By the time they caught up with the column, Gomez had split the team, one half across the canyon, behind cover and on overwatch, the other waiting at the mouth of the ravine. Driscoll made his way up the line to Gomez. “Activity?”
“Engines, no movement.”
Across the canyon, thirty meters west of the overwatch, was a natural ramp winding its way up the side of the plateau. Sure as hell looked man-made, Driscoll thought, but time and erosion did strange things to terrain. And they weren’t going to bitch about this oddity; it would make their final push for the LZ relatively easy.
“Peterson, get Blade on the line and tell ’em we’re ready. Call it hot.”
Their Chinook would be orbiting, awaiting their signal. Like most things in combat and certainly most things in Afghanistan, their LZ was suboptimal, partly due to the landscape and partly due to the Chinook’s design trade-off: a high operational ceiling but a big landing footprint. The 47 could get to troops at altitude but needed a fair amount of square footage to embark them. In this case, their LZ was hemmed in to the west and south by ravines and ridgelines so close that small-arms fire could reach it.
“Blade, this is Sickle, over.”
“Go ahead, Sickle.”
“Ready for pickup. Winds three to six from north to south. Lima zulu hot; composition and direction unknown.”
“Roger, copy lima zulu hot. Three minutes out.” Two minutes later: “Sickle, Blade is inbound, mark your location.”
“Roger, stand by,” Driscoll said, then radioed Barnes. “Chemlights, Barnes.”
“Roger, boss. I’ve got blue, yellow, red.”
Across the canyon the chemlights glowed to life, then sailed through the air and landed atop the plateau. Driscoll would’ve preferred an IR strobe, but S4 had been out when they’d left.
Driscoll called, “Blade, Sickle, I pop blue, yellow, red.”
“Roger, I see it.”
Now they heard it, the chopping of the Chinook’s rotors. Then: “Sickle, this is Blade, I have inbound vehicles three hundred meters to your west and closing. I count two UAZs, over.”
Shit. “Wave off, wave off. Mark the LZ and hold in orbit.” The only other option was to have the Chinook’s gunners light up the UAZs, but doing so from altitude would serve as a “here we are” flare for other enemy units in the area. The Chinook pilot would have his own ROE, or Rules of Engagement, but as he and his Rangers were on scene and in the shit, it was Driscoll’s order to give. That the UAZs weren’t racing toward them told him his unit hadn’t yet been seen. They’d been lucky so far with these things; there was no use pushing it.
“Roger, waving off,” replied the Chinook pilot.
To Barnes: “We got company to the west. Douse those chemlights. Everybody hunker down.” Behind him, the column dropped flat.
He got a double-click in reply, then a few moments later saw a pair of hunched-over figures scrambling up to the plateau. The chemlights went dark.
Down the canyon, the UAZ headlights were now stationary. Faintly, Driscoll heard the rumble of their unmuffled engines. A long thirty seconds passed, then the engines revved up and the trucks began moving, separating into a staggered line as they headed down the canyon. Bad sign, Driscoll thought. On the move, the UAZs tended to prefer single-file formation. It was only when they were expecting trouble did they stagger.
“Cover,” Driscoll radioed the team. “Gomers are hunting.” Then to the Chinook: “Blade, Sickle, stay close. We may need you.”
“Roger.”
Preceded by headlights bouncing over the uneven ground, the crunch of the UAZ tires continued down the canyon until the first truck drew even with the ravine in which Driscoll and his column were hidden. The brakes squealed. The UAZ came to a stop; the second one, trailing thirty feet behind, also halted. A spotlight appeared in the passenger window and played over the walls, pausing as it reached the ravine. Move on, Gomer, Driscoll thought. Nothing to see here. Now the spotlight swung around, pointing out the driver’s window and scanning the opposite ravine. After sixty seconds of this the spotlight went dark. The lead UAZ’s transmission crunched and growled, then it began moving forward and beyond Driscoll’s line of sight.
“Who’s got eyes?” he radioed.
“Got him,” Barnes called. “Fifty meters away, continuing east.” Then: “Hundred meters… They’re stopping.”
Driscoll eased himself up and hunch-walked out of the ravine, taking care to keep close to the canyon’s rock wall until he could see the halted UAZs. He dropped to his belly and peered through the NV. Each truck had taken up position at the northern and southern sides of the canyon. Their headlights and engines were off. Ambush position.
“Everybody stay put and stay quiet,” Driscoll ordered, then got the Chinook on the line. “Blade, Sickle.”
“Go ahead.”
“Our UAZs have taken up position at the eastern end of the canyon.”
“Roger, we see ’em. Be advised, Sickle, we are eight minutes to bingo.”
Eight minutes until the Chinook was at the do-or-die turnaround point. A delay beyond that and they wouldn’t have enough fuel to RTB, or return to base. For Rangers, working with thin margins was par for the course, but there were some things you fucked with at your peril, and your ride home was chief among them.
“Understood. Engage UAZs. Anything on wheels is yours.”
“Roger, engaging.”
The Chinook appeared over the top of the plateau, its nav lights flashing as it wheeled and started easing west down the canyon. Driscoll could see the door gunner swiveling the minigun about. Driscoll radioed, “Gomez, get your team moving up the ramp.”
“Roger, boss.”
“Eyes on the target,” the Chinook pilot called. “Engaging…”
The Dillon M134 minigun opened up, casting the side of the Chinook in orange. The barrage lasted less than two seconds, then came another, and one more, then the pilot was back: “Targets destroyed.” With a firing rate of three thousand rounds per minute, in those five or so seconds it had poured two hundred fifty 7.62-millimeter bullets into the approaching UAZs. The Chinook reappeared, sideslipped over the LZ, and touched down. The ramp came down.
Gomez called, “Up on overwatch, Santa.”
“Roger, moving to you.”
Driscoll gave the order, and again in pairs the remainder of the team crossed the canyon floor, leapfrogging from cover to cover until Driscoll and Tait were across and headed up the ramp.
“Target!” Driscoll heard over his headset. Not one of his, he decided, but somebody aboard the Chinook. “On the tail, seven o’clock!” West across the plateau came the chatter of automatic weapons-AK-47s, quickly followed by the crack of returning M4 fire.
Driscoll and Tait reached the top of the ramp, dropped to their bellies, and crawled the last few feet. Fifty meters ahead, from inside a ravine and atop the ridgeline, muzzles were flashing. Driscoll counted at least three dozen. Down the canyon four pairs of headlights appeared in the dark. More UAZs.
Peterson’s voice: “RPG, RPG…”
To their right, something bright streaked past. The ground beside the Chinook erupted.
“Move away, move away,” the pilot called, then did something Driscoll had never seen: Neat as you please, the pilot lifted off, stopped in a hover at six feet, then wheeled, bringing the door gunner to bear. “Heads down, heads down!” The Dillon opened up, arcing fire into the ravine and ridgeline.
“Runner!” Driscoll heard faintly in his ear. “Heading west!”
Sidelit by the Dillon’s tracers, their prisoner, still hand-cuffed, was staggering away from the Chinook and toward the draw. Tait muttered, “I got him, Santa.”
“Drop him.”
Tait’s M4 popped and their prisoner went down. The AK fire tapered off, then died. Driscoll called, “Blade, we got UAZs in the canyon. Two hundred meters and closing. Your three o’clock.”