Over on the far side of the enemy camp, a detachment of Pakistani paratroopers was supposed to be waiting to police up any enemy stragglers who might try to escape in that direction during or after the attack.
After a quarter of an hour of slogging through the dirty water, Garth Redhawk spotted the camp. He alerted Chad Murchison on his right and Matt Gunnarson on his left. All three SEALs slowed down, making sure they made no unnecessary splashing as they continued forward. The rest of the detachment had monitored Redhawk over the LASH system, and reacted accordingly.
The enemy camp was out of the swamp, up on a slight rise above the water. This dry land went all the way to a road a couple of hundred meters farther on. A few crude canvas-and-log structures were all the shelter the terrorists had. No fighting holes or bunkers had been built. The Brigands would have to strike fast and viciously to keep a minimum number of terrorists from fleeing the immediate area. If the paratroopers were not where they were supposed to be, those who reached the road had an easy run to safety.
Jim Cruiser swung the Bravos up on line with the Alphas while he and Puglisi moved between the two fire teams. When they stepped from the water and entered the edge of the bivouac, Cruiser ordered the attack. The CAR-15s blasted three-round automatic bursts while Puglisi played his SAW like an accordion, sweeping the barrel back and forth with four-to-six-round firebursts plowing into the huts and lean-tos of the terrorists.
Screams of wounded mujahideen filled the air for the first few seconds, then sporadic return fire answered the assault.
By then Brannigan and Bradley had joined the battle along with the Second Assault Section. The collective automatic fire became one long continuous burst, and a few fleeing terrorists could be seen running frantically toward the road.
"Cease fire," Brannigan ordered.
A sudden silence settled over the scene. The SEALs moved among the crude living quarters finding bullet-riddled bodies in and outside the shelters. The fire from the detachment had been so heavy and intense that there were no enemy survivors. Each sprawled corpse was bloodied with multiple wounds.
A search for documents or other intelligence items began at the same time that fresh firing broke out further inland. Cruiser glanced over at Brannigan. "It would seem the Pakistani paratroopers were right where they were supposed to be."
"Mission accomplished," Brannigan said. Then he repeated under his breath, "Mission accomplished." Those were his two favorite words.
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins reported to the detachment commander. "We didn't find any documents laying around, sir. I don't think them dumb bastards could read."
"Not even any Korans?"
"Negative, sir."
"This must have been just a temporary bivouac," Brannigan surmised. "But we broke up the operation." He took a deep, satisfying breath. "Okay, Senior Chief. Let's get back to the CRRCs."
.
FRANK Gomez had been raised on the AN/PRC-112 with the good news that the operation went off without a hitch. He made a report to Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers since as senior ranking person aboard, she was in command of the Battlecraft until Brannigan returned.
"Were there any casualties?" she asked, looking intently at the RTO.
"The enemy caught it hot and heavy," Frank replied.
"What about the SEALs?"
Frank grinned. "No, ma'am. Lieutenant Cruiser is just fine."
Veronica's face reddened so much, it was apparent even in the dull glow of the illumination coming from the ACV's instruments.
Chapter 10.
CAMP TALATA, PAKISTAN
11 OCTOBER
IMRAN and Ayyub were sixteen-year-old mujahideen who had just finished their elementary training and were now considered full-fledged though inexperienced fighters in al-Mimkhalif. They had not been present at the disastrous attack on the police station on the Afghanistan border because they were in the final phase of their battle instruction in the foothills.
The boys' entrance into the world of jihad had not come from a devout belief in the causes of Islam. They had been apprentice bakers in their home village in rural Yemen, working for a demanding and cruel master. Slowness in learning or inattention to detail by the neophytes meant solid painful blows across the back and buttocks from a heavy cudgel wielded with cruel abandon by their large muscular boss. Many times they were locked in the pantry overnight without supper for their transgressions. Unfortunately, Imran and Ayyub were not the brightest of the village youths, and they made more than their share of mistakes in not only preparing the shop's products, but in learning the skills of the trade at the pace demanded by the master baker.
Things came to a head early one morning when both overslept. Their first duty of the day was to be up at four a. M. to get the oven fires going so that when the master appeared at five, things would-be ready to begin the day's demanding work. But that particular dawn began with the master's furious bellowing when he walked into a cold kitchen. The two apprentices sat straight up in their bed, looked at each other, and grimaced as they realized that this was the worst disaster of their short bungling careers. A prolonged brutal beating loomed in their immediate future.
Without exchanging a single word, they knew what they must do. The boys gathered up their few miserable belongings and went through the rear window of the bakery, and ran like hell toward the highway two kilometers away. This road led to the city of Sadah.
Luck was with them that day, and they were able to catch a ride on a truck that took them to the safety of the city where the brutal master would never be able to find them. Unfortunately, the pair of bunglers had no idea what they were going to do in the unknown metropolis, and after nearly starving for a week, they found a charity kitchen at one of the city's mosques located in the slums. More than physical sustenance was available in the dining hall. Clever clerics, looking for disenfranchised and frustrated youths to recruit into al-Mimkhalif, were waiting to preach to the boys prior to the serving of meals.
After several recruitment sermons--replete with messages of hate for the Great Satan America--Imran and Ayyub volunteered in the same unthinking manner they'd used when running away. It was a quick exit from a bad situation; better a dead martyr than be caught by the police and hauled back to face the master baker's rage and beatings.
.
1215 HOURS LOCAL
NOW Imran and Ayyub stood serious guard duty for the first time. They had been posted above the mountain pass that offered ingress to the camp. It was a narrow trail far below the bluffs that towered above it. A lot of their old careless ways had been driven out of them by hard-ass combat training along with cuffs and kicks in the military environment of al-Mimkhalif. They were also well indoctrinated, and they now tended to their assigned duty with discipline and determination.
"Look!" Ayyub exclaimed. "Someone is coming up the trail."
Imran looked in the direction his friend was pointing. "A lone man, hey?"
"Let's make sure he is alone," Ayyub said. "Remember what we were taught. Sometimes the enemy sends scouts ahead to draw fire to discover the locations of our positions. We must be patient. This could be an attack." After ten minutes passed, the rookie stood up. "The stranger is alone."
Imran cranked the field telephone kept at the lookout position, and raised the chief of the guard. "There is a solitary man approaching the camp through the pass. We have watched him for a quarter of an hour. He is by himself."
The chief of the guard put the receiver-transmitter back in its cradle, standing up and gesturing to the three riflemen relaxing at the midday cook fire. "Let's go, brothers. Someone is approaching the camp."