SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV

SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV

By Eric Meyer

Copyright 2012 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

The dust cloud swirled behind the small, slow moving convoy. Four trucks traveled along the rutted road, brightly painted, decorated in garish colors, and votive images. They were equipped with brass bells that hung from the windshield, like streamers from the tail of a child’s kite. These vehicles were known as jingle trucks, except that now the bells and chains that made the cheerful tinkling sounds were silent, tied with strips of dirty rag. The drivers were watchful, for even though the Islamic Republic of Waziristan belonged to them, there was always a danger the Americans would mount a raid. Hasan Khan, driving the lead truck, searched the landscape ahead, the endless landscape of dirt, sand, and scrub. He looked up again, as he had every minute since they’d started their journey. The ever-present drones had been murderous of late. Too many of their fighters had been lost to the cowardly attacks from the air. He searched the surface of the road ahead, looking for any signs of an ambush, paying particular attention to the low hills and piles of scattered rocks that could conceal an enemy. Nothing. He relaxed slightly, hawking a gob of spittle out of the window, and then he took a second look around. Still nothing. He smiled to himself, this time they would get through to their comrades in Parachinar. The brave fighters who’d suffered so badly from repeated efforts by the Pakistani Army to dislodge them, as well as the drone strikes that had decimated their numbers. The heroes of Islam had held fast, and now the relief convoy was only two kilometers outside the town, ready to arrive in triumph with their four truckloads of supplies. He pictured himself for a second or two, carried on the shoulders of a grateful population, a true warrior of Islam. They had ammunition, weapons, and some food, of course, for the starving population, although there’d been little room for food. Most of the space in the trucks was taken up with assault rifles, RPGs, and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition. There were mines and explosives too, with which they could manufacture more of the IEDs to continue killing the infidels who dared to attack their country with their deadly UAVs.

Truly, there will be celebrations in Parachinar when we arrive.

He turned to his companion and smiled, showing an array of crooked teeth.

“Nearly there, Tahir. We’ve made it this time. The infidels cannot stop us now.”

Tahir Lashari, the battle-scarred deputy commander of the Waziri Taliban grunted. He was not a man given to much celebration, even when there was something to celebrate. Life was hard for a soldier of God. People should understand that simple fact and accept the sacrifices that were necessary, not make light of their achievements. They’d done well to get this far, he knew that, but he was uneasy for some reason. He scanned the ground around them again and looked up at the sky, again. He relaxed slightly and turned to his companion.

“Tell me that when we drive into the main square, Hasan. There is still time for an attack. You should be vigilant searching for the enemy, not talking to me. Remember who gave the order for these supplies! It would not do to fail the Sheikh.”

Hasan nodded half-heartedly and gazed ahead again. It would certainly not do to upset Commander Lashari. Tahir was a morose man, a vicious fighter, and a ruthless killer. He never smiled, never had a good word to say to anybody. He’d become even worse after he lost his wife and two sons to an American attack helicopter, an Apache gunship. It had been a bitter blow, for one of his sons had been preparing to be a martyr for Islam, to wear a suicide belt when he next crossed the border into Afghanistan. His life was a vicious, single-minded crusade, dedicated to ejecting the NATO forces from what he regarded as lands that rightfully belonged to the Taliban. Tahir was a Taliban fighter even before his family was killed, and in a war, people were killed. Did not the prophet himself say, ‘If you do good, you do good to yourselves? If you do evil, you do evil to yourselves’. It was true that Tahir Lashari had spread plenty of evil. Plenty of innocents had died at his hands, victims of collateral damage during any number of actions against the enemy. Hasan wished his commander would lighten up and talk about something other than war, just for a change, like soccer. They were nearly there, so he should relax, especially, when a long, dangerous journey such as this one was clearly at an end, and there would be celebrations for the next few days. Time to bask in the warm praise and gratitude of the townspeople, to enjoy their adulation, and not least the feasts that would be laid out for them. They had little enough food, but they would spare everything for the brave fighters. It was healthier that way. Allah be praised, life could be good. All he needed would be a woman to make it perfect, but he grimaced inwardly. On that road lay the path to certain death. It would be safer to mount an attack on the Pakistani Army than to toy with a Taliban woman.

* * *

“Convoy at twelve hundred meters. I count four trucks, no sign of any escort.”

“Copy that. “

Chief Petty Officer Nolan, US Navy Seals, did a three hundred and sixty degree sweep, but the area was clear. The Waziri Taliban would be disappointed this day, for their supplies were about to explode in spectacular fashion. He smiled to himself.

The Fourth of July will have nothing on this. If it all goes right, that is.

He cautioned himself to be careful, for overconfidence was a cardinal sin. He grimaced as he heard the officer complaining.

“The marker, Chief, I can’t see it!”

Nolan sighed. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, his lieutenant was next to him, trying to put his personal stamp on the operation. They were both wearing ghillie suits, covered by a loose sprinkling of dust and foliage, and in a forward position where they could observe.
 

“It’s a hundred meters ahead of us, Lt. Those two rocks, with the small bush in the center.”

“Yeah, okay, I see it.”

Lieutenant Boswell still couldn’t get it right, even after three missions with Bravo. He’d done a law degree at Harvard and was considered to be a coming man, first in the Navy, and then he’d undoubtedly follow the well-trodden path through a corporate Wall Street law firm and into the murky world of politics. He sure looked the part, a neat, smooth-faced Ivy League professional. He wore his blonde hair neatly trimmed and sported a small, blonde mustache. Boswell was slight in build, like many Special Forces operators who were of less than average height. Their trade required subtlety and stealth, not muscle-bound apes. But what was most in evidence was his smooth and easy confidence, at least, when he wasn’t in the field, the product of a moneyed upbringing. Not that he was totally inept as a Seal, the Lieutenant had scored highly in the aptitude tests, and even survived ‘Hell Week’, the fourth week of BUD/S training that saw most Seal recruits drop out, nursing sore limbs and bruised egos. But it wasn’t the test scores alone that forged a man into a Navy Seal. It needed a certain something, a freebooting spirit, an attitude to life and to war that said, ‘Fuck the odds, I’ll get the job done, no matter what’. He still didn’t grasp that simple philosophy, although Boswell was still learning, thanks to his high-ranking connections that had leaned on the Admiral back at Coronado, San Diego, to ‘help him along’. Part of that help lay close by, camouflaged like Nolan and Boswell in a ghillie suit; a new guy, Petty Officer Second Class Lucas Grant, sent to ‘stiffen’ Seal Team Bravo, following concerns about Boswell’s performance on a recent mission. There was no doubt Grant would get results. His previous assignment had as a member of Seal Team Six. Following the killing of Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, the world’s most wanted terrorist, any man from that particular Team Six could do no wrong, except that Nolan, Bravo’s number two, and one of the unit snipers, was still uncertain about the new guy; a superb soldier, without doubt. He’d been there and come back with the scalps still hanging from his saddle, but something about the guy made him feel uneasy, or perhaps it was just Boswell. The guy was a wind-up. It was time to call in.

“This is Bravo Two, listen up. The moment that lead truck hits the ambush, make sure you take out the rearmost vehicle. We don’t want them to run, not with what they’re carrying.”

A brief reply came from the second unit sniper, Vince Merano “Copy that.”

The jingle trucks came closer, garish in their peculiar splashes of psychedelic color. Nolan felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that preceded every firefight. He made an effort to relax. The adrenaline surge was the sniper’s main enemy. It caused tiny tremors in the body, and holding a rifle rock steady was one of the main requirements for pinpoint accuracy. He sighted along his scope, the Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot riflescope that gave him a clear view of the enemy. The target. He saw the driver of the lead truck making conversation with his passenger, an older man, wearing a black turban over his scarred, bearded face. Maybe he was a local commander. It was logical to have him in the lead vehicle, and it would make the strike that much more worthwhile. Senior officers, commanders, they were the preferred targets of the professional sniper. He checked the clip in his SWS Mk 11, the precision semiautomatic Sniper Weapon System that could deliver a lethal 7.62mm round out to a range of almost a mile. Unconsciously, he made the minute adjustments to his stance in preparation for the shoot; going through the rituals he’d performed a thousand times before. His earpiece clicked on.

“This is Bravo One. Stand by. Target is thirty seconds from ambush point. Nobody move until that first truck is stopped.”

Boswell again, handing out unnecessary orders. Never mind, he’s making an effort, and it was a valid order; except that elite troops don’t need a reminder, they’re usually busy with real soldiering.

Nolan watched the man through his scope. Yes, he was definitely a commander. The man’s expression had a dulled, long stare, the look familiar to veterans of battlefields the world over, the look of a man who had killed many, many times.

Maybe he lost family in the never-ending war. Yeah, that’s probably it. Yet it’s a war they created,
he reminded himself.
Life is tough, sure, but there’s always a choice. If the guy had stayed at home, the folks he lost may have survived. Still, he’ll be joining them soon, in the paradise these people are so fixated on.

He focused on the driver, a younger man, who seemed to be irritated at something the older man had said. His irritation wouldn’t last much longer. Nolan checked distances, working out angles.

“This is Two, ten seconds. You all set, Bravo Four?”

“That’s affirmative.”

They’d set Claymore mines, two of them hidden in the center of the road. It was all they’d had time for. The thin detonator wires were covered with a fine layer of dust and tracked through to a small, dish-shaped hollow in the ground fifty meters away. It was a simple plan. When the first truck came abreast of the marker, Will Bryce, the tough, hard PO1 would fire the Claymores. All being well, they’d destroy the leading truck, along with the convoy commander. The Claymores would sure make a mess of the crazy paint job. Vince Merano, the other unit sniper, was positioned to take out the rearmost truck, along with Dan Moseley, who had the unit’s machine gun deployed, the M249 Minimi. The SAW, Squad Automatic Weapon, was a lightweight and reliable gun that spat out a hail of 5.56mm bullets at a devastating rate, making it the perfect support weapon. Between Vince’s heavy sniper rounds, which would take out the driver first, and Dan’s machine gun fire that would rip through any other fighters who may be along for the ride, they were confident of stopping the rearmost truck. That would leave the remaining two trucks in a trap. There was an irrigation ditch either side of the road, preventing them from escaping cross-country. It should be like shooting fish in a barrel. But how many operations had gone south, in spite of that optimistic prediction, ‘should be’?

He keyed his mic. “Five seconds, stand by.”

He refocused on the lead truck and turned away as the shock wave hit them with stunning force. He looked up again, in time to see the cab disintegrate in a torrent of smashed metal, shattered glass, and melted rubber; decorated with the body parts of the driver and passenger. It slewed to the side of the road, partially blocking both lanes, smoke and flames pouring out. Nolan heard the sound of firing as his blocking force, Vince and Dan, opened fire. He glanced back and was satisfied that the rearmost truck had come to a stop in the center of the road.

Good, the middle two trucks are blocked.

He focused on the lead truck. The magnified image of his scope enabled him to make out the telltale bloody red smears painted over the wreckage of the cab. A half-dozen armed men were tumbling out the back. Boswell had seen the threat, and he was shouting more unnecessary orders on the commo.

“Fire, open fire, that lead truck, kill the bastards!”

Nolan swept his gaze over the two surviving trucks, already under fire from the rest of Bravo’s men. They also carried men, at least a half-dozen in each, but these men were not shell-shocked from an exploding Claymore.