As a small-town boy from State Road, North Carolina, Mark was not much on politics. He’d chosen to attend the United States Military Academy at West Point and earn a commission in the Army out of a sense of patriotism and planned to return to his rural hometown once his Afghanistan tour of duty, and his company command, were complete.
If he never had to deal with a three-letter agency again, it would be too soon.
But Mark didn’t have to be a politico to understand that the recent string of terrorist attacks across the American heartland had changed the calculus of Washington’s decision-makers. The president had decided to unleash the hounds, which meant that terrorists who were once considered out of reach were safe no longer. Whether this reflected a global change in policy or just a temporary reprieve was immaterial. Mark and his band of merry marauders had been given the green light, and he intended to hit the gas pedal.
“Havok 6, this is Desperado 7, we have a maintenance issue on one of the trucks. Combat power is now five vehicles. I say again, five vehicles.”
“Desperado 7, this is Havok 6,” Mark said. “Roger all. Continue the mission, over.”
Doug Peluso, the Green Beret who went by the call sign of Desperado 7, replied with two clicks of his radio. Operation IRON FIST had been Mark’s brainchild, but an undertaking of this magnitude still needed buy-in from multiple overlapping entities. While Mark might not have a future in politics, he had learned long ago that one of the easiest ways to secure buy-in was to offer another organization a seat at the operational table.
Case in point, the Green Beret detachment from Operational Detachment Alpha, or ODA, 535 were not part of Mark’s chain of command, but they owned the battle space where the target compound was located. Rather than engage in a protracted and unfruitful turf war over who would command and control IRON FIST, Mark had done something rather novel—he’d offered Desperado 7 a piece of the pie.
The grizzled team sergeant had instantly accepted. Doug and his twelve-man ODA, along with a contingent of Afghan National Army commandos, were now riding toward the objective in six Hilux pickup trucks. That the six trucks now equaled five was an inconvenience, but not a game changer. Mark had more than enough organic combat power in the two platoons carried in the helicopters hurtling toward the compound. The Green Berets and their Afghan allies would provide the outer cordon while Mark’s Rangers conducted the assault.
The target compound was nestled in the northern end of a bowl created by the intersection between a north–south running draw and an east–west running ridgeline. A single unimproved road provided vehicular access to the compound. The ridgelines to the rear of the compound were riddled with goat trails that undoubtedly allowed foot traffic to come and go without being seen, but progress would be slow going and easily visible by the loitering AC-130.
At least that was the plan.
But as Desperado 7’s radio call had just demonstrated, plans had a way of changing. Phase line QUEEN depicted the turnoff from the hardball road east of the compound that bridged the distance between several of the small villages dotting the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Though not exactly an interstate highway, the road saw enough traffic that the six-vehicle Green Beret convoy wouldn’t attract much attention. But once the trucks made the turn from QUEEN onto the dirt-and-gravel path leading to the compound, this would no longer be true. The operation’s high-value target, or HVT, had grown to enjoy the protection his location in Pakistan offered him, but that didn’t mean he was complacent. Watchers working for the HIG thug no doubt lined the foothills flanking the road.
But that was okay.
In about ninety seconds, the HVT was going to have his hands full.
As if hearing Mark’s thoughts, the Little Bird flared as the pilot brought the aircraft in for a rushed but steady landing. The Rangers seated next to Mark were off the troop bench and moving forward in a crouch before the helicopter had even fully settled. Mark hit the quick release on his seat belt and followed, his mind on the multiple radio calls echoing through his Peltor earmuffs as his feet carried him forward. As per their reputation, the Night Stalkers had deposited him precisely on target and exactly on time. Judging by the radio chatter, the helicopters containing the assault team were also adhering to the operational schedule.
Mark removed a thermal spotting scope from his assault pack, extended the tripod, planted it in the rocky soil, and panned the device to his right. The six Rangers who had exited the helicopter with him were also busy, but they knew their jobs and needed no handholding from Mark. His RTO, or radio telephone operator, was already expanding a concave satellite antenna while the two-man sniper team were surveying likely targets and completing their range cards.
Chris Jancosko, a Marine field artillery officer serving an exchange tour with the Rangers, was verifying radio communication with the indirect fire assets that would be supporting the assault. The final two Rangers in Mark’s element disappeared into the brush to the northwest of the rock outcropping to establish a security position.
“Havok 6, this is Havok 16. We are release point inbound, over.”
Mark swung his scope to the left until the target compound swam into view. He’d selected the rock outcropping as his command post because the elevated position offered him an unobstructed view of YUENGLING while still affording a defensible position for his small command team.
Though the circling AC-130 was much better equipped to decide whether the compound was ICE or CHERRY, as commander, the final determination was Mark’s. His Rangers were about to rain down hellfire and brimstone on the enemy based on his orders. Mark owed it to them to personally check the terrain for enemy fighters before clearing the assaulters onto the objective.
Other than its size, the compound wasn’t that different from others that dotted the landscape. The ten-foot-high walls were constructed of mud brick and stood four feet thick. The bricks had baked to concrete hardness by years of exposure to the unrelenting Afghanistan sun and scouring wind that howled down the valley. Covered guard towers flanked the compound’s steel gate. One position held a DShK heavy machine gun while the second had space for a pair of guards.
Neither tower was occupied.
“Havok 16,” Mark said, using the call sign of his senior platoon leader, Jeff Mishler, “this is Havok 6. I confirm that YUENGLING is ICE. No enemy in sight. You are cleared to the objective, over.”
“Havok 6, this is Havok 16, roger that. Gig ’em, sir.”
Mark smiled.
As a graduate of Texas A&M, Jeff sought to work the university’s signature phrase into nearly every conversation. While Jeff’s response wasn’t proper radio protocol, Mark made an exception for his hard-charging senior platoon leader. The Ranger Regiment did not attract shrinking violets or wallflowers.
Panning his optic back to the right, Mark centered the scope on the gap in the ridgeline where he expected the helicopters carrying Jeff and the rest of the assaulters to appear. Mark loved being a Ranger, but he’d had to adjust to the role of company commander. As a platoon leader, Mark had swept across the objective with his men, often just behind the breaching team.
As commander, Mark’s role differed. His job was to command and control the fight rather than lead it. This was why he was on a rock outcropping almost a thousand meters west of the objective instead of riding in a Chinook alongside his Rangers. Mark’s head knew that his ability to coordinate the fight and bring additional combat multipliers like close air support or Chris Jancosko’s artillery to bear did far more to support the effort than adding just another rifle to the stack.
Sometimes his heart wasn’t so sure.
Mark adjusted the optic’s focus as he wondered if the pilots from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment were running late. Then he tweaked the thermal’s gain and level, and what he’d mistaken for background scatter resolved into a pair of helicopters. The pilots had elected to approach the compound using nap-of-the-earth flying in the hopes of masking the Chinook’s presence for as long as possible. Even so, the pair of helicopters were low even by Night Stalker standards.
The birds’ landing gear was almost kissing the gravel road.
The Chinook and trailing Black Hawk thundered up the draw, and Mark felt the pride that only came from leading America’s finest warriors into combat. In seconds, his men would be on the objective, striking a decisive blow against a truly bad man.
Some days Mark couldn’t believe he actually got paid to do this job.
“Mark,” Chris Jancosko said, grabbing his shoulder, “we might have trouble.”
And then there were days when he earned every last cent.
CHAPTER 6
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
RAPP didn’t run.
At least not at first.
While the information Ruyintan had just provided was time-sensitive to Rapp, it would not be for Farid Saeed. Though his muscles felt like coiled springs, Rapp had remained seated for several minutes after the Iranian and his entourage vacated the café. Each second passed with the subtlety of a chiming gong, but Rapp finished skimming the Telegraph’s front page before lazily dropping a handful of rupees on the table.
Then, he’d stood, glanced at his watch, and made for the cobblestone street.
