Mike had already passed on the details of this raid through his dead-letter drop a few days earlier. At that time he was unaware that he would be a participant in the operation, and there was a good chance he had inadvertently put himself in a great deal of danger by revealing the raid. There was no doubt the Pakistani military would see this as an excellent opportunity to give al-Mimkhalif a very bloody nose.
Now his companions were at the end of the grueling twenty-kilometer march across rough mountain terrain, and the fatigue that dogged them was heavy and punishing. They were heartened, however, by the knowledge that at the end of this early morning attack, they would have police vehicles to carry them back most of the way to their base camp.
The leader called a halt at a signal from the two-man scout team ahead. The well-trained outfit immediately knelt down, each man facing toward his assigned firing area. Mike and the other ammo men squatted together in the middle of the formation.
The scouts came up and informed the leader that the target was close by. Orders were passed down to the sub-leaders to take their teams and position them in a semicircle formation that almost surrounded the police station. All this had already been worked out on an improvised sand table back at camp, and the mujahideen moved quickly and efficiently into position.
Mike followed his mortar squad to a predetermined location where they could fire their 51-millimeter shells to best advantage from the small French mortars. As they prepared the weapons, the others settled down to wait for the first sign of the rising sun over the eastern mountain ranges. After a passage of ten minutes, the only sounds were deep breaths now and then, though a snort of a snore erupted from time to time when a sleepy fighter dozed off. Such security infractions were followed by angry hissings and the smack of an open hand across the offender's face from his team leader. But mostly these warriors of Islam were silent, grateful for some rest after the exhausting hike.
.
0515 HOURS LOCAL
THE first pink showings of dawn brought a slight stirring to the crowd. Dozing men were shaken awake, and the mortar teams prepared for unleashing a short-range barrage that would blast the small police building to bits. This was not an important mission; its purpose was to do no more than harass the Pakistanis, who had sided with infidel Westerners to destroy true Islam. However, it would also give these men of al-Mimkhalif the practice and confidence that could be gained from a successful operation.
The top of the sun could now be seen on the horizon, and the orange of the early morning was being melted by ever-widening streaks of growing daylight. The loaders on the mortars laid out the shells that Mike Assad had borne on his back for many hours and kilometers. The squad, like the others, was now ready to begin firing at the leader's order.
Then all hell broke loose.
Automatic fire swept through the clusters of al-Mimkhalif fighters, knocking them into twisted bloody heaps. Skulls fractured and facial features imploded under the steel-jacketed onslaught along with ripped flesh and broken bones in body hits. Mike, his SEAL instincts now kicking in, went immediately to the ground. The spurts of earth around him indicated the mortar section was getting particular attention, and he low-crawled rapidly away from the emplacement. A quick glance brought him the sight of the dead and wounded mujahideen, and he continued on until reaching a stand of rocks.
He ignored potential snakes and scorpions and went into the cover as the firing continued.
Mike stayed hunched down until the flying bullets lessened noticeably, then stopped altogether. After taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and made a run for a distant patch of woods.
"Wakkif! Durkawam!"
The command to halt and turn around was in Arabic with an Urdu accent. Mike complied immediately, finding himself facing a scowling Pakistani paratrooper. The man pointed back up the hill, and Mike walked in that direction with his hands high above his head. The two made their way through the scattered dead mujahideen to a spot where a quartet of dejected prisoners squatted in the midst of more paratroopers. The captured men's hands were tightly and painfully bound behind their backs.
Mike laughed inwardly at the irony of the situation in spite of almost being killed. Here he was a prisoner of war as a result of his own intel report. The guys back in Brannigan's Brigands would think the situation hilarious.
.
ACV BATTLECRAFT
BAY OF BENGAL
VICINITY OF 10 NORTH AND 90 EAST
1100 HOURS LOCAL
THE Battlecraft was into its first real patrol, skimming the waves at two-thirds speed, hitting exactly 61.99 miles per hour. They were not alone on the mission. A patrol of F/A-18 Super Hornets from a nearby carrier battle group shadowed them as aerial support.
Inside the ACV's office, Paul Watkins kept an eye on the direction indicated by the compass, making a few small corrections as the wind pressed unexpectedly from one or another direction. The next thing to get installed on the AVC would be an autopilot, but he enjoyed the hands-on experience. It made the veteran helmsman feel like a real sailor in the finest traditions of the United States Navy.
Lieutenant Veronica Rivers monitored the radar and kept a close eye on the electronic warning indicator. The First Assault Section had the duty that day, while Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's Second Section stayed behind on the Dan Daly doing PT and weapons PM. They were not in a good mood about being left behind on the first patrol, but when Lieutenant Bill Brannigan issued an order, it was his way or the highway. These administrative and/or tactical decisions were not open to discussion.
At that moment, Lieutenant Jim Cruiser and his two fire teams were topside, relaxing and taking in some sun with their weaponry close at hand, while Bobby Lee Atwill, the only crew member not at his station, lounged in the wardroom, slowly and happily consuming cold fried chicken from his box lunch prepared by the galley crew of the USS Dan Daly.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan sat in the skipper's seat, glad to simply relax and enjoy the ride across the blue expanse of water while his crew concentrated on their duties. He noted Veronica Rivers getting up and going to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. She glanced at Atwill and frowned at his oil-stained fingers. "You should wash your hands before you eat."
"Well, ma'am," the turbine technician replied, "engine grease is a nutrient to me. I've soaked up so much it's in my system and has to be replenished from time to time. I'm addicted, ma'am. I'm as much a grease-head as them NASCAR mechanics." He winked at her. "Except I ain't paid near as much."
Veronica laughed and got her soda. She went back to her console and sat down at the exact moment a blip appeared on the radar screen. She quickly called out, "Contact! One-one-niner. Distance ten miles."
"Go to course one-one-niner," Brannigan ordered.
"Go to course one-one-niner, aye, sir," responded Watkins.
Brannigan picked up the microphone on his command communications system and raised the F/A-18s, who were keeping far away enough not to alert any potential ships with contraband. "We've got a reading and turning to one-one-niner," Brannigan reported. "We'll be in visual contact within approximately six minutes. Over."
A pilot's voice came back immediately. "Roger, Battlecraft." The aircraft turned slightly to get on course.
Now, standing ready on the Battlecraft, the First Assault Section eagerly awaited a chance to jump aboard a bad guys' ship and do some real serious ass-kicking. Jim Cruiser scanned the horizon to their direct front through his binoculars.