A wall of steel began raining down upon them from the AC-130 as they focused their fire on the departing aircraft. Surely they would come back for their fallen comrade, Rahman thought.
He looked to his right and saw four of his men, dressed in white parkas designed to conceal them in the snow. Their sentries had heard the loud chopping of the twin bladed Chinooks from miles away and had radioed in the direction and probable landing zones. Rahman knew another of the helicopters was on the way as he peered through his night-vision goggles.
“One hostage is what we need,” Rahman said to his second in command, Hoxha, a fighter from the Balkans.
Hoxha nodded and gathered three of his men. The snow was driving down on them now and Rahman heard the second aircraft inbound. They had damaged but not destroyed the first and so the second was coming in to rescue the stranded fighter.
“Go now,” Rahman ordered, his voice struggling to rise above the din of the 105mm artillery rounds that were exploding 100 meters to their front. They were relatively protected in the trench they had dug, but Rahman knew that the thermal radar on the AC-130 and just about every other American aircraft could see the heat from their body mass, which was impossible to disguise in the frigid temperatures. He could only hope for some timid commanders who were hesitant to inflict collateral damage until they had positive identification of hostile intent. Even though they had just put a rocket through the first aircraft, he had been previously amazed at the Americans’ restraint in such situations. He had presumed they would search for women and children before returning fire and Rahman had obliged. He had ten mannequins in blue burqas huddled around a small fire about fifty meters to their rear near the cave complex. Not a complicated deception scheme, but sometimes a little bit was all it took. And for the moment, the American fire was focusing on separating them from the wounded soldier, not on killing them.
Hoxha looked at Rahman, stared at the virtual wall of steel, and nodded again. He muttered something in a Balkan language that Rahman did not understand.
Hoxha and his men followed the trench to the steep southern edge of the ridge, popped out on the perimeter of the AC-130 fire and knelt. Rahman watched as Hoxha patted a tall man, who opened his vest, which Rahman knew was a suicide bomber vest full of C4 explosives and other maiming detritus. He pointed at the inbound helicopter then quickly turned to another of his team and pointed at the isolated soldier. Hoxha then grabbed the third member of his team and pointed at the ground.
Rahman understood the plan. The suicide bomber was going to hug the aircraft. The second man was going to secure the hostage and Hoxha and his wingman were going to lay down a base of fire. Good plan. Rahman liked these Balkan fighters. They were tough and smart.
Rahman watched the action unfold and thought to himself, if we can capture one American, then we can unlock the rest of the plan.
“Tiger six, this is Raider six, give me a status, over.” Zach Garrett’s calm voice hid the anxiety and tension he felt regarding the last spot report he had received. “I say again, send spot report, over.”
The MH-47 in which he and his team rode chopped against the thin air in the highland range. Garrett stared out of the small circular porthole, barely able to discern the jagged mountain peaks against the first wisps of what sailors call “before morning nautical twilight,” or BMNT — that first moment of a new day when things aren’t completely black, but close to it. A ball of fear burned in his stomach. He was not afraid for himself, rather for the unknown fate of Commander Montrose and his team. Garrett had not lost a single man to the fight after five months in Afghanistan. Now was not the time to start, he thought to himself. He looked over at his men, all staring at him, waiting for the word. He had written on a small piece of Plexiglas with a grease penciclass="underline" Landing Zone Hot, then passed it around to his team members. They understood.
The crew chief got Garrett’s attention by waving a Nomex-gloved hand in his face. “Two minutes, sir!”
Garrett pressed a button on the small black switch connected by a cable to his headset. “Rampage one, this is Warrior six. What do you see?”
Rampage was the AC-130 gunship patrolling in the sky directly above the landing zone. The aircraft could deliver deadly accurate fire with its 105mm cannon and high-tech guidance systems. Its infrared and thermal sighting apparatus allowed the pilots to magnify and zoom in close enough to read a name tag from four thousand feet above ground level.
“This is Rampage one. We’ve got one MH-47 returning fire on the landing zone. We are suppressing an enemy element two hundred meters to the west.”
“Roger, has the team secured the landing zone? Over.”
Garrett waited for the response and then heard a short beep, followed by the static of the radio.
“Negative. Two operators have left the aircraft. Wait a second…”
This was painful. He knew they were two minutes out, less than that by now, and wanted to know whether to abort the mission. He needed to see the action. His fist clenched around the push-talk button of his headset.
“We’ve got one man down on the ground and another lying on the ramp, shot. The aircraft is taking off. Don’t go! Don’t leave him! Shoot right there, right there! They’re coming after him.”
Garrett listened as the AC-130 pilot talked both to him and his own crew, expressing operational precision and human emotion all wrapped together. Sometimes it was impossible to keep the two from colliding.
The crew chief came over to Garrett holding up his thumb and forefinger barely spread apart. “Thirty seconds, sir!”
Garrett acknowledged with a nod then got back to the AC-130. “Status, over.”
“We’ve got you inbound. Tiger six team is outbound — Oh shit! RPG just hit their back rotor. They’re going down!”
“Status of the LZ?” Garrett asked. He was focused. He zeroed in on the previous report of one man missing from the aircraft. He could still save the mission, especially if there was one man stranded on the landing zone.
“This is Rampage. We’ve got one friendly on the LZ. The enemy is trying to close on him fast. We’re pouring 105 onto the landing zone. Tiger six aircraft is hit, but still flying. Thermals show a smoke trail, but it is stable. Recommend you extract friendly combatant and abort.”
“Roger, continue to separate enemy from friendly. We will extract the friendly.”
Garrett switched a toggle on his headset and spoke to the pilot flying his aircraft.
“Pete—”
“We monitored the entire transmission, sir. We’ve got the friendly in sight. We’re landing now. We will take off once we have everyone on board.”
“Roger, thanks.” Garrett tore his headset off, pulled on his helmet and gathered his men on the back ramp of the aircraft as it lowered into the blinding snow billowing in the gaping ramp door like fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. They heard the dreadful and distinct metallic clink of bullets off the thin metal of the airframe.
“One man down on the LZ!” Garrett was screaming over the din of the rotors. “We grab him and get back on this aircraft! The other aircraft is hit and has departed! One man! Team one, you secure left side. Team two, you secure right side. Honeywell, you come with me to secure the friendly. Never leave a fallen comrade!”
Honeywell, the largest man on the team at six foot seven inches, ducked as they exited the ramp running into calf-deep snow. The twin rotors continued to create a snow blizzard, and soon Zach lost sight of everyone except Honeywell until they got outside of the blinding sphere of snow.