three-zero mikes, then chow. Let’s move!”
“Comm check. Control is up.”
Leopole listened for the responses. They came promptly over the lightweight headsets that the operators wore.
“Red is up.” Jeffrey Malten was crisply professional.
“White is up.” Somehow Bosco’s laid-back tone belied his attentiveness.
“Blue is up.” Foyte’s ground assault team was ready.
Atop the rocky tor, Bosco had secured 150 feet of yellow assault line around a large boulder fifty meters down the reverse slope. He was confident that the weight of four men would not dislodge it, especially since its bulk lay in the opposite direction of the rappel. Next he screwed two expanding bolts into the rock above the other side of the cave mouth: a primary and a backup. Then he cinched them down tight with a crescent wrench from his backpack.
With the bases secure, Bosco and Breezy attached four-hole extension plates to each rope with extension lines off each plate. The eight operators ran their lines through the carabiners on their tactical harnesses, and Bosco checked each for tension as the assaulters leaned back, allowing the gear to take their weight. They were ready in minutes.
Breezy’s team took the left side of the cave entrance; Jeff Malten’s the right. Besides the rappelling gear, each operator wore a headset beneath his helmet plus goggles, gloves, and tactical vest. Most had MP-5s with suppressors and lasers or lights; all had pistols with lights. Malten favored a fourteen-inch Benelli shotgun. Every weapon was loaded and safed.
Breezy also had his medical kit.
After the two teams lined up shoulder to shoulder, Bosco tacitly queried them. He got eight thumbs-up.
“Control, White’s a go.”
Leopole heard the quiet statement and keyed his mike. “Blue?”
“Blue’s a go.” Foyte’s ground team was in position, cocked and locked, eighty meters from the entrance.
“All teams, countdown begins.” Leopole paused, then initiated the process. “Five, four, three, two…”
He waited five seconds — an automatic hold in case a last-second glitch developed. Hearing nothing, he continued. “One… execute!”
As double insurance that the ball started on time, Bosco pointed two fingers of each hand at the rappelling teams. On “execute” six operators pushed off with their legs, dropping toward the earthen rock sixty feet below. The more expert made the descent in three drops, braking themselves by extending their rope hands outward, increasing friction on the double loop in the steel figure-eights hooked to their harnesses.
Three men from each team hit the ground within a few seconds of one another, leveling their weapons and scanning for targets. Almost immediately the fourth man from each team arrived, covering the others who disengaged from the ropes. Without a word, the six initial assaulters then stalked forward while the backups slipped the lines from their harnesses.
Eight shooters were up and ready in less than ten seconds. By then, Foyte’s “legs” were hustling across the open space, ready to secure the entrance or provide reinforcements inside.
Breezy and Malten led their teams on either side of the cave entrance, each man scanning left or right, high or low. They found that ambient light was ample within thirty meters of the wide entrance, gradually diminishing as they hunted farther in.
The point men were careful to watch for booby traps or warning devices. Finding none, they proceeded another ten meters when Breezy stopped. He touched his nose with his left hand, keeping a firing grip on his MP-5. Behind him, Delmore nodded.
The cave narrowed slightly, curving left. As briefed, Breezy’s left-hand team stopped in place, allowing Malten’s to search the curve. With his short-barreled Benelli at eye level, Malten began slicing the pie, advancing a step at a time, shoulder to shoulder with his partner.
Malten stopped abruptly. Breezy thought:
Four shooters swung around the rough-hewn corner, confronting an astonished Pakistani with an ancient Enfield slung over his shoulder. The man’s eyes went saucer-wide, his mouth forming a pink oval in his thick beard. Breezy’s partner took six steps forward, lifted his left index finger to his mouth, then motioned the man forward. As the bewildered gunman complied, he was relieved of his weapon and escorted to the rear. There he was gagged, frisked, and hands bound with tie wraps. The last operator in line shoved him toward the entrance and turned him over to Foyte’s Blue Team. The gunny then sent two men inside to handle any additional prisoners.
The smell of a cook fire grew stronger but there was little smoke. Breezy surmised that the cave had some sort of natural ventilation. He continued his methodical advance until the cavern widened. Then, from the darker approach, he saw a well-lit area with several men talking, cooking, and eating. He did a quick head count and raised his left hand: five fingers followed by one.
The cooking area was roughly twelve meters by twenty with bags and boxes stacked along one wall. Most of the men appeared armed. Breezy made a fist, raised it to ear level, then made a gesture like pulling a chain.
Six operators stepped into the open area, those on either side checking for laterals off the main corridor.
Breezy and Malten had been briefed on the Urdu phrase for “hands up.” Neither could recall
The Pakistanis looked up in stunned amazement. A few immediately raised their hands; one sank to his knees and began wailing.
Two went for their guns. Phil Green shouted
Breezy and Delmore put their front sights on the nearest man, who raised his AK on its sling. They pressed their triggers simultaneously. Breezy had selected three-round burst; Delmore went full auto. Between them, the suppressed HKs spat out eight 9mm rounds. Six struck flesh, punching small red gouts in the man’s khaki vest. He dropped the AK, half spun on one foot, reeled awkwardly, and collapsed. He rolled a few feet, then stopped, holding his belly.
Other Pakistanis began shouting or sobbing. Most went to their knees.
Malten instantly placed his Benelli’s bead sight on the other shooter’s midsection. The ex-SEAL fired twice, and at twelve meters thirteen of the eighteen double-ought pellets carved a ten-inch circle in the target. The man went down hard, twitching and screaming. The screams turned to loud, thick gurgles, then ceased.
Most of the other hostiles now were face down, hands over their heads. Green, the former cop, thought,
As the SSI men secured the prisoners, Breezy made a preliminary call to Leopole. “Control, this is White. Over.”
Only static responded. Breezy said, “We’re too far in.” He directed one of Foyte’s men to return to the entrance and radio a status report, adding, “And tell Frank we’re still searching.”
Fifteen minutes later most of the operators were back at the entrance with their prisoners. Breezy met Leopole, who wanted to see the results up close.
“What’ve we got, Brezyinski?”
“Five tagged, two bagged, Skipper.” Breezy knew that Frank Leopole disliked being called “Skipper.”
“Any sign of bio gear?”
Breezy shook his head. “Negative. I was talking with Jeff and Ken. They don’t think these gooners are al Qaeda. I think I agree.”
Leopole frowned. “Explain.”
“Look at their gear, their whole setup. No heavy metal — no RPGs or belt-fed stuff. Some of ‘em only have bolt-action rifles. They had piss-poor security, and for Islamic fanatics they gave up pretty damn quick.”
“So what do you think they’re up to?”
“Well, Skip, there’s evidently some drugs and other contraband but nothing like we want.”
