on a parachute jump, and the fracture was deteriorating to the point that it eventually would have to be fused. That would leave him with less pain, but more crippled. The affected leg would be much shorter than the other.
Commander Timothy Jones, U. S. Navy, was a former SEAL with a hernia. Lieutenant Colonel Steve Lee, U. S. Air Force, had injured his back in a helicopter crash, while Major Scott Marchand, U. S. Marine Corps, had touched a live power line with his foot when coming in to make a PLF during a parachute jump at Tank Park DZ, Camp Pendleton, California. His right leg had been amputated just below the knee.
Their workdays went from very early in the morning to very late in the evening; and on one particularly screwed-up project that involved not only the military but politicians and diplomats, they worked for a straight thirty-six hours without a break, making sure that no inadvertent interference occurred during a multi-agency kidnapping and assassination in the same OA.
These four officers were ably served by only two administrative assistants, who were wise beyond their years. Both these young women were E-4s but in different branches of the service. Specialist Mary Kincaid was U. S. Army while Senior Airman Lucille Zinkowski was U. S. Air Force.
The day before, when an appointment was made for them to be visited by Carl Joplin of the State Department, the two young ladies cringed, knowing it was going to put their bosses in a bad mood. The undersecretary was well respected, but he generally didn't show up on their doorstep unless a situation seemed to be totally and irretrievably fucked up.
DR. Carl Joplin was escorted by a Marine from the Pentagon's east entrance through the building to an elevator that would take them to the bailiwick of SOLS. He was left at the door and he tapped on it, then stepped into the outer officer, where Kincaid and Zinkowski kept their desks. The young ladies--the former was twenty and the latter nineteen years of age--were collating the latest SPECOPS missions by date and location when Joplin made his appearance.
'Hello, young ladies,' he said. 'It's so nice to see you again.'
'How are you, Dr. Joplin?' Zinkowski inquired as she slipped a training mission in Bosnia between a couple of Iraq agent insertions.
'I'm fine:' Joplin replied. 'You look busy this morning.'
'We're busy every morning, Dr. Joplin,' Kincaid remarked. She got up and went to the inner door, opening it to speak to someone on the other side. 'Dr. Joplin is here, sir.' A muffled voice sounded from within, and she turned. 'Colonel Turnbull and Commander Jones are waiting to see you.'
Joplin went into what was a small central meeting chamber, with Zinkowski following. The four doors inside opened up on the private offices of the staff members. Turnbull and Jones were seated at a table in the center of the room. A standalone computer sat on the table, and Zinkowski took the chair in front of it. One of the jobs she and Kincaid were tasked with was the downloading of classified disks onto the staff 's CPU. This was done while the armed couriers who brought the data to the SOLS office waited. When the job was done, the couriers took the disks back to the vault, where they were stored under both electronic and human security measures.
Joplin reacted to an invitation to make himself at home by slipping into a chair. Both Turnbull and Jones were in their shirtsleeves with ties undone. They had the looks of men who had plenty to do that day and were impatient to get back to the tasks that awaited them.
'What can we do for you, Carl?' Turnbull asked.
'I've been approached by Zaid Aburrani,' Joplin replied, knowing they had left some important work to take the time for this meeting. 'I believe you're familiar with him.'
'I don't know him personally, but his name has passed through here now and then,' Turnbull conceded.
'Afghan, isn't he?' Jones asked.
'Yes,' Joplin said. 'He's got a sensitive situation in his home country involving one of the warlords. The man's name is Ayyub Durtami and he's holding a couple of their voter registration agents hostage. It would be to our advantage if the prisoners were rescued.'
Turnbull wondered about the importance of rescuing such hostages, but he knew if it wasn't vital then Carl Joplin, PhD, would not be involved. 'Would this warlord's name be the keyword in our search-and-find mode, Carl?'
'I'm not sure, John. But it would be a start.' He looked over at Zinkowski, thinking that back in the old country she would be Zinkowska. 'Try Afghanistan plus Durtami. The last one is spelled D-U-R-T-A-M-I.'
Zinkowski's fingers flew over the keyboard, then she pressed ENTER. 'It's come up,' she announced.
'Print it out, please,' Commander Jones said.
Seconds later the Lexmark Optra E312 printer buzzed on a table in the corner of the room, then began printing ten pages of data. When it finished, Zinkowski went over and got the document, carrying it to Colonel Turnbull. He read it, then passed it over to Commander Jones.
Jones took the pages. 'Ah! A SEAL operation. A platoon is in the area to pick up a defector.' He flipped over to the last page. 'They're also expected to be ready for any additional missions assigned them. They're still in- country.' He shoved the report over to Joplin.
The State Department undersecretary settled back and read the official cold, almost indifferent words that described a dangerous mission to pick up an indigenous defector. He knew the operative name Ishaq from other Middle Eastern missions. Joplin was intrigued by the contingency that the mission could be expanded because of the unstable situation in the OA. He took out his pen and wrote a few lines across the top of page one, then put his signature under it and on all the other pages. He nodded to Turnbull and Jones.
'You are now authorized to put in an order that the SEAL platoon in the area is to affect a rescue of the two hostages held by the Afghanistan warlord named Ayyub Durtami. Further instructions will follow.'
Turnbull glanced at Zinkowski. 'Do the paperwork.' 'Yes, sir!'
.
WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP
16 AUGUST
0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE mortar round hit during the middle of the morning watch, detonating a hundred meters down the far side of the mountain. Since Delta Fire Team was on watch, Chief Matt Gunnarson was at the CP acting as duty petty officer. His LASH headset immediately buzzed with simultaneous transmissions from Adam Clifford and Bruno Puglisi.
'Ever'body shut up but Puglisi,' he said back. 'What the hell's going on?'
Another round exploded a hundred and fifty meters to the south. 'There's some rat bastard moojee-hadeen shooting funny little mortars down in the valley from the base of East Ridge,' Puglisi reported. 'Looks like two crews. Are they coming in close up there?'
'Negative,' Gunnarson replied. 'They either can't hit shit or they're not sure of our exact location.'
'It's prob'ly a little of both,' Puglisi opined. 'They're kinda spastic with them things.'
'Can you reach them with your M-203?'
'Negative, Chief,' Puglisi said. 'They're out of range.'
'You guys stand fast and keep your heads down,' Gunnarson said. He glanced over at the Skipper, who was looking at him quizzically. He made a quick report. At that moment the senior chief came up, just as two shells struck on the opposite side of the mountain.
'Get your Bravos together, Senior Chief,' Brannigan ordered. 'That incoming is from a couple of mortars out there in the valley. You can get the exact locations from Puglisi. Evidently they're out of range of the M-203s, so you'll have to take 'em down with your CAR-15s. And that means paying them a personal visit.'
'Aye, sir,' Senior Chief Dawkins said. 'Although I hate to just barge in without an invitation.' He gave the Skipper a salute, then turned to trot over toward the Bravo positions while another explosion, too far away to do any harm, went off. 'On your feet, Bravos. There's a couple of mortars that want knocked out.'
In the passing of only a few short moments he was leading Connie Concord, Gutsy Olson and Chad Murchison on a circuitous route down the side of the mountain toward the valley.
.
0635 H0URS LOCAL
THE Bravos worked their way a short distance up the side of East Ridge, and found cover and concealment
