Hidden Threat Read online

  Hidden Threat

  AJ Tata

  Variance Publishing

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Copyright © 2010 A.J. Tata

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to:

  [email protected]

  Variance Publishing

  1610 South Pine St.

  Cabot, AR 72023,

  (501) 843-BOOK

  Published by Variance LLC (USA).

  www.variancepublishing.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Number 2010939966

  ISBN: 1-935142-17-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-935142-17-1

  Cover Illustration by Larry Rostant

  Jacket Design by Stanley J. Tremblay

  Interior layout by Stanley J. Tremblay

  Visit A.J. Tata on the web at: www.ajtata.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0

  For Brooke and Zachary, two great kids

  The Indirect Approach

  CHAPTER 1

  Hindu Kush, Afghanistan

  May, Friday Morning, 0400 hours

  He was born for combat. Fighting wars was his lot in life. He found a sense of purpose in this calling like no other. Only once had he tempted fate by seeking another course, and yet here he was, back in the fight where he belonged.

  In a sense he had been fighting his entire adult life.

  Napoleon had called it coup d’oeil, literally “at a glance.” It was the ability to see the battlefield in an instant and understand what needed to be done. Part innate ability and part learned skill, the talent was as rare amongst military commanders as true cunning and Machiavellian business acumen in the corporate world.

  Whatever people wanted to call it, Colonel Zachary Garrett possessed this unique skill set, so much so that the United States defense community had entrusted much of the hunt for the most notable terrorists to him.

  Standing in ankle-deep snow in a forgotten saddle of the Afghan Hindu Kush Mountains, Colonel Garrett looked down at the black radio handset, satisfied that he understood his mission.

  “Operation Searing Gorge is a go.” The general’s voice was crisp and authoritative. “I say again, Operation Searing Gorge is a go.”

  “This is Raider six. Roger, understand Searing Gorge is a go, over.” Zachary relayed his acknowledgement to Major General Jack Rampert, the commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan.

  “See you on the high ground, son.”

  “Roger, out.”

  Zachary stood beside his up-armored Humvee, the coiled radio handset cord trailing through the window, connecting to the satellite receiver affixed to the center console. The Afghan firmament was a never-ending blanket of darkness, interrupted only by the jagged white peaks that sprawled into Pakistan and farther north until they ultimately linked up with the Himalayas. Millions of stars were pinpricks in the black sheaf, offset by a waxing gibbous moon setting to the west.

  The Hindu Kush Mountains made the Rocky Mountains in the United States look like foothills. Pike’s Peak, hovering just above fourteen thousand feet, was the highest peak on the Front Range in Colorado. By comparison, summits in Afghanistan commonly reached eighteen thousand to twenty thousand feet. The enemy lived and fought at these altitudes.

  A crisp breeze snapped past him, stinging his face. He shrugged off the historical fact that the literal interpretation of Hindu Kush was “Hindu Slaughter.” In 1382 the Muslims had routed the Hindus in one of the interminable wars that plagued this land. There had been no survivors.

  What was more difficult to dismiss was his testy relationship with his boss, Major General Rampert, the commander of all special operations forces in Afghanistan. Yesterday they had gone toe to toe over the utility of this mission and Rampert hadn’t budged.

  “It’s suicide and you know it, General,” Colonel Garrett had said.

  “I thought you said you’d follow me to hell and back, Zach,” Rampert quipped, signature grimace acting as a smile.

  “Last time I checked the manifest, you weren’t on it.”

  “You got me there, son. But you know how important this mission is. Hell, your brother Matt’s the one who’s pushing it.”

  That comment had stopped Zach cold. If true, his brother, a high level CIA operative, would have something worth getting after.

  “Bullshit . . . sir,” Zach responded, testing the commander. They had been standing in his sparsely furnished command office on Bagram Air Base.

  “Wouldn’t bullshit you about Matt. Someone
needs to get up there and that someone needs to leave something behind.”

  Zach had stared at Rampert for a long while and then said, “If Matt’s pushing this thing, then that someone will be me.”

  It amazed Zach that over nine years after the 9-11 attacks, nearly seventy thousand United States and NATO troops continued to fight now resurgent Taliban and Al Qaeda movements along the Afghanistan and Pakistan border. Colonel Garrett was not part of that blend of conventional soldiers conducting combat operations and reconstruction missions. He and his men were not supposed to exist. Like ghosts, one moment they were present, and the next they were gone. They moved seamlessly around the battlefield in search of the most worthy targets.

  He looked at his driver, Sergeant Lance Eversoll.

  “Looks like tonight we’re going to give it another shot, Solls.”

  Eversoll’s skeptical grin told the story of several raids on Al Qaeda safe houses that had resulted in little to no results.

  “It’s like fishing, sir. We keep pulling up sticks and tires instead of the big ’un. We need to find us a honey hole.”

  Eversoll was raised in central Kentucky on a family farm. He was a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man who had done two years of college on a wrestling scholarship at Louisville University and then got bored with the entire scene. One morning he walked into the recruiting station in downtown Louisville. He’d stood tall and told the recruiter, “If you give me airborne and ranger, with a shot at Special Forces, I’ll sign up right now.”

  Now, at twenty-five years old, Eversoll was a Special Forces paratrooper. He had landed the impossibly difficult job of being the radio operator, driver, bodyguard, and virtual aide-de-camp for the group commander, Colonel Garrett.

  “Well, they don’t come any bigger than what we’re going after here with this one. It’s not so much what we’re hoping to bring back, but what we hope to leave up there.” He felt the weight of his M4 hanging loosely on the snap link affixed to his outer tactical vest, and found himself hoping the plan would work.

  A moment of silence followed, before Eversoll replied, “I know I’m not supposed to know about this, but I overhear a lot, you know, sir.”

  “That’s why I picked you. I can trust you.”

  Colonel Garrett nodded in the darkness. The less said about this mission the better. Sure, they were going into the teeth of a known Al Qaeda hideout in the undefined border region, but they had come up empty so many times that Zach figured if Matt had any hand in the plan, it had to be worth it, no matter how dangerous. Garrett watched his driver Sergeant Eversoll scan the horizon, M4 carbine at the ready. He saw him spit some tobacco juice into the snow beneath their feet and say, “No issues there, sir.”

  “Raider six, this is Tiger six, over.” Garrett and Eversoll looked at the radio handset.

  “It’s time, sir.”

  Garrett gave him a nod and placed the handset to his ear.

  “Tiger six, this is Raider six. Searing Gorge is a go. Execute now, over.” Garrett spoke with certainty.

  “Confirm Searing Gorge is a go, over.”

  “Roger, Searing Gorge is a go.”

  “Roger that.” The tone of Commander Jeffrey Montrose was high pitched and excited. Zachary visualized the Navy SEAL gathering his men on the other side of the valley from where he and Eversoll stood. His own eight-man security team was situated within two hundred meters of his command vehicle, occupying positions of dominance along the ridge in order to protect their esteemed commander. The team had been inserted last night into this valley, not too far from the fabled Tora Bora cave complex. An Afghan citizen, a poppy farmer, had been captured a week ago and, after some tough questioning, had delivered a pearl of intelligence.

  Senior Al Qaeda leadership was re-forming in the rugged northeastern Afghan mountains for the spring offensive, maybe even Osama bin Laden himself.

  Garrett knew that Rampert had been waiting for a two-fer: conducting the Searing Gorge mission and also kill or capture some senior al-Qaeda leadership.

  Despite his misgivings, Garrett was confident in the overall plan. He still had some concerns, which he had voiced to Rampert. But Rampert, again, had been unrelenting. He refused to budge on the time. Given the sensitivity of the mission and its myopic purpose, Rampert had dictated the landing zone times and the loads in each helicopter. Accordingly, Zach had his team rehearse the mission several times at their base camp in the relatively secure compound in central Afghanistan. After they worked out the kinks, he liked everything about the concept except for the fact that they were attacking just before dawn. He would have preferred the middle of the night, with the cover of total darkness. The helicopter pilots had also expressed concern about getting into the fourteen-thousand-foot landing zone during the ‘goggle transition time’—they would have preferred either full darkness to completely use their goggles or enough light to discard them as they flew the narrow canyons of the Hindu Kush.

  It was risky, but Garrett had chosen an offset landing zone no less than a half mile from the objective. With Predator unmanned aerial vehicle coverage and U.S. Air Force F-15s, A-10s and AC-130 gunships, he was confident their insertion would be well protected. The Predator would be flying at thousands of feet above ground level, piping real-time video into the joint operations center at an airbase in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, the AC-130 gunship would orbit silently above the objective, ready to destroy the enemy with its 105mm cannon. The A-10s and F-15s would orbit tens of thousands of feet above the target and drop precision-guided munitions when called for.

  However, as usual they could not be completely certain of the terrain, and if the enemy had hidden surveillance positions near the landing zone that went undetected by the overhead sensors, then the mission would become significantly riskier. All or nothing.

  The exact timing of the mission still nagged at him, but he knew that this was a time-sensitive target. They had to move now.

  The pressure to capture a senior Al Qaeda leader was intensifying every day. The eight-thousand-mile screwdriver, as Zachary called the Pentagon and other bureaucrat-laden government agencies inside the Beltway, had gone cordless. The squeeze was on, and they needed to produce. Searing Gorge seemed to be the best option.

  His plan was to insert Montrose’s team first, and then his own team would come in to secure the exfiltration landing zone. They would also be a reserve force, a backup, to support Montrose.

  Zachary looked west. The moon looked as though it was splitting into two jagged pieces as the Gulam Gar peak, the highest mountain between his men and the center of Afghanistan, jutted irregularly upward.

  “Raider six, this is Tiger six. Marco, over.”

  “Marco, out.” Garrett quickly responded to Montrose’s signal that they were airborne in the Special Operations MH-47. Now he would anxiously await the code word “Polo,” meaning they had safely secured the landing zone.

  “Sir, we’re all set,” Eversoll said. “Here comes the second aircraft now.”

  “Okay, you’re staying here with the XO, right?”

  “Roger, the bird is bringing in Charlie team. We’ve rehearsed it, sir; no worries. Just get back here safely.”

  Garrett looked at Eversoll with pride. Where do we get these guys? He was always amazed at the courage of American soldiers who, before their enlistments, were just high school kids playing soccer or football or writing computer programs. Now here was Eversoll, watching his back, a colonel with over twenty years in the military. Eversoll was in third grade when Garrett had served as a lieutenant in Desert Storm.

  He gave Sergeant Eversoll half a hug with his right arm. “We’ll bring you back something to mount on the wall.”

  “Make it a big ’un.” Eversoll smiled and then walked with his colonel into the middle of the snow field and guided the MH-47 into the landing zone. He flashed a small infrared light several times, indicating the lead touchdown point for the aircraft.

  Garrett smiled, reached into his pocket and t
humbed his Saint Michael medal, which was secured in a plastic sleeve with a faded and worn, but clearly visible, picture of his daughter, Amanda. He flipped it over and kissed Amanda’s photo. Saint Michael was the patron saint of paratroopers, and Garrett’s ritual since his days in the Eighty-second Airborne Division had been to touch the medal and kiss Amanda’s picture prior to a jump. He placed the medallion and the photo back into the Velcro pocket on his army combat uniform.

  “Maybe old Saint Michael there will give us a hand this time.” Eversoll nodded in the darkness toward the medal, having watched his commander go through the routine. He had seen it many times, never before commenting, but understanding the soldiers’ need to feel connected to something larger than themselves as they embark on a dangerous mission. Eversoll absently placed his hand atop his individual body armor near his sternum, where his Saint Michael medal hung beneath his uniform with his dog tags.

  Garrett looked at Eversoll, his face lighted by the moon. “He’s never failed us so far.” That was true, he thought. He and his men had come back from every mission, and that was something to be thankful for.

  They watched as the twin-overhead-rotor aircraft descended into the tight valley, pushing loose snow into the air and creating a miniature blizzard. Always a nervous moment for pilots landing in snow, Garrett watched the skilled special-operations aviators settle the aircraft into the newly formed white cloud.

  Through his night-vision goggles, he watched his Alpha team gather onto the outer perimeter of the LZ. The yawning ramp of the MH-47 opened, spilling into the bone-white snow another eight Special Forces troops who came sprinting forward. They were wearing PVS-14 night-vision goggles and advanced combat helmets, and had their assorted weaponry at the ready.

  Garrett saw the darkened silhouette of a tall man jogging toward him.

  “Sir, we’ve got the Pickup Zone secure. Have a good mission.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Watch out for Eversoll here. We’ll be back soon, we hope. I want you listening to the reconnaissance and fires net to make sure you know where General Rampert is directing those aircraft.”