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Before Corrigan could ask for an ETA he heard the telltale "whoosh" of aerial rockets passing overhead. A split second later there was a series of thunderous explosions.
CAPTAIN MILTGuerrero stood at the edge of his hastily established forward command post and looked out across the field through a pair of night vision binoculars. He and his command staff had come in on a Blackhawk and landed at the forward command post set up by the Air Force STS Team. He watched his three platoons, 144 men strong, rush across the open field. Even with their heavy gear they would cover the distance to the edge of the town in five minutes or less. If they ran into any resistance, that estimate could easily double or even triple, but the company commander had contingencies ready in case the enemy put up an unexpected early fight.
General Harley's original plan had called for the Rangers to march immediately to Rattle Snake One's position and create a secure perimeter for the exfiltration of the Delta Team and any prisoners, but after studying the objective, and the surrounding terrain further, General Harley came up with a bolder plan-a plan that was more reminiscent of the way Rangers fought in WWII. They were too far afield to fight with one hand tied behind their backs, and Harley had no desire to lose any of his men due to limited rules of engagement.
For an American officer, however, the desire for force protection always had to be balanced against the lives of innocent civilians. In almost any battlefield situation this was an area as murky as a Louisiana swamp, but here in Southwest Asia the lines between innocent civilian and guerrilla fighter were almost completely indistinguishable. Virtually everybody carried a weapon of some sort, even the young boys. A farmer was rarely a simple farmer. This village was an al-Qaeda and Taliban stronghold used to ferry men and supplies across the border into Afghanistan. Those supplies were used to kill American soldiers. There wasn't an adult in this village who didn't know what was going on.
The brutal reality of war in this violent, fanatical region was that every child over the age of ten was a potential threat, as were their mothers. If they didn't move decisively, if they didn't shock the enemy and keep them off balance, they could quickly find themselves bogged down in a house-to-house fight where they would be outnumbered-an entrenched street-by-street battle against a well-seasoned force that was not known for taking prisoners. If that happened they would have to call in the A-10 Warthogs and possibly a Spooky gunship that would undoubtedly lead to many more civilian deaths. Guerrero bought into the General Patton creed: engagements, battles, wars that were fought quickly, decisively, and with brute force saved lives in the long run. Patton knew well after fighting in WWI what happened when forces got bogged down.
The loss of innocent life was to be avoided if possible, but not if it meant risking the life of a Ranger. Quick and decisive force on the front end would save lives in the end. It was Captain Guerrero who had pushed for the battle's more traditional rules of engagement. Anyone seen running toward the battle carrying a weapon, man, woman, or child, was to be considered hostile and engaged, and any house or structure that was used to fire upon American forces was to be pulverized.
That was worst case and they were hoping to avoid it completely by separating the proverbial wheat from the chaff. Guerrero had a great respect for General Harley that bordered on reverence. Harley had studied the enemy, had gone back and read the history of the country. He'd talked with Soviet officers who had fought and lost in Afghanistan. Harley knew the enemy well, and he knew with relative certainty what they would do when confronted with a surprise attack in the dead of night.
"Sir," a young lieutenant approached the company commander, "the mortar teams are ready."
Part of General Harley's ingenious plan for tonight's operation was to reinforce the young captain's two 60mm mortars. "Have sections one, two, and three begin laying down a barrage at the southern edge of the town, have sections four and five coordinate with Rattle Snake One on where they'd like them dropped, and have section six look for targets of opportunity as directed by the forward observers."
The lieutenant snapped off a salute, glad to hear that the plan hadn't changed. He and his mortar teams had worked diligently to prepare precise coordinates for virtually every intersection and target of potential interest in the village. They had already been in contact with the Air Force forward observer who had reached the edge of town, and one of the Delta shooters on the roof of the target building. The mortar teams were eager to show their stuff. Working in conjunction with forward observers, and using their M-23 mortar ballistic computers, they could drop their 60mm rounds through the sunroof of a parked car. Twelve of the lethal tubes stood ready with enough rounds to level the entire town if necessary.
CORRIGAN LOOKED ATthe twisted, blazing hunk of metal that had almost blown his head off only a few moments ago. Not wanting to diminish his vision he then turned away from the burning wreck and told himself he'd have to remember to buy the boys flying the Apache a cold one.
"Rattle Snake One." The scratchy voice came over his radio. "This is Mustang One. We're going to be at your front door in about thirty, coming in from the west. Do you have any targets for us?"
The SEALs were on their way in with their fast Desert Patrol Vehicles. Great news as far as Corrigan was concerned. The sergeant didn't like a fair fight. He glanced up and down the street. Now that the rocket strike by the Apache had passed he could see the enemy was renewing their efforts. Several rounds struck the road in front of Corrigan, kicking up geysers of dirt. He casually stepped back into the house. "Nothing specific, but watch out for the rooftops."
Corrigan called out for a quick "sit rep" from his team. One by one each man checked in. There were a few minor scrapes, but nothing serious, and his machine gunners asked for some more ammunition for their M240B medium machine guns. Corrigan knew they weren't critically low on ammo, but the plan was for the Desert Patrol Vehicles to drop off some extra supplies and two
light machine guns in case the Rangers got held up.
Corrigan looked out onto the street just in time to see the two low-slung dune buggies come skidding around the corner, guns blazing, their big.50-calibers chewing up the rooftops on either side of the street.
The first vehicle pulled right up to the door, its fat knobby tires gripping the packed dirt road like claws. The second vehicle swung out into the intersection and stopped in the middle of a right-hand turn. The crews in the two vehicles began furiously pumping rounds into anything that moved. Corrigan set his weapon down and grabbed a couple of extra ammo pouches from the vehicle. He tossed them back in the house and grabbed an M249 SAW and more ammo.
The vehicle commander, a chief and a perpetual smart-ass, yelled to Corrigan over the roar of the guns, "Once again, it's the Navy to the rescue!"
Corrigan grabbed his weapon and yelled back, "Rescue my ass! You wanna change spots?"
The Navy SEAL shook his head vigorously. "No thanks! I don't like staying in one place if I don't have to." With his left hand up in the air he gestured wildly for the driver to move out. Turning back to Corrigan, he smiled again and yelled as the driver gunned the engine, "We'll be in the neighborhood! Just call if you need us!"
The two crews were in contact via radio and as soon as the one vehicle began to move, the one holding the corner took off. As per the plan, they were now to drive around the back of the house and drop off more ammunition and another machine gun, and along the way knock the enemy back a bit. After that they were to proceed to the western edge of town where they were to look for targets of opportunity and hold the flank. If needed, they were also in reserve to evacuate any seriously wounded. The six SEALs knew the key to their effectiveness was to hit and move. If they stayed in any one place for too long they might be the ones needing a medical evac.
* * *
Twelve
Circling directly over the town at 10,000 feet, Rapp watched the fight taking shape on the screens and resisted the urge to ask Rattle Snake One for an ID on the prisoners. Right now the Delta boys were busy using their well-honed skills to make sure the engagement didn't turn into their own private Alamo. General Harley's plan was proceeding as they'd expected, but military engagements had a way of changing in the blink of an eye. If the enemy could get organized, there was still a very real possibility that they could overrun Rattle Snake One and his men, but Harley had bet the farm that the enemy would opt for another strategy, especially now that the other assets were joining the battle.
For thousands of years the people in the village below and their ancestors had used the mountains to hide from invaders. They were masters at guerilla warfare. Hit the enemy and then disappear into the mountains where the inhospitable terrain and climate could wear down the best that the conquering armies could throw at them. Most recently, the Soviet Union had learned this modern military axiom: don't use conventional forces to fight a guerilla war. There was a major difference, however, between the war with the Soviets and what was going on now. Back in the eighties, the CIA and U.S. Special Forces provided crucial training and supplies that helped turn the tide against the communist aggressors. Most notably the mujahideen was given the highly effective Stinger surface-to-air missile.
The Taliban and al-Qaeda had the misfortune this time of going up against the same benefactor who had supported them against the Soviet aggression. Those high-tech Stinger missiles were now old technology. Every helicopter and plane under Harley's command was equipped with state-of-the-art missile countermeasure systems more than capable of defeating all but the newest and most advanced surface-to-air missiles. The few Stingers that were still in the Taliban's arsenal had deteriorated over time and were highly unstable.
That meant the enemy had to try and use more antiquated methods to bring down the American helicopters-antiaircraft guns and RPGs. Both were all but useless against the sturdy American helicopters unless they were caught in a low hover, and even then, with the firepower the helicopters could bring to bear, it was all but suicide for the man firing the weapon. Harley had no desire to lose a bird, so he constantly changed tactics and kept his helicopters above two thousand feet and moving at a good clip whenever possible.
The general and his task force were beating the Taliban at their own game. They were using guerilla warfare tactics coupled with air mobility and firepower to choose the time and location of the battle. They harassed their opponent, and then retreated to their base hundreds of miles away, frustrating the enemy and inflicting massive casualties. Harley and his warriors were wearing the bad guys down.
Rapp listened to the chatter amongst the various officers in the command-and-control bird who were directing the action below. The Apache flying cover had destroyed another mounted gun and several buildings at the far end of town, and the Ranger's mortar barrage had just commenced, peppering the southern edge of town with bright flashes. After another minute the Rangers would begin marching their mortar fire through the village in a slow methodical pounding, intersection by intersection. The idea was to leave the enemy only one direction to flee-toward the mountains. The homes were not to be targeted unless individual Ranger units called in a strike. The Rangers would then sweep in and take the entire village one block at a time. General Harley wanted, if at all possible, to separate the terrorist and Taliban thugs from the noncombatants.
Harley knew his enemy, and had told Rapp they would do what they had done for centuries-they would flee to the mountains, and that was where the general had one more surprise waiting for them. Rapp couldn't help feeling satisfied at the hand he'd had in bringing this about. These were the fighters who smuggled weapons and explosives and fresh recruits across the border. These were the men who ambushed U.S. troops who were building roads and hospitals and bringing sanitary drinking water to people for the first time in their lives. These were zealots who hated America, and hated freedom whether it was religious, political, or otherwise.
