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Authors: Lindsay McKenna
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Taliban
attacked.
Ethan called SEAL HQ and talked to Master Chief Gil Hunter. He
relayed the streaming video intel, telling him the four of them weren’t going to
make a huge difference in this fight. The master chief agreed and switched over
to the Black Jaguar Squadron, requesting immediate Apache support.
Ethan watched the dry, yellowed and rocky earth far below skim
by; the helo was at max speed. The Night Stalker pilots were skilled at making
insertions and exfil for black ops groups. They flew at a high enough altitude
so that the RPGs carried by the Taliban couldn’t reach them.
Ethan studied the laptop, trying to decide where to insert. If
they didn’t get those Apaches, it was going to be a brutal, long, drawn-out
fight. Marines were exactly that: steady, reliable fighters. They didn’t know
the words quit or surrender. Ethan liked working with the Marines because they had the
hearts of SEALs. He’d never tell them that, but those men were damned good in
combat.
The Black Hawk swung down, banking sharply. Ethan was tethered
to the frame with a harness, so he wouldn’t fall out. He ordered his men to
unsafe their weapons and get ready to bail as he stowed his laptop in his ruck.
For the insert, Ethan chose the south side of the hill, which was rocky and
nearly impossible for the Taliban to climb quickly. And then it would mean a
swift climb over hot, burning rocks in order to reach the pinned-down
Marines.
He was already in touch with Lieutenant Porter, the Marine
officer leading the squad, letting him know their ETA and where they were coming
in. Ethan didn’t want his team to be seen as a Taliban force coming over the
hill and get fired on by the Marines.
He heard a lot of other communications in his earpiece. The bad
news was no Apaches were available; they were all out on other missions, raining
hell down on enemies elsewhere. As the Black Hawk thunked and shuddered, drawing
closer to the parched earth and rocks at the base of the hill, Ethan called the
master chief and asked for other means of support.
They landed and leaped off the Black Hawk, the rotor wash
nearly knocking them over as they crouched and scuttled swiftly away from the
helo. Ethan used hand signals, getting his men into the rocks. Behind him, the
Night Stalker pilots lifted the bird off, getting the hell out of Dodge. He
called Porter and let him know they were on the ground. The officer sounded
relieved.
Moving up swiftly through and between the rocks, the SEALs
spread out in a diamond formation. That way, their flanks were protected and
covered. Ethan took the lead, breathing hard at the nine-thousand-foot altitude,
his lungs burning with exertion. Sweat poured off him, and he constantly wiped
his face with the back of his glove as he leaped and moved upward. He heard the
gunfire, the screams and curses of the Taliban.
Crouched and running, eyes moving left to right, Ethan led his
team higher into the rocks. The snap and pop of bullets sizzled around them
while they moved over the top of the hill. Ethan spotted the young Marine
officer firing at the enemy starting to come over the hill. He gave a hand
signal to his shooters to spread out and help the beleaguered Marines.
“Causalities?” he shouted above the gunfire at the officer.
“Two wounded,” he yelled back. “I need medevac! Two
nine-liners!”
Ethan nodded and quickly made the call into Camp Bravo squadron
for the Marine officer. Nine-line meant the wounded were critical. Fresh blood
would be brought in a cooler to give to the men when on board. He switched radio
channels, calling into the medevac HQ, apprising them of the situation and that
the wounded were critical. The male dispatcher told him a medevac would arrive
at the hill in twenty minutes.
For a brief second, he wondered if Sarah would be flying today.
She had to be back on the flight roster after her enforced four-day rest. His
gut tightened. He didn’t want her flying into this hell. All Marines were
attacked.
Ethan called SEAL HQ and talked to Master Chief Gil Hunter. He
relayed the streaming video intel, telling him the four of them weren’t going to
make a huge difference in this fight. The master chief agreed and switched over
to the Black Jaguar Squadron, requesting immediate Apache support.
Ethan watched the dry, yellowed and rocky earth far below skim
by; the helo was at max speed. The Night Stalker pilots were skilled at making
insertions and exfil for black ops groups. They flew at a high enough altitude
so that the RPGs carried by the Taliban couldn’t reach them.
Ethan studied the laptop, trying to decide where to insert. If
they didn’t get those Apaches, it was going to be a brutal, long, drawn-out
fight. Marines were exactly that: steady, reliable fighters. They didn’t know
the words quit or surrender. Ethan liked working with the Marines because they had the
hearts of SEALs. He’d never tell them that, but those men were damned good in
combat.
The Black Hawk swung down, banking sharply. Ethan was tethered
to the frame with a harness, so he wouldn’t fall out. He ordered his men to
unsafe their weapons and get ready to bail as he stowed his laptop in his ruck.
For the insert, Ethan chose the south side of the hill, which was rocky and
nearly impossible for the Taliban to climb quickly. And then it would mean a
swift climb over hot, burning rocks in order to reach the pinned-down
Marines.
He was already in touch with Lieutenant Porter, the Marine
officer leading the squad, letting him know their ETA and where they were coming
in. Ethan didn’t want his team to be seen as a Taliban force coming over the
hill and get fired on by the Marines.
He heard a lot of other communications in his earpiece. The bad
news was no Apaches were available; they were all out on other missions, raining
hell down on enemies elsewhere. As the Black Hawk thunked and shuddered, drawing
closer to the parched earth and rocks at the base of the hill, Ethan called the
master chief and asked for other means of support.
They landed and leaped off the Black Hawk, the rotor wash
nearly knocking them over as they crouched and scuttled swiftly away from the
helo. Ethan used hand signals, getting his men into the rocks. Behind him, the
Night Stalker pilots lifted the bird off, getting the hell out of Dodge. He
called Porter and let him know they were on the ground. The officer sounded
relieved.
Moving up swiftly through and between the rocks, the SEALs
spread out in a diamond formation. That way, their flanks were protected and
covered. Ethan took the lead, breathing hard at the nine-thousand-foot altitude,
his lungs burning with exertion. Sweat poured off him, and he constantly wiped
his face with the back of his glove as he leaped and moved upward. He heard the
gunfire, the screams and curses of the Taliban.
Crouched and running, eyes moving left to right, Ethan led his
team higher into the rocks. The snap and pop of bullets sizzled around them
while they moved over the top of the hill. Ethan spotted the young Marine
officer firing at the enemy starting to come over the hill. He gave a hand
signal to his shooters to spread out and help the beleaguered Marines.
“Causalities?” he shouted above the gunfire at the officer.
“Two wounded,” he yelled back. “I need medevac! Two
nine-liners!”
Ethan nodded and quickly made the call into Camp Bravo squadron
for the Marine officer. Nine-line meant the wounded were critical. Fresh blood
would be brought in a cooler to give to the men when on board. He switched radio
channels, calling into the medevac HQ, apprising them of the situation and that
the wounded were critical. The male dispatcher told him a medevac would arrive
at the hill in twenty minutes.
For a brief second, he wondered if Sarah would be flying today.
She had to be back on the flight roster after her enforced four-day rest. His
gut tightened. He didn’t want her flying into this hell. All Marines were
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