Orange and green tracers whipped around them like a laser light show. The enemy was close. He saw one spot where orange tracers were emitting closer than any of his team could be. Orange tracers were usually 5.56mm rounds fired by U.S. or NATO forces.
“This way!” he screamed to Honeywell, who was following him closely, lumbering through the snow. Honeywell stopped, lifted his M4 carbine, which looked like a child’s toy in his large hands, and fired five shots at the enemy. They both continued until they were behind a small rock.
“That’s him!” About ten meters away was a single U.S. Navy SEAL wearing a parka and a skullcap, firing his weapon at six Al Qaeda combatants who were braving the wall of raining steel emitting from the AC-130. Deafening explosions rocked the small saddle of land situated between two rugged cliffs. It was the only flat land in the area and, therefore, had been well defended by the enemy.
“Cover me!” Garrett shouted. Honeywell lifted his weapon and began firing short three- to six-round bursts, having toggled his selector switch to automatic. Zach crouched and rolled forward, dodging the return fire. He ducked behind a small outcropping of rocks and then leapt to the tight depression where the SEAL had taken up his defense.
“Friendly!” Garrett smacked his kneecap as he landed next to the SEAL, and then he pulled out his identification tags from around his neck. Shaking the dog tags as if to prove who he was, he hollered above the gunfire, “Colonel Garrett!”
“I know who you are, sir! I knew you’d be here!”
They both laid down a heavy volume of fire as the enemy increased their accuracy. Was Honeywell hit, Garrett wondered?
“Are you okay?” He looked at the SEAL, whose eyes were wide with fear.
“I’m hit, sir. Not sure I can walk.” Garrett recognized the man as Petty Officer Sam Jergens from somewhere in Wisconsin. He knew the man well enough to understand that he was a tremendously fit individual. If he said he couldn’t walk, Garrett knew he was going to have to carry him.
Never leave a fallen comrade.
“Okay! I’ll put you in a fireman’s carry as long as you continue to shoot at the enemy. Honeywell is covering us!” He hoped that was still the case.
Suddenly Garrett noticed a movement above Jergens’s head. He stood, and in one continuous motion pulled his knife from its sheath and raised it up through the throat of the attacker who had made a suicide charge through the AC-130 suppressive fire. The man, practically wrapped in sheets, fell between them, blood staining the white snow like a blossoming rose petal.
“Let’s get out of here, sir!”
Garrett sheathed his knife and snapped his M4 onto his outer tactical vest. In what was akin to a wrestling move, he swiftly lifted Jergens onto his back and began to run through the snow. He found Honeywell, who was changing magazines. Thank God he’s alright. “Cover us!”
Honeywell looked up and continued firing, then moved into a crouching position. He began backpedaling as Garrett sped past him carrying Jergens. Zach felt a stinging sensation in his leg that made him buckle but not fall. He knew he was hit. It wasn’t the first time. It probably would not be the last.
They entered the blinding snow tornado that remained suspended in the minute or two they had been on the ground. Zach could see that both team one and team two were collapsing into the aircraft like a well-rehearsed football play. He counted four from team one and three from team two. He had Honeywell with him, which meant he had all of his men.
Another stinging sensation caught him in the triceps, causing him to spin and lurch forward. He dropped Jergens onto the ramp of the aircraft as Honeywell passed him, leaping up. Garrett’s body twisted and dropped, his dog tags flapping loosely around his neck. He wrestled with the snap link securing his M4 carbine to his outer tactical vest. It was a fully functional weapon with close combat optics, infrared aiming devices, and other high tech gear lashed to its rail.
It was also important that he leave it on the landing zone.
But the helicopter was taking off.
“No! No! No!” Someone was screaming and then Garrett felt a hand ripping at his body armor as he unclipped the snaplink. He was confused. There was another man running toward them. The aircraft was off the ground, hovering just above the snow. It’s the enemy.
A figure closed on him, tore at his neck, and then ripped his dog tags from atop his outer tactical vest as Garrett was attempting to retrieve the weapon he had just dropped into the snowstorm. Garrett looked into the man’s eyes, which curiously glanced at the two pieces of thin metal he was clasping in his olive hand. The man then looked up at Honeywell, who had pulled the Al Qaeda combatant off Colonel Garrett. Honeywell was leaning over as the aircraft began to ascend rapidly into the sky.
The pilot was hearing “Go! Go! Go!” when in fact, as Honeywell was slitting the throat of the Al Qaeda combatant, he was screaming, “No! No! No!” Honeywell looked over his shoulder at the crew chief and kept screaming, “Colonel Garrett is still on the ground!”
Then Honeywell looked down at the man with a grin frozen on his face and at the same time thought he saw Colonel Garrett through the snow. He pulled back the man dress wrapped around him and saw small packets of C4 explosive secured to his abdomen, nails stuck in the putty-like material.
They were about two hundred meters above the ground and nosing over a cliff when Honeywell looked back at the cockpit and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath. Then the helicopter exploded in a bright fireball.
CHAPTER 2
Unaware of either the 9.5-hour time difference between South Carolina and Afghanistan or that her father was facing horrific combat, Amanda Garrett stood nervously in front of the class, two blonde-streaked tendrils of hair framing her face. She had her father’s sea green eyes and her mother’s movie star smile. She was wearing a brown American Eagle shirt with three buttons open to show her yellow stretch halter. Her stone-washed jeans flared just enough to cover the heels of her platform sandals. She was five and a half feet tall with the broad shoulders of a champion swimmer and the honey-blonde hair of someone who spent too much time in the sun and chlorinated pools. Having been called upon to read her poem, she balled up her fist and cleared her throat.
She glanced at her teacher, the ever popular Lenard Dagus, as he crossed his legs and clasped his knee with laced fingers. Dagus was a tall man with a mustache, a skinny Tom Selleck. A moderate in his journalism teachings, he had already self-published one book, titled Policing the Fourth Estate: Publish or Perish. It wasn’t exactly original, but he never let his students forget it was the foundation of his doctoral thesis. The media should be held accountable for their reporting; otherwise, credibility would wane and the institution would crumble, he argued. The book had received moderate acclaim that had made him somewhat of a celebrity in the high school. He also organized and led an online media watchdog group he called MediaHunt, which resulted in the occasional guest spot on Fox News or CNN as a media expert. In his “spare time,” he taught literature and chaired the high school drama club.
She could smell the light scent of his aftershave as she stood before the class. Amanda, like many students, found him to be approachable and genuinely concerned. Given the fact that she was the editor of the school magazine, the Venture, she had spent many hours with him going over layouts and copy prior to sending them to print. In a way, he was a mentor to her, as he was for many other students. In some respects, he had even filled the void her father had left behind.