surrounding their lives here
at this forward operating base. His words fed her starving soul in a way she
couldn’t describe but could only feel on a deep, visceral level. His words were
healing and gave her hope.
* * *
Ethan sat with three other SEALs on the end of the
runway in a QRF, quick reaction force, Black Hawk helicopter piloted by Night
Stalker pilots. He had Beau, Teddy and Mac in his team. The noontime sun was
beating down on them as the Black Hawk idled on the runway, awaiting orders to
lift off. He had his helmet and an earpiece on, listening to all the
communications between their helo and a Marine squad that was pinned down by a
Taliban ambush near the Pakistan border. His heart beat slowly as he listened to
the gunfire, the cursing and orders between the Marines. They were in the thick
of it, having triggered a Taliban attack that had cut off their only route of
escape on a hill above a valley thirty minutes east of Bravo.
Ethan shifted, one leg hanging out the open door of the Black
Hawk, the other pulled up against his body as he leaned back on the airframe,
listening intently. SEALs often provided QRF to Special Forces, Delta, the Army
and the Marine recons in the area. It was his turn today to take his team into
the fray if they were given orders to launch. A QRF was exactly that: reacting
swiftly, decisively, to any enemy force that was trying to overwhelm another
U.S. force out there in the badlands.
Master Chief Gil Hunter’s voice came over his radio headset.
“Avalanche Actual, this is Avalanche Main. You are authorized to engage.”
That was what Ethan wanted to hear. He threw a thumbs-up to his
eager team, who were more than ready to enter the fight. “Roger, Avalanche Main.
Out.” He quickly switched channels to speak to the Night Stalker pilots who
would take them into the firefight. Sweat trickled down his temples. Adrenaline
started leaking through Ethan, but his heart rate remained slow and steady. The
Black Hawk’s powerful engines engaged, and the gravity pushed him downward as it
rose into the air. The wind felt damn good against his sweaty body; all the gear
he wore held in the heat.
Normally, QRFs took place at night, the Taliban’s time to be on
the move. A day patrol being attacked, in Ethan’s experience, meant it was a
much larger force that had been waiting to ambush the Marines. Wiping his mouth,
he pushed his wraparound sunglasses snugly against his face. The sun was
blindingly bright and it was over a hundred degrees midday. It was going to be a
sonofabitch of a battle because men dehydrated so damned fast under these types
of brutal conditions. He’d made sure his shooters had eight quarts of water in
their rucks as well as the CamelBak they carried on their backs.
The wind whipped around him, tearing at his body as he rode on
the lip of the helo, his M4 rifle nose down and hanging off the nylon harness
across his right shoulder and chest. It was safed to make sure no bullet
accidentally got fired off into the helicopter, potentially causing a crash or
accidentally killing someone. Ethan’s mind churned over the intel and he closed
his eyes, visualizing where the Marines were trapped. The hill was a small one,
and there were Taliban coming up two sides of it, the north and east. Rocks sat
on the top of the hill, where the ten-man Marine force had taken cover and were
fighting for their lives.
He picked up a CIA transmission, alerting him to the fact a
drone was now overhead, streaming back real-time video of the firefight. Ethan
set his rifle inside on the deck, pulled his ruck over and opened it up.
Quickly, he pulled out his Toughbook laptop, opened the lid and fired it up. In
a minute, he was looking through the drone’s orbiting eyes. Dammit. These Marines were in real trouble. He saw at least forty
Taliban on one side of the north side of the hill, fighting and firing RPGs at
the Marines on top. On the eastern flank of the hill, at least sixty
at this forward operating base. His words fed her starving soul in a way she
couldn’t describe but could only feel on a deep, visceral level. His words were
healing and gave her hope.
* * *
Ethan sat with three other SEALs on the end of the
runway in a QRF, quick reaction force, Black Hawk helicopter piloted by Night
Stalker pilots. He had Beau, Teddy and Mac in his team. The noontime sun was
beating down on them as the Black Hawk idled on the runway, awaiting orders to
lift off. He had his helmet and an earpiece on, listening to all the
communications between their helo and a Marine squad that was pinned down by a
Taliban ambush near the Pakistan border. His heart beat slowly as he listened to
the gunfire, the cursing and orders between the Marines. They were in the thick
of it, having triggered a Taliban attack that had cut off their only route of
escape on a hill above a valley thirty minutes east of Bravo.
Ethan shifted, one leg hanging out the open door of the Black
Hawk, the other pulled up against his body as he leaned back on the airframe,
listening intently. SEALs often provided QRF to Special Forces, Delta, the Army
and the Marine recons in the area. It was his turn today to take his team into
the fray if they were given orders to launch. A QRF was exactly that: reacting
swiftly, decisively, to any enemy force that was trying to overwhelm another
U.S. force out there in the badlands.
Master Chief Gil Hunter’s voice came over his radio headset.
“Avalanche Actual, this is Avalanche Main. You are authorized to engage.”
That was what Ethan wanted to hear. He threw a thumbs-up to his
eager team, who were more than ready to enter the fight. “Roger, Avalanche Main.
Out.” He quickly switched channels to speak to the Night Stalker pilots who
would take them into the firefight. Sweat trickled down his temples. Adrenaline
started leaking through Ethan, but his heart rate remained slow and steady. The
Black Hawk’s powerful engines engaged, and the gravity pushed him downward as it
rose into the air. The wind felt damn good against his sweaty body; all the gear
he wore held in the heat.
Normally, QRFs took place at night, the Taliban’s time to be on
the move. A day patrol being attacked, in Ethan’s experience, meant it was a
much larger force that had been waiting to ambush the Marines. Wiping his mouth,
he pushed his wraparound sunglasses snugly against his face. The sun was
blindingly bright and it was over a hundred degrees midday. It was going to be a
sonofabitch of a battle because men dehydrated so damned fast under these types
of brutal conditions. He’d made sure his shooters had eight quarts of water in
their rucks as well as the CamelBak they carried on their backs.
The wind whipped around him, tearing at his body as he rode on
the lip of the helo, his M4 rifle nose down and hanging off the nylon harness
across his right shoulder and chest. It was safed to make sure no bullet
accidentally got fired off into the helicopter, potentially causing a crash or
accidentally killing someone. Ethan’s mind churned over the intel and he closed
his eyes, visualizing where the Marines were trapped. The hill was a small one,
and there were Taliban coming up two sides of it, the north and east. Rocks sat
on the top of the hill, where the ten-man Marine force had taken cover and were
fighting for their lives.
He picked up a CIA transmission, alerting him to the fact a
drone was now overhead, streaming back real-time video of the firefight. Ethan
set his rifle inside on the deck, pulled his ruck over and opened it up.
Quickly, he pulled out his Toughbook laptop, opened the lid and fired it up. In
a minute, he was looking through the drone’s orbiting eyes. Dammit. These Marines were in real trouble. He saw at least forty
Taliban on one side of the north side of the hill, fighting and firing RPGs at
the Marines on top. On the eastern flank of the hill, at least sixty
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