Chapter One
Northern Plains, Parwan Province, Afghanistan
A hike into hell was a walk in the park for Lieutenant Junior Grade Dexter Kaczewski and his small team of SEALs. The rhythm, the heat and the years of working together made the first part of the trip rather surreal. Everything worked perfectly. Dex checked to make sure all of his men were together—ten ninja gunslingers, armed to the teeth, invisible. Without night vision, no one could see death approach.
After the UH-60M, a sleek, state-of-the-art Black Hawk, had set them down, the almost-silent blades vibrating the air with a faint whop-whop, Dex had crouched as they piled out of the opening, his heartbeat in his ears. When his feet were firmly on the ground, he’d waited for the dust to settle from the big UH-60M and the world to stabilize after the helos had lifted off. All the guys checked in through their radios, and Dex had signaled the “all go” for the jaunt.
They were going in to look for three Marines, abducted only twenty-four hours ago, who were part of the force currently training the Afghan Armed Forces.
This was a TST, or time-sensitive target, as SEALs categorized these missions. Which pretty much meant they’d play it by ear and make it up as they went, especially once they hit the dirt. The intel was solid and Dex’s superiors figured that a small group of ten members of SEAL Team Three, Task Unit Trident, Bravo Platoon, were enough to do the job.
Hooyah!
“The village is completely dark. No movement in the target area,” Jack said through the comm. Damian “Jack of all trades” Merrick, or Jack for short, was a lean, mean fighting machine; primary breacher, who handled all mechanical and explosive entries; and primary heavy gunner. He also had this uncanny ability to see things that weren’t normally visible. He’d once saved a whole squad from an ambush just because he’d spotted one stone overturned.
“No enemy with guns who want to shoot us? That’s a shame,” DJ said with a short laugh. Jerry Sanders, the resident comedian and the best damn communication and air controller in the business, got his moniker legitimately. Back in the States, Jerry had been a radio DJ before his service.
Dex’s vigilance, heightened by his night-vision goggles, showed every detail in the green environment before him. The village in the distance was their destination. They had been flown in by helicopter and dropped off, or “inserted,” about eleven kilometers away and were currently tippy-toeing their way to the medium-size village that was waiting for them in dark shadows with unknown assailants.
As Dex led them to the final delay point, they had about five minutes to rest and reset for the final push and eventual assault. As he looked around, he realized they were in a cemetery. Several graves were fresh, and after counting over ten new digs, DJ stopped and leaned over to Dex. “LT, hopefully this isn’t a zombie movie, or we’re toast,” he deadpanned. On the teams, “LT” was the universal nickname for all officers in charge and stood for lieutenant.
Dex laughed. “Don’t worry, DJ. Your brain doesn’t even make a meal.”
“Not even a snack,” Reindeer said, and all of them chuckled. Rudolf “Reindeer” Abt served more than just one role. He was their very gifted corpsman—a medic—but he was also a lethal sniper.
“Mmm, brains,” DJ said in a deep, gravelly zombie voice.
“Kennedy,” Dex said softly. Kennedy was already up and moving toward the walls and getting eyes on the compound. Tyler Prescott was Dex’s best friend on the teams, his point man and lead sniper. He hailed from a political family, which was how he got his Kennedy nickname. They were in tune with each other. When Spaceman—Mike Carver, his current ridge boss and chief of his operations—retired after this op, Dex was considering Kennedy as his replacement. He was smart, resourceful and spoke his mind.
Speaking of minds, it seemed his men could read his. These guys were so well-trained and worked so well together. Nolan “Minnesota” Quade, a breacher and sniper, was one of the nicest men Dex had ever met until he was on a mission, then one of the meanest. Roger “Green Bean” Deeds and Peter “Slim Jim” Camden rounded out the group. Kennedy gave Dex the all-clear, and he motioned everyone onward. They moved like ghosts from the graveyard, right on schedule.
After Kennedy entered, Dex poked his head in to check the progress. The compound was empty, and something started to itch—a combat itch that was giving Dex a momentary warning to get the hell out of there, but he felt that most of the time when he was on a mission. It was most likely the feel of close and present danger. On cue, Jack said, “Sir, I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.”
“Anything concrete?”
“No, sir. Just a gut feeling.”
“Your gut is outranked this time. One of those Marine kids belongs to a one-star. We’re going in but keep your eyes open.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Normally, he would heed Jack’s call, but the one-star, General Seth MacDonald, had some pull and Dex knew how the military worked. The general would do everything in his power to rescue his son, even chew on some brass. Still, he’d never liked the sensation of having the grim reaper breathing down his neck. They entered single file, heading for the outlying buildings. After a quick search, Dex sent Kennedy, Minnesota and Slim up a ladder to snipe any baddies from the rooftop.
After ten minutes the compound was secured, but that only made Dex even more uneasy. There was no one here. No sleeping women or children, no old men. No one. He glanced at Spaceman, and his look said he felt it, too.
“You want to abort?” he asked Spaceman.
He and Spaceman had done extensive research on this village, situated just before the Pakistani border. The most likely place they were keeping his brothers in arms was a building in the middle of the village, forcing them to secure three large buildings on the east side to block any egress to Pakistan. If they ran, it would be across open ground.
He stood there for a moment, obviously torn between getting the Marines out or leaving them to their fate. The pressure from the brass was as heavy as a fifty-caliber gun. Dex didn’t give a damn about flak from the top. He was here in the field and the decision was his. That’s why he got the big lieutenant bucks. Saving those Marines was their mission, but he had to weigh the level of threat to his team. Leaving the Marines to die didn’t set well with either of them. Spaceman had a kid the same age as one of the Marines. His eyes traveled around to make sure he had his finger on the pulse of this op.
“Let’s get those boys and go home,” Spaceman said.
This would be his last deployment, and Dex guessed he wanted to go out with a win.
Dex motioned for Jack, who was right behind him, and met his dark, steady eyes. The man would go into hell if Dex ordered it, but he wasn’t bashful about speaking up. It was clear he was getting the heebie-jeebies from this op.
“Sir…”
“Noted, Jack. Get ready to breach the main building.”
Jack took a breath.
“Jack,” Dex said, order in his voice. “Breach.”
He delayed only a second. With reluctance in each word, he said, “Yes, sir.”
Dex leaned in, listening for harsh language or suppressed shooting, and heard nothing. The walls were sixteen feet high and looked rather new—well, newer than two thousand years old, like the last operation’s buildings. The gate was quite new—he thought maybe forty years old. How nice to see an upward trend in development in this war-torn country. He motioned to Jack.