Patrick Adams
Afghan Sunset: A Jackson Pike Novella
Prologue:
I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.
I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.
If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.
When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.
I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.
Chapter 1:
The air that whipped by the tiny bits of exposed skin on my face was cold. Bitingly cold; but it was always cold during HALO jumps.
I turned to Chief Jones who was sitting across the cargo bay of the hulking gray aircraft.
He gave me a thumbs up, a subtle and non-verbal reassurance. As usual, his confidence helped to steady my nerves. And since our voices were drown out by the drone of the airplane's four engines, the thumbs up was the best that the Chief could do.
The C-130 was cruising at close to 150 knots and at an altitude in excess of 27,000 feet.
We were waiting for the jumpmasters to signal our first High Altitude Low Opening (HALO) jump in country.
Although I wouldn't admit it to any of the more junior SEALs, I was nervous.
I wasn't nervous about the jump.
I was nervous about what we'd find when we reached our assigned target.
The suspected weapons depot where we were bound was a fortress by any definition, crouched in a well protected valley and collocated with a school.
I shook my head and controlled my breathing as I checked my oxygen bottle's pressure gauge.
My hands were shaking slightly, but when the Air Force jumpmaster gave us the standby signal, the nerves went away.
The other SEALs and I stood simultaneously. As always, the Chief pushed his way to the front of the line.
"Lead by example" he was fond of saying.
The aerial delivery panel was eerily bright in the dark cargo compartment of the C-130 as the men and I peered anxiously at the red light of the panel, waiting for it to turn green.
When the light came, it illuminated the entire cargo bay an eerie shade of green.
The shadows of eight fully armed US Navy SEALs stepped into the darkness, backlit by the green hue of the jump signal as each hurled himself from the cargo bay door and into the black night.
I followed without hesitation, switching on my Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) as I sprinted full speed from the cargo bay and into the blackness of the night, breathing hungrily through my oxygen mask.
The roar of the aircraft's engines was replaced seconds later by the bite of the close to -40 degree wind rushing past my face and the howl of the night air screaming past my ears.
I soon neared terminal velocity. I could see the other men in my NVGs, shadowy figures in the night sky falling through the air towards our landing zone.
The mountains around us were back lit in the starry night as we fell through the blackness. The land below was dark but for occasional clusters of light.
In the distance the lights of Kabul offered the only cultural lighting, a blanket of white lights glowing green in the aperture of the NVGs.
I glanced beneath the goggles to the pressure altimeter affixed like a watch to my left wrist.
We were at 17,500 feet.
My men were each checking their own pressure altimeters.
Through the NVGs, small lights of cook fires and the occasional soft electric glow of cultural lighting blurred brightly in my vision as we fell through the cold blackness.
The GPS attached to my other wrist would guide us to the landing zone.
I peered beneath the goggles again, this time to the small GPS screen on my right wrist. We were within a mile of the LZ already.
13,000 feet.
The barometric elevation of the landing zone was 6,500 feet.
We wouldn't open our parachutes until approximately 1,000 feet above the ground, which meant 7,500 feet on my barometric readout.
8,000 feet.
I pulled the long rip cord attached to my parachute and saw a flurry of chutes open from the men beneath me.
The heavy jerk of chute's drag was a shock to my system as my eyes scanned back towards the GPS. A quarter mile to the LZ.
"Rendezvous point Charlie." I spoke into the press to talk transmitter microphone attached to my headset.
"Roger." The voice was quiet but confident. That would be Chief Jones.
The remaining 1,000 feet of altitude seemed interminable.
Too many men had been taken by enemy sniper fire while hanging helpless in the chute.
So as always it was a relief when my boots touched the hard ground and I executed the parachute landing fall, allowing my knees to bend beneath my body and falling to the side, the action absorbing the impact of the rocky ground.
I cut the chute loose and gathered the silk, tucking it back into my pack as I scanned the horizon through my goggles.
Eight men stood in the darkness, illuminated in the green scintillation of the NVGs as I shrugged my pack back on and stepped towards the East side of the open clearing towards rendezvous point Charlie.
The dark hulking form of Chief Jones met me halfway.
"The clearing is secured. No injuries on the jump."
"Roger," I replied scanning the field.
"The target is 10 clicks from here. It should take just under an hour and a half in this terrain. Have the men prepare to move out."
"Roger that, sir." Mike Jones turned and went to work, speaking softly into his microphone transmitter.
I took a knee and pulled a land navigation map outlining the terrain and obstructions from my pack.
Our target was a large compound in a remote village nearby, shrouded by mountains and surrounded by the seemingly omnipresent poppy fields.
The facility was heavily fortified, and based on satellite surveillance was suspected of being a staging area for insurgent operations in the area.
The fighting in this province had been the worst in country during the past few months, costing numerous American lives.
Based on intelligence gathered from detainees and from satellite reconnaissance, the heavily fortified facility was thought to be a Taliban stronghold.
But the mission was a delicate one.
That's why they had sent us.
SEAL Team 6; the best of the best. The Special Warfare Development Group.
Our eight man team was deemed the best military option.
They had considered a tactical bombing of the facility, but the compound included a school. And the command wanted Intel.
Where were these weapons coming from? Who was providing the firepower?
U.S. forces had pretty well shut down the main border crossings since the invasion, but the Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters continued to be well armed and well supplied.