capability. Carrying the same man a full kilometer over rocky, snow-covered terrain in subzero temperatures, in the wind, was being unrealistic, but Mitchell gave it a shot nonetheless. Because it was Rutang, his friend.
Mitchell lasted about three hundred meters before he had to stop. He and Diaz unrolled one of their portable stretchers, velcroed Rutang into it, then sought the smoothest paths they could follow while dragging him through the narrow pass, utilizing the stretcher's built-in harnesses.
The delay only lasted a couple of minutes, but Saenz and Vick appreciated the break.
When they reached a large boulder to their left, marking the top of the pass, they paused to recon the barren valley below, where their Black Hawk would land. Now Mitchell paused a moment to bring in the UAV3.
As the drone whirred overhead, Mitchell zoomed in with the cameras, and suddenly red diamonds began to appear in the hills. There were two at first, then three, four, a dozen — maybe more now — all moving along a trail leading directly toward them.
'Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner,' called the pilot, who was no doubt observing what Mitchell saw via the network. 'Hold position. The zone is hot.'
But it was already too late for a stealthy escape by the pilot and his crew.
They'd been swooping down and immediately drew a storm of small arms fire from the insurgents on the ground.
'Get them back,' Mitchell ordered the others. 'Back behind the rocks.' Then he called to the pilot. 'Black Hawk Two-Niner. Zone's too hot! Pull out. We'll need more support, over.'
'Sorry, Captain. None available. We're all you got. And we didn't come all this way to leave you behind.'
TWELVE
The MH-60K Black Hawk was the Special Forces variant of the army's front-line utility helicopter and designed to take ODA and Ghost teams on long-range missions deep into enemy territory. In order to do that, a pair of 230- gallon external fuel tanks had been mounted on either side of the fuselage, beneath the rotor, and at the moment, Mitchell watched as those tanks were being targeted by the insurgents below.
With the awe-inspiring grace of its namesake bird, the pilot throttled up the pair of General Electric engines and banked hard out of the line of fire. He made a complete circle then dove, bringing his chopper to bear on the targets below. The pair of M134 7.62 mm mini-guns mounted in the crew doors wailed and stitched blazing, tracer- lit paths through the snow as the Taliban fighters dove for cover.
Those gunners continued putting serious steel on target, but one carefully aimed rocket-propelled grenade from the bad guys could end it all, as it had back on Basilan Island. Their pilot was taking one hell of a risk for Mitchell and his team.
'I don't believe this,' cried Ramirez. 'The zone can't be hot!'
'Bad intel,' said Brown. 'After all that. Bad intel.'
'Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. I'm heading for a ridge just west your position, twenty meters. I'll hover there.'
'Roger that, Two-Niner.'
The Black Hawk came out of its dive and made a climbing turn to the south as the gunners broke fire.
All along the mountain trail ahead, muzzles winked, as though a long cord of short-circuiting wire had been stretched over the rocks and ice.
'Everyone, listen up,' snapped Mitchell. 'Those guys weren't waiting for us. They're on a rat line, coming back from A'stan. They were probably in the caves till now. We just got bad timing. Diaz, you and I help out those door gunners. Brown? You and Ramirez get 'em on board. Ready people? Here he comes!'
As the Black Hawk roared by, and a fresh wave of gunfire pinged off its fuselage, Mitchell craned his head and realized that Ramirez and Brown were taking the CIA agents. 'No!' he cried, pointing at Rutang still strapped into the stretcher. 'You get him first.'
'Roger that,' hollered Ramirez.
'That how it is, Captain?' shouted Agent Saenz. 'You decide who lives and dies?'
Mitchell gave the man a look, then regarded Diaz. 'Move out.'
He sprang from cover and broke left, with Diaz right behind. They picked their way along a stretch of broken boulders and snow, then dropped behind a narrow spine of mottled rock, able to prop up on their forearms.
Mitchell's HUD began to light up with so many targets that he thought the IWS had crashed. He estimated near thirty now, and who knew how many more to come.
'I'm hunting for the RPGs,' announced Diaz, ready to shoot any Taliban fighter shouldering a rocket meant for the chopper. 'Got one. Taking the shot!'
Were it not for his HUD, Sergeant Marcus Brown would not have seen a thing through all the whipping ice and snow. Superimposed over those gray curtains was the green, glowing outline of the chopper, its ID flashing: Black Hawk 29.
He and Ramirez hauled Rutang up and over a few rocks, then fought their way through gusts tugging hard on their shoulders, threatening to topple them.
The chopper was just ten meters away now, its gear floating precariously a meter over the spiny ridgeline. There was no level spot to land, and the pilot had come in as low as he dared, with his nose pitched up, his main rotor slicing the air just a few meters away from the mountainside. The scene reminded Brown of that YouTube video he'd watched of a Black Hawk crashing on Mount Hood, and now those whomping rotors began to seriously unnerve him.
As they reached the chopper, the door gunner, who had already ceased fire, lowered a harness, and Brown and Ramirez rushed to get Rutang fitted. If the pilot had been able to descend just a little more, they could have avoided the delay, but you played the hand you were dealt, and once they had Rutang buckled up, they gave the gunner the signal. Rutang rose via winch toward the open bay.
Brown and Ramirez headed back for the CIA agents. One down, two to go. While there was no time to discuss it now, Brown wanted to speak with Ramirez about the captain's decision to take Rutang first. Brown and Ramirez could have evacuated both agents in one shot, then come back for the medic. It wasn't a big deal, but if something happened in the interim, it was better to save two than just one.
Or was it more important to save your friend than a couple of CIA agents, who they all knew could turn on you in a heartbeat if that furthered their agenda?
Brown had worked with Mitchell before, yet this was the first time the captain had revealed personal bias during a mission. With Mitchell it was always cut-and-dried: the mission and the team came first. Brown called that professional bias. Still, Mitchell could have ordered Brown to take Rutang and Ramirez to grab one of the agents. Brown could have dragged the medic, albeit slower than two guys could. But Mitchell was all about them double- teaming his buddy. Even the CIA guy had called him out on it. Interesting.
Diaz's round hit the Taliban insurgent squarely in the chest, and it appeared as though he had swallowed a grenade. The RPG he'd been shouldering hurtled away like a boomerang, trailed by what was left of him.
People often asked if the grim nature of her job ever got to her. They'd ask about how the military prepares you for killing people. She didn't talk about that. She just did her job like she'd been taught. She removed targets and did everything she could to detach herself from the emotions. She thought of the operators to her left and right, her friends. She ignored the fact that the men she killed could have families they'd be leaving behind.
But was it possible to kill with no guilt, no remorse? Maybe for some.
It was Diaz's subconscious that got the best of her. There were always demons who rose from the bogs of night and marched through her quarters, dripping blood and growling that they'd returned for revenge.
She'd bolt awake, chilled and soaked in sweat. But she knew that this came with the territory. Adapt and move on, she always said.
