I smiled slightly as I thought about how the State Department would like to explain us using a house of worship as cover from enemy fire, before forcing myself to refocus.
There would be time for rumination later.
Mike and I stepped up the concrete stairs towards the roof of the mosque. Two of our team members, the men who had entered through the nearby West entrance had already established a fortified position on the landing.
After identifying ourselves and walking the rest of the way up the crumbling concrete stairs, we reached the flat roof.
Mike seemed to relax slightly as our numbers doubled, but an air of danger still surrounded Chief Jones as he spoke softly to the other two men.
As he did, I stepped to the edge of the roof and peered over the low concrete wall into the central plaza below.
The circumstances had certainly changed.
Below me stood several large trucks idling as men loaded cases of what I could only assume to be weapons into the vehicles. I signaled to Mike. There were likely close to forty heavily armed men in the plaza.
Over the next several minutes, the remaining four members of our team reached the rendezvous point.
I turned and walked to the center of the rooftop, where the men awaited instruction.
My voice was a whisper. "There are approximately forty heavily armed enemy combatants in the plaza below. They seem to be loading most, if not all of the weapons stored at this facility into trucks. They are a force of at least five times our strength. We have two options: we can head to the extraction point, or engage."
It was Martinez that was the first to speak, shaking his head in the darkness. "If we leave, those weapons will be used to kill American soldiers. We came here to do a mission. I for one want to see it done."
The Chief grunted.
I nodded, scanning the semicircle of crouched Navy SEALs that surrounded me before smiling slightly.
"Well, gentlemen let's get to work." I said.
I mapped out a quick and simple strategy that would allow us to engage a force much larger than our own.
It was a variation of a simple tactic that special operations forces had used for years in similar circumstances; split your force into small, mobile units, strike quickly and with maximum devastation, cut off the ability of the enemy to retreat, and move quickly between fall back ambush positions.
It was classic guerilla warfare stuff and the men all nodded in response as the Chief split them into teams once more.
"You heard the LT. Fall out."
The Chief and I would remain on the roof of the mosque, while the other men scattered throughout the facility in teams of two.
We stepped to the low abutment of the concrete roof, where the Chief and I crouched and loaded the rocket launchers affixed to our M4 carbines. We'd take out the first and third trucks, trapping the men below. That would be the signal for the rest of our team to engage.
At least, that was the plan.
Chapter 4:
I don't know how they knew where we were.
But they did.
The Chief and I barely escaped the low concrete abutment than ringed the mosque's rooftop as a rocket propelled grenade sailed past us and into the concrete building and sent a shower of concrete and steel raining down upon us.
"Engage." I said as calmly as possible into the radio as the Chief and I almost simultaneously fired the grenade launchers attached to the muzzles of our M4 carbines into the compound, destroying both the lead and trailing trucks.
The resulting explosion was devastating.
The grenades must have detonated whatever explosives and ammunition had been loaded into the trucks. The blast sent a concussion through the entire compound and left smoldering heaps of twisted metal aflame in the center of the compound.
Peering from the rooftop, I could see the small pockets of resistance and hear the successive concussions of small arms fire that indicated our two man guerilla SEAL teams moving about the compound.
Unfortunately, most of these small teams had not made it into position before the enemy had engaged. They were still on the move, darting for whatever cover they could as the enemy did the same.
The enemy forces moved much more judiciously and with a great deal more precision and leadership than I'd ever seen in resistance fighters. The men were well trained. Coordinated.
I crouched behind the low concrete abutment.
The reports were coming in.
We'd sustained two casualties so far. My eight man team was scattered throughout the compound. All stations reported engaging a large and highly trained enemy force.
"Roger. Fall back to our previous position," I said, hoping that the roof of the mosque would offer us at least the tactical advantage of elevation as we engaged the superior force.
"Chief and I will cover the retreat through the courtyard. Move out." The radio crackled to silence.
I nodded to Chief Jones and we both went to work, our weapons sweeping carefully through the compound, the burning trucks offering all the lighting we needed to pick off what enemy forces dared to venture into the open.
My men trickled in.
Two were carried on stretchers. Petty Officer Turner, our demolition expert. And Petty Officer Stone, our newest member.
"What's the status of the wounded?" I asked Martinez, our field medic.
"Turner is dead, sir. Stone is unconscious. He took the brunt of that concussion when the two trucks exploded."
"OK. Let's call for the MEDEVAC helicopter and tactical air support. I'd say our efforts at stealth are no longer required."
I turned to the remaining five ambulatory members of our Team. "Make that courtyard a killing field."
The men went to work. For the next hour not a man moved from cover in the courtyard below without falling dead to the dusty pavement.
But it couldn't last.
The force below began to advance on our position, RPGs firing from the rooftops and darkened windows around us as sniper fire echoed from the shadows.
Martinez took a bullet to the throat. There was no saving him.
The Chief was next. A round ricocheted into his upper thigh and he went down, leaning his broad back against the crumbling concrete of the low barrier around the rooftop. I knelt beside him.
The round had hit an artery.
"Shit." I said.
I removed my belt and instructed Mike to tie a tourniquet.
We needed air support immediately.
I collapsed heavily against the low concrete wall that separated our team from the sustained small arms fire from the compound below.
Between the ricochets of gunfire from the remaining two ambulatory team members, I spoke into the transmitter of my satellite radio.
"Position as follows." I stated, a strange calm in my voice. "North 34–49.122, East 69–47.244; request immediate close air support.
I coughed. The air was tinged with the odor of blood still seeping from the Chief's wound. A haze of cordite, smoke and death hung in the dry mountain air as I leaned back and shook my head.
"Cease fire!" I called. "Take cover."
We crouched low against what remained of the crumbling waist high wall of the mosque's roof. Our breathing was still as the F/A 18 pilots read back our position over the satellite radio.
"Trident Six," Read back the aviator after confirming the coordinates. "Inbound at this time."
As always, the sound of rapidly approaching combat aircraft brought most of the sustained enemy small arms fire to a halt. As we lay on the dusty and blood soaked concrete, the sound of the F/A 18 fighter jets became louder, until a deafening explosion rendered the world dark.
Chapter 5: