Chapter 6

War is the realm of uncertainty, three quarters of the factors on which action is based are wrapped in a fog of greater of lesser uncertainty. – Carl von Clauswitz

2138L, 24 November 2001, Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan

The twin Lycoming T-55-GA-714A turboshaft engines hurled the MH-47E toward Marar-i-Sharif. Just two weeks earlier, Green Berets from Operational Detachment Alpha 543 and CIA assets had assisted Northern Alliance General Mohammad Atta Nur in capturing the city from the Taliban and Pakistani mujahadeen. Now it was the epicenter of the Coalition's northern operations. The Army Special Operations bird carried crates of MREs and supplies for the Army, Air Force, and CIA operators and their Northern Alliance allies. The helicopter, owned and operated by 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, SOAR, pilots and crew also carried four members of the southern operations group, Task Force K-Bar. CDR Chris Rodriguez of SEAL Team 3 had brought with him Master Chief Chiron Brunner, LCDR Jackson, and HN2 Stoll. Their orders were to solidify the necessary procedures for cross-zone operations should the sensitive site exploitation missions cross into the northern areas of Afghanistan.

Infrared lasers and glow sticks guided the Chinook into the makeshift landing zone. The impact of the four sets of wheels shook the cargo area of the helo. The turbines began to slack off and the four Navy personnel followed the crew chief's directions out of the aircraft. Dust swirled about them and collectively they lifted the checked kaffiyehs they wore to cover their bearded faces. Crossing through the dust cloud approaching them was a tall man clad in similar attire moved toward them. He extended a hand toward CDR Rodriguez.

2247L, 24 November 2001, Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan

"Hey, babe." It had been several weeks since Percy had spoken to Zoe. He had lost track of the number of times he had thought about her and then forced her from his mind because his mantra in the air was just as applicable on the ground. Distractions fucking kill you.

"Percy!" she said, much louder than he expected and he pulled the satellite phone away from his ear.

"Easy, Zoe, I've lost enough hearing already." She laughed and all the world felt right for a few moments. Then he smelled himself and realized he had not had a real shower in nearly a month. He had seen a reflection and barely recognized himself. His normally longer but well kempt hair had grown to near local levels of shagginess. Equally his beard, normally nonexistent due to regulations was bushy. His emerald eyes remained the same color, but they had been tempered by the fire of ground combat. Where they had once burned with fire, now they smoldered with the heat of coals.

"Where are you? You haven't been able to call in a while."

"Yeah," he responded. "I'm up north with the Army right now. Working out some TTPs." Zoe recognized the acronym for Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures. She had discussed those very things dozens of times on missions and in garrison.

"Then I take it you don't have much time?" He turned his wrist to look at the display of his G-Shock.

"No, I don't. How are you? And the kids?"

"We're good Percy. Just worried for you. I see the AARs, I know what you've been having to do." The after-action reports had been flowing back to WARCOM via the Task Force K-Bar command structure. WARCOM, the shortened version of NAVSPECWARCOM, was the colloquial name for the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. It served as the commanding element for all units under Naval Special Warfare: SEALs, Special Warfare Combatant Crewman, and all the thousands of supporting personnel. With K-Bar growing in size, Zoe had been moved to the WARCOM staff to best utilize the mix of U.S., Norwegian, Canadian, Kiwis, Germans, Danes, and Croatians special operators. Supposedly there was a Turkish liaison officer inbound, but Percy had not seen him.

"Do you know if it's a boy or girl yet?"

"I told them I didn't want to know until you were here, or the babies come, whichever is first." There was a thinly veiled threat in her tone which told him which option she preferred. She did not linger on it however. "I'm glad you called today; I am going to be at Clarisse's house next week. She's got a few overnight shifts so I'm heading over to help with the kids."

"Practice run," Percy stated and looked back to his watch. 2254. "Zoe, I'm sorry, but…" she cut him off.

"You need to go, I understand. Love you, Percy."

"Love you too, Zoe." Percy ended the call and handed the satellite phone back to a young Army operator. He clipped his M4 back to his sling and took off toward the command post they were supposed to meet in.

0938L, 25 November 2001, Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan

"Calling all stations, calling all stations, this is Qala-i-jangi, Americans in danger, Americans in danger. Please respond."

Across the room from the radio set, Percy and Chris looked at each other. Simultaneously they reached for their M4s. Chris answered for them. Rodriguez keyed the radio attached to his flak jacket.

"Alpha team acknowledges, wheels up in ten." The team had slept less than six hours. After completing their TTP assessment at midnight, they had been up at 0530 to begin the preparation for their return helo flight to their base in the south-east of Afghanistan. Fortunately, the Army had brought enough coffee to sail one of Percy's usual homes, a carrier, on. What neurons in Percy's brain the caffeine had not awoken were now firing at rapid pace as the distress calls came in. A team of operators already nearby had acknowledged and were inbound. Percy clipped the M4 to his one-point sling and he and Chris began to move.

1348L, 25 November 2001, 15 miles from Qala-i-Jangi, Afghanistan

It ended up being a much longer process than ten minutes. While Chris had the authority to act on his own, the Army personnel had a much stricter command structure. Now four hours later they were airborne. A half-dozen other operators had joined them. Some were Army, some the British equivalent to the SEALs, Special Boat Service or SBS. The assembled response force carried enough ammunition and gear to out-arm some small national militaries. Percy knew he carried over three hundred rounds of 5.56mm ammo for his M4, frag and smoke grenades, a claymore mine and another one hundred and fifty rounds for his Sig. With all of that, with body armor and other provisions, Percy estimated he carried over seventy pounds of gear. He groaned slightly and rotated his shoulders. His helmet was secured on his pack. Unfortunately, the U94 Push-To-Talk headset did not fit well under the standard-issue cranial protection. As such, his faded Yankees cap was again worn backwards with the radio headset overtop it. His knee rose quickly as his heel tapped against the floor of the Chinook.

"You good, sir?" the Army staff sergeant and crew chief had stopped in front of him. "Not like flying?" Percy could see Master Chief Brunner laughing across from him and flipped him the bird before pulling the checkered kaffiyeh aside and revealing the matte set of aviator's wings affixed to his name tag. The Army enlisted man gave him the thumbs up and moved on. Percy pulled one of his tins of Copenhagen from his cargo pocket and pinched a large amount into his lower lip. Across the aisle of the helo, Chris keyed his radio.

"Butch would be damned proud," Percy laughed thinking about the Tennessean.

"My wife won't be." It was Rodriguez's turn to laugh as he pulled a pouch of Redman from his cargo pocket.

"Clarisse is pissed every time I come home because I start this shit again. She forgets it when she remembers I'm home." Above them the crew chief flashed fived fingers twice. They were ten minutes from the landing zone. Percy checked the G-Shock on his wrist, the glass screen on the inside of his left wrist above the Blackhawk gloves now sweat and blood stained. His forearms were bare from the top of the gloves to the bunched sleeves of a long sleeved Carhartt sweatshirt. His uniform had been still damaged when they arrived in Mazar-i-Sharif and the local special forces operators had provided him with one of the commercial purchases they had been provided. The wound in his shoulder was bothering him and the wounds in his back itched like hell. He rotated his neck and with several pops felt the pressure release. He keyed his radio.

"Chris, this ain't nothing I ever thought I'd see given my twelve years."

"Hell, bro, I think that every goddamn time." Percy shuddered as he watched Chris "gut" the tobacco juice from the Redman. "Bro, nothing down range is ever what you think it is. This shit is fucking wild. We grew up thinking we were going to have World War 3 against the Soviets. You dreamed of shooting down Russians MiGs over Europe or bombing the shit out of some Kola Peninsula air base the same way I figured I'd be setting mines in Kham Ran Bay to sink their ships or infiltrating behind the Iron Curtain to raise some hell. Then some fucker with a hard on for Americans orders fuckers with hard ons for seventy-two virgins to fly planes into buildings to kill Americans. Now I'm here, getting shot at with the very fucking weapons we gave the fucking Muj to kill Soviets. World's fucking fucked man."

Percy thought about his words. The U.S. had indeed given the mujahadeen weapons to kill Soviets. And they were now certainly getting used against them. His whole youth had been focused on flying Intruders against the Soviet's massive integrated air and missile defense system. Now he kicked in doors with SEALs in Afghanistan and according to rumors the Russians were supposedly helping in the destruction of Al Qaeda and the Taliban. What a goddamned world, he thought, what a completely fucked-up world.

1427L, 25 November 2001, 15 miles from Qala-i-Jangi, Afghanistan

Percy doubted that anyone missed their arrival as a great pillar of dust rose into the sky as Chinook deposited the odd assortment of operators. Two men rushed toward them. One introduced himself as CIA. The other was an Air Force tactical controller.

"Good to see you, gentleman. Here's the situation." The CIA man began to explain that the prison held five hundred and eighty-six Al Qaeda fighters. None of them were Afghan, most were Arabs from the Gulf States. He explained that his paramilitary officer was missing. The foreign-born fighters had overwhelmed the Northern Alliance guards and now held the structure and the weapons within. They had been told the name meant "the war fortress" in Dari, looking at it, Percy knew why. Their team deployed into the high ground above the fortress. Together with Northern Alliance personnel they began to close off the fortress from any hope of escape.

0938L, 26 November 2001, Qala-i-Jangi, Afghanistan

The afternoon and night before revealed to Percy how far he had fallen. Starting at 1600 local, he had directed F/A-18 Hornets into the prisoner's sections of the prison. Nine 500-pound GBU-12 Paveway IIs had slammed into the old fortress. Percy felt nothing. The illuminated reticle of his scope had leveled upon more individuals and then jumped as he squeezed the trigger than he believed it had his entire time in country. He watched Brunner take shots at an unmoving body in the hope that it flinched, and they had found the missing CIA man. The body did not move.

Most disturbing to him, however, was the fact that despite the constant gunshots and explosions of direct-action combat, when Rodriguez had relieved him for overwatch, he simply fell asleep. It had taken mere seconds for his mind to ignore the sounds of modern warfare and begin slumber. Retrospectively, he was thankful. For now, after just four hours of sleep, he maintained coms with the same Navy Tomcat that had saved their asses outside Marjah preparing air support for the assault that Chris was leading.

"Bulldog Four-1, Bulldog Four-1, stand by for target coordinates."

"Demon, Ranger Four-1, standing by." Percy recognized the voice on their other end of the radio call.

"Four-1, 42-Sierra-Uniform-Foxtrot, break." Percy gave the flight crew a half second to prepare their systems. "Eight digit grid: One-niner-seven-seven," pause, "Five-niner-seven-niner."

"Copy, Demon, standby." He knew the Naval Flight Officer in the backseat was inputting the data into the aircraft's targeting computer, but all he could think about was the four Afghans, Chris, Brunner, and Stoll forward attempting to gain position on the Taliban fighters.

"Target locked. Launching on one-niner-seven-seven, five-niner-niner-seven."

"ABORT! ABORT!" Percy screamed into his headset even as he heard Ranger Four-1's pilot report "Weapon away." Percy attempted to flip nets, attempting to warn the people two hundred meters from the intended target. He knew it was too late.

"Chris, get down! Bomb inbound!"

1102L, 26 November 2001, Qala-i-Jangi, Afghanistan

The shockwave reached Percy before the sound waves translated in his ears. A pillar of smoke and dust rose into the sky, eerily similar to the column of smoke and fire in New York City that had brought them here. Percy's hand dropped from the transmitter on his radio. He stared at the column. His eyes could not leave it in a macabre fascination. He was aware of someone yelling at him, but they sounded miles away. He felt something wet running from his eye and knew his ear drum had ruptured again. Percy felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun, hand dropping to the pistol grip of his M4. It was only Army CWO3 Bryan Aries.

"We have to go!" Percy could tell the man was shouting, but to his damaged ears it sounded like a mere whisper. It seemed the "Chief" could tell so he motioned toward the impact zone and began to run. Three seconds later, Percy followed at a sprint.

Only now did it seem the Taliban within the prison realized the bomb had not struck them. The volume of fire flying toward the two Americans sprinting toward their enemy rose exponentially. Sparks and dust rose as bullets flew past them and struck the ground. The air was filled with cracks and whistles as rounds broke the sound barrier and sought a target. Percy's body jerked as a round struck him in the chest. The air was driven from his lungs, but his legs continued to pump. The ballistic plate in his body armor had caught the round, but Goddamn that hurts like a motherfucker. Ahead of him Aries dove into the crater of the bomb blast. Percy followed even as something slammed into his left side. It caused him to collapse awkwardly into the last known location of his friends.

He landed on something softer than Afghan rock. He looked down to see his gloves and forearms covered in blood. Aries looked at him from across the crater, fingers on the neck of an unmoving Chiron Brunner. He shook his head. Percy looked down to see he had landed on the body of one of the Northern Alliance fighters. The man did not have a head. Aries screamed across the crater.

"If we want any chance of finding anyone alive, they need to drop again!" Percy nodded. He knew that was true, even if he hated the motherfuckers flying that Tomcat at the moment. He keyed his radio.

1107L, 26 November 2001, 15,000 feet above Qala-i-Jangi, Afghanistan

"Holy shit, holy shit, I input the wrong coordinates," LTJG Bianca di Angelo kept repeating as they watched the smoke and dust rising into the sky. The JTAC had gone silent on the other end of the radio. "I just killed those poor bastards." In front of her, LT Reyna Ramirez-Arellano spoke firmly. She knew the bomb had just detonated on top of American and Afghan soldiers. But at this point there was not a damned thing she could do about it. She spoke and sounded like the man on the ground. She had hated his coldness then, but now, she understood.

"Get on mission. We're still needed. Put it aside and do your goddamn duty." Their radio crackled.

"Bulldog Four-1, Demon. Impact not on target. Request immediate drop on eight digit grid: One-niner-seven-seven," pause, "Five-niner-seven-niner. Danger close." In the backseat of the Tomcat, Bianca di Angelo froze. Her fingers refused to input the coordinates. After three full seconds she heard her pilot's voice.

"Acknowledge the call, Bianca." That came simultaneous with the ground controller's next broadcast. She could hear his rifle firing near the mic of his radio. "Four-1! Acknowledge the target, goddamnit!" More small arms fire came over the radio.

"Demon, copy target. Target location: One-niner-seven-seven. Five-niner-seven-niner. Danger close." Her fingers now danced across the targeting computer. I don't have time for regret, she thought, I'll only add to it if he dies.

0745L, 1 December 2001, Coronado, CA

"I'll get it!" Zoe called out. Clarisse Rodriguez had only returned a few hours before from an overnight duty and Zoe had volunteered to stay with her kids for the night. There was a level of selfishness to it. It gave Zoe an excuse to stay out overnight and away from Sally. Sally was a lovely woman, an amazing woman, but with her losses, she was proving more than Zoe's emotional range knew how to react to.

She hated to admit it, but her enlarging midsection forced her to use the arm of the chair much more than she usually needed to. She made her way to the door in a dark blue U.S. Navy sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. New Balance trainers covered her feet. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Zoe knew that dark circles haloed her eyes, Despite that, as she caught her reflection in the mirror the Rodriguez's kept in their doorway. I look pretty damn good, she thought. Since her time in Iraqi captivity, she admitted she had become more vain in her opinions of her appearance. Her husband did not help, he looked good without trying. She brushed some of her stray, curly hairs behind her ear and opened the door.

"LCDR Rodriguez?" asked the uniformed senior chief standing on the porch.

"No," Zoe said softly. "I'm not."

"Zoe, who is…" behind her Clarisse's voice trailed off as she looked past her friend. The two had bonded quickly, but now Zoe seemed invisible in Clarisse's gaze. Zoe watched as Clarisse suddenly squared her shoulders and marched forward. Her jaw was clenched as she passed Zoe, but she spoke firmly. "Gentlemen, please come in." Zoe followed them mutely into the house. They cast their eyes upon her skeptically. "It's alright, gentlemen. She's a good friend of mine and her husband is deployed with mine. This is LCDR Zoe Jackson." Both men's faces blanched visibly. The chaplain maintained composure. The senior chief could not.

"Fuck."