get those Apaches, it was going to be a brutal, long, drawn-out fight. Marines were exactly that: steady, reliable fighters. They didn’t know the words quit or surrender. Ethan liked working with the Marines because they had the hearts of SEALs. He’d never tell them that, but those men were damned good in combat.

  The Black Hawk swung down, banking sharply. Ethan was tethered to the frame with a harness, so he wouldn’t fall out. He ordered his men to unsafe their weapons and get ready to bail as he stowed his laptop in his ruck. For the insert, Ethan chose the south side of the hill, which was rocky and nearly impossible for the Taliban to climb quickly. And then it would mean a swift climb over hot, burning rocks in order to reach the pinned-down Marines.

  He was already in touch with Lieutenant Porter, the Marine officer leading the squad, letting him know their ETA and where they were coming in. Ethan didn’t want his team to be seen as a Taliban force coming over the hill and get fired on by the Marines.

  He heard a lot of other communications in his earpiece. The bad news was no Apaches were available; they were all out on other missions, raining hell down on enemies elsewhere. As the Black Hawk thunked and shuddered, drawing closer to the parched earth and rocks at the base of the hill, Ethan called the master chief and asked for other means of support.

  They landed and leaped off the Black Hawk, the rotor wash nearly knocking them over as they crouched and scuttled swiftly away from the helo. Ethan used hand signals, getting his men into the rocks. Behind him, the Night Stalker pilots lifted the bird off, getting the hell out of Dodge. He called Porter and let him know they were on the ground. The officer sounded relieved.

  Moving up swiftly through and between the rocks, the SEALs spread out in a diamond formation. That way, their flanks were protected and covered. Ethan took the lead, breathing hard at the nine-thousand-foot altitude, his lungs burning with exertion. Sweat poured off him, and he constantly wiped his face with the back of his glove as he leaped and moved upward. He heard the gunfire, the screams and curses of the Taliban.

  Crouched and running, eyes moving left to right, Ethan led his team higher into the rocks. The snap and pop of bullets sizzled around them whi
le they moved over the top of the hill. Ethan spotted the young Marine officer firing at the enemy starting to come over the hill. He gave a hand signal to his shooters to spread out and help the beleaguered Marines.

  “Causalities?” he shouted above the gunfire at the officer.

  “Two wounded,” he yelled back. “I need medevac! Two nine-liners!”

  Ethan nodded and quickly made the call into Camp Bravo squadron for the Marine officer. Nine-line meant the wounded were critical. Fresh blood would be brought in a cooler to give to the men when on board. He switched radio channels, calling into the medevac HQ, apprising them of the situation and that the wounded were critical. The male dispatcher told him a medevac would arrive at the hill in twenty minutes.

  For a brief second, he wondered if Sarah would be flying today. She had to be back on the flight roster after her enforced four-day rest. His gut tightened. He didn’t want her flying into this hell. All Marines were on their bellies, firing systematically, not wildly. They were trained and disciplined, not wasting any more ammo than necessary to kill the enemy.

  He leaned over and told the officer there was a split Taliban force of ninety men. The red-haired officer paled. Ethan could tell this was a young lieutenant, not battle hardened with experience. He then heard the throaty roar of the M4s going online from the SEAL contingent. They joined in with the Marines’ M16 rifles, laying down fire and halting the Taliban attempt to overrun their position.

  Ethan’s job was to get the overview, assess their position and then, because he was comms, get these Marines the help they needed in order to repulse the Taliban. The screams of raging Taliban soldiers, gunfire, the explosion of RPGs and the curses of the Marines were deafening. Crouching down behind a rock, near Porter, Ethan worked the radios, seeing what he could get in the way of support.

  He grinned, finding an A-10 warthog pilot loitering in the area with a load of bombs and a Gatling gun that could repulse the Taliban. Ethan quickly gave the pilot their GPS location. The pilot, who called himself Wolverine, said he’d redline to their position and get there in about twenty minutes.

  Feeling better, Ethan turned, told the officer and then moved between two towering rocks. He went prone and began to pick off the Taliban as they crawled over the top of the hill. In his mind, he worried about the medevac coming in. Where should it land? He needed to know where the two wounded Marines were located. Pushing to his knees, Ethan crawled between the rocks and spotted a Navy combat corpsman some hundred feet away, tending to the Marines who were in critical condition. They didn’t look good. Damn.

  He saw the grimness in the corpsman’s face as he tightened up a tourniquet on one Marine’s bleeding thigh. The other Marine had a head injury. No way could he ask the medevac to wait. The Marines were critical and would die soon if they didn’t get immediate transport.

  Ethan wondered if it would be too late. As he turned to keep Porter updated, he couldn’t help but think of Sarah. Something told him she would be piloting that Black Hawk into this fiery hell. Dammit!

  Chapter 6

  The moment Sarah heard Ethan’s voice over her radio channel, her heart did a triple beat in her chest. She’d gotten the intel and GPS location of the Marines pinned down on a hill at the ready room from her flight commander. She held the cyclic and collective, pushing her Black Hawk to maximum, the blades thumping heavily, making the craft shake and shudder. Her copilot, Eddy Tait, a twenty-two-year-old warrant officer from the bayous of Louisiana recently out of training, was busy with the radio frequencies. She watched her next waypoint coming up on her HUD, heads-up display, banking to the left. In the rear was her aircrew chief, Hubbard. She had two medics on the flight, Carew and Pascal, because this was a nine-line call and both Marines were critical. Her medics were solid players, especially Pascal because he was an 18 Delta corpsman, the most highly trained combat medics in the world. Tait was questionable because this was his first rotation and he wasn’t aggressive when it came down to flying into bullets and RPGs exploding around them. She’d seen the fear in his face before they lifted off. He’d gain a set of cojones over time.

  The heat rising off the earth hurled the Black Hawk up and down like a yo-yo as it hit big air pockets. As she kept them as steady as possible, Sarah constantly moved her gaze between the cockpit panel and the land five thousand feet below them. Her dark helmet visor was drawn down across the upper half of her face, the mic near her lips. She felt the urgency, knowing two Marines were critical. While forcing herself not to think about Ethan being down there, she milked every bit of speed out of her Black Hawk. Tait was working the overhead throttles to get every ounce of speed from those two engines.

  Within five miles of the hill, Sarah heard Major Donaldson’s pedantic voice come over her radio.

  “Black Dog One, this is Black Dog. Over.”

  Twisting her lips, she thumbed the mic. “Black Dog One. Over.” What the hell was he on the radio for? She’d already gotten approval from the Marines and SEAL HQ at Bagram to fly in and pick up the wounded men. She felt dread. There was no way he was going to tell her to back off this run now.

  “Loiter at five miles, Black Dog One. Over.”

  Tait’s mouth fell open, and he quickly looked to his right where she sat, confusion in his eyes.

  “That’s a negative, Black Dog,” she growled back. “We have a nine-liner, two critical, and I have approval from Bagram.” Would Donaldson back off now? Sarah swore under her breath after she turned off the channel so her crew couldn’t hear her conversation with her boss.

  “This is an order, Black Dog One. Loiter at five miles until I give you permission to fly in. Over.”

  Not a chance. Sarah keyed the mic. “You’re breaking up,” she said as she played with the mic, making it sound like she was. “Can you repeat? Did not receive. Over.”

  Sarah heard the major angrily repeat the order. She continued to key the mic, causing static disruption. Go to hell, Donaldson. If it were you on that hill, you’d sure as hell be screaming like a baby wanting a medevac to come and rescue your sorry ass.

  Tait appeared uncertain after hearing Donaldson’s order.

  “Just fly,” Sarah said. He was so damn green he didn’t understand that she followed Bagram’s orders, not her CO’s belated, secondary order. Bagram trumped Donaldson. Two men’s lives were on the line. They had family who loved them, maybe wives and children. Sarah was damned if she was going to let a few bullets and the threat of RPGs stop her from landing and taking them on board.

  “Hey, Chief Benson,” Pascal drawled, humor in his tone as he spoke to her on the ICS, intercabin system. “Having a little trouble with our radio, are we?”

  Sarah grinned sourly. “Yeah, it’s messing up. Gotta have it looked at, Pascal, once we get back.”

  “It’s been on the fritz before,” Pascal said, chuckling. “I’ll look at it and see what I can do.”

  In his early thirties, Pascal was an experienced medic and knew the dance. Then there was Tait, who scowled, his mouth set. He had yet to understand politics versus orders. She’d set him straight once they returned to Bravo.

  As she banked the Black Hawk, the helo thunking and the vibrations rippling through her entire body, Sarah heard Ethan’s voice on the radio.

  “Black Dog One, this is Avalanche Actual. Over.”

  “You got me, Avalanche Actual. Where do you want me to drop in? Over.”

  Sarah smiled to herself, knowing Ethan would instantly recognize her voice. If he did, it didn’t come through in his low, steady tone. He was speaking to her as if all were calm, but she could hear the fierce firefight going on around him.

  Ahead, she noted the hill and several RPGs exploding near the rocks where the Marines were pinned. Her heart rate went up. Taliban lurked on two sides of the hill, trying to come over the top
like ants and overrun the Marines. Where to land? Did Ethan have a spot chosen?

  “Black Dog One, I’m putting out green smoke to mark your landing site. You’re going to have to come in on the south side of the hill and land downslope, just below the top of it. Over,” Ethan said.

  No doubt he was trying to land her helo downslope from the firefight. Bullets couldn’t bend, and it would mean they’d take less fire as a result.

  “Copy that, Avalanche Actual. Coming in hot. Out,” she answered, bringing the helo in swiftly. Sarah knew from experience that the Taliban would see them coming in and throw everything, including the kitchen sink, at them. Never mind Geneva Conventions clearly spelled out that a red cross on the nose of a helo meant no one could fire at it or try and destroy it. The Taliban went by its own rules.

  Ethan stood crouched behind some boulders, watching Sarah guide the Black Hawk helicopter into the fray. He’d gotten two other Marines to bring their wounded comrades up to this point. There was no way he could afford men to carry them down to the base of the hill, where it would have been much safer. The trip probably would have killed them anyway. He swiftly looked around and called Porter on the radio.

  “Lieutenant, when I give the order, lay down suppression fire so this bird can land. She’s coming in hot and we have to protect it.”

  “Roger,” Porter said.

  Ethan then switched channels, connecting the Marines and SEALs. “Suppression fire. Lay it down now,” he ordered. SEALs knew how to lay down lead in a curtain that would keep the enemies’ heads down.