“We’re waiting for the drone. Stand by.”
Crocker understood their frustration. He and his men liked to strike fast and extract. Cooling their heels in enemy territory only invited trouble.
He hoped that once they got the go-ahead, they could overwhelm the compound quickly and finish the job. First, a big explosion along the back wall, then Akil would run forward and attach C5 to the front gate. Blow it in. Then they’d rush in, taking preplanned routes and firing positions. Should the terrorists show themselves in any of the compound windows, Cal would pick them off.
Once the mullah was down, Mancini and Ritchie could cover their retreat to the helicopter extraction point, which was approximately half a mile behind them.
His team was also prepared for other contingencies, should they occur.
Approximately eight feet ahead and three feet to his right, Cal was completing the setup of the MK11 Mod 0 sniper weapons system, which consisted of an MK11 precision semiautomatic rifle, twenty-round magazine box, QD scope rings, Leupold Vari-X Mil-Dot riflescope, Harris swivel-base bipod on a Knights mount, and QD sound suppressor. The weapon fired a 7.62 NATO round with a muzzle velocity of 2,951.5 feet per second and an effective range of 1,500 yards.
Cal-who looked Polynesian, but was a mixture of Japanese, German, and Irish-carefully adjusted the Leupold scope to factor in the wind blowing in from the southeast. Four clicks moved the point of impact one inch at approximately one hundred yards.
Crocker had relied on Cal before in similar circumstances and knew him to be a deadly shot. He was also an avid conspiracy theorist, hunter, and Texas hold ’em enthusiast in his spare time. A somewhat odd but friendly fellow who claimed to have won over half a million dollars playing poker. Unmarried, unattached. Almost never spoke about his personal life. His eyes and mouth upturned in a seemingly perpetual smile.
Having adjusted his weapon, Cal turned and flashed a thumbs-up.
“See anything?” Crocker asked.
“Got one of the camel jockeys in my crosshairs through the upstairs window. Can I take the shot?”
“Any minute now.”
“I’m ready. More than ready.”
“Hold on.”
“I’ll make this easy. Pop. Pop. One dead mullah. We go home, listen to some music.”
“Negative, Cal. We’re waiting for the drone.”
Crocker glanced at his watch. More than ten minutes had passed since the last time he’d looked. He crouched behind a car-sized rock listening for the hum of an approaching drone, but all he heard was the low whistle of the wind over the mostly barren hills and goats braying in the distance.
He turned to Davis and asked, “What the fuck is taking so long?”
“Apparently the Predator got lost.”
“What?”
“The Predator got lost.”
“How does a drone get lost?”
“Some doofus entered the wrong coordinates into the computer.”
“Fuck that.”
“Human error dinks us one more time.”
Crocker started to think about all the SEALs he knew who had lost their lives because of bad intelligence or some careless screwup-a helicopter full of them in southern Afghanistan, at least half a dozen outside of Fallujah, Iraq. He stopped.
Akil, the tall, barrel-chested Egyptian American maps and logistics expert, leaned in and said, “I think we ought to set off the explosions now.”
Crocker wanted to bark Don’t think, just follow instructions. But he was a better, more restrained leader than that. He valued and welcomed the input of his men. Six disciplined, combat-tested brains were better than one.
He said, “First, we’ll find out if the drone can see through the windows up front using its infrared camera. Apparently it’s also equipped with some new camera gizmo that can deploy inside buildings.”
“Sweet.”
“But don’t ask me how it works.”
“I won’t. You still haven’t figured out how to change the oil in your car.”
Akil was referring to a recent mishap Crocker had had at home, in which he had failed to fully tighten a gasket after an oil change on his wife’s Subaru Outback, which caused her engine to lock up on the highway.
Again he heard Ritchie’s voice through his earphones. “Tango two-five here. Looks like we got something moving in from the southwest.”
Crocker’s calves and knees were starting to ache. “What?”
“Appears to be a vehicle.”
“Only one?”
“I’m gonna say one, yes.”
“What do you see, exactly?”
“Two headlights approaching, slowly winding down out of the hills to our right, your left. Direction northwest.”
“Roger, Tango. Heads down. Weapons ready.”
“Roger and out.”
He turned to Davis manning the radio and said, “Tell HQ we’ve got a vehicle approaching.”
“Yes, sir.”
From somewhere in the hills beyond the compound, he heard an engine. Then the grind of tires on a dirt road. Saw what looked like a light-colored extended-cab pickup swing into the half light.
Crocker readied his MP5, then spoke into his headset: “Tango two-five. Report a white truck. Looks to be at least two individuals inside. Approaching the compound.”
“Correct that. I see three, sir. Two in the cab. One in back.”
“Three, then.”
“Roger.”
Crocker watched the gate to the compound open and a bearded man wearing a black turban wave the battered Toyota pickup in. He made out a man with a long beard sitting in back with an AK-47 held between his knees.
He saw Cal to his right, peering through the scope of the MK11 Mod 0 sniper weapons system, ready to take a shot. Felt a rush of excitement.
God, he wanted to give the order now. Now was the time to attack-while the gate was open. But discipline held him back.
He heard Davis’s urgent voice to his right. “Boss. Boss?”
“What? You spot the Predator?”
“No, headquarters says abort.”
“Abort, now?” He thought it had to be a joke.
“Abort. That’s correct.”
“What do they mean, abort? Tell ’em we’ve got the terrorists in our sights.”
“I did already. They want us to pull back to the extraction site.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Feeling like the wind had been kicked out of him, he asked, “Why?”
“No reason given. It’s a simple abort.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Crocker and his team had strapped themselves onto the benches of a Black Hawk helicopter and were cradling their weapons as it lifted off the desert ground.
Ritchie, his dark eyes blazing, sat to Crocker’s right.
“Boss?”
“Yeah.” Shouting over the helo’s engines.
“What just happened?”
“Beats the shit out of me.”
“Were we at the wrong compound?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“SOS, huh, boss?” Meaning same old shit.
“Yeah, SOS.”
“Crazy-ass way to fight a war.”
This wasn’t the first time this had happened. They’d spent the last five weeks on the Arabian Peninsula training, collecting intel, practicing for different ops, then being told to abort at the last minute. Adding to their annoyance was the fact that they missed their families and needed a break from the 24/7 pressure of being deployed.
Davis’s wife had a young baby and was expecting another. Ritchie’s new girlfriend was threatening to start dating other men if he didn’t return home soon. Crocker’s wife wanted some relief in dealing with his daughter, her stepdaughter, who had been living with them for a year. Mancini’s wife was looking after his younger, wheelchair-bound brother, who was suffering through the final stages of pancreatic cancer and about to die. Akil’s Egyptian-born father’s jewelry repair business was losing money.
Every one of them had myriad problems and concerns outside their jobs.
As Crocker unbuckled his helmet the copilot, in a camouflage flight suit and helmet, walked over and tapped him on the shoulder.