SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(12)

Davis said, “Message delivered, loud and clear, boss.”

Crocker pointed to the ladder. “Good. You’re next.”

Another minute had passed. He heard the Taliban hoot and cheer as they reached Station C. Thirty seconds later he made out the sound of footsteps approaching. Past the trees, he saw Yale and Akil lugging one of the big M2HG guns.

“Drop that mother. Leave it! Let’s go,” he shouted.

He helped Yale onto the ladder, then Akil, then started up himself, wondering how much weight the ladder could hold. He climbed and looked at his watch. Six more minutes until the charges went off!

The chain creaked and twisted with the weight, and visibility was bad. He continued blindly, the muscles in his calves, arms, and back burning. Three minutes. Two.

He clung tightly to the ladder and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, a huge ball of light lit up the sky, then he heard the explosion and felt the force push him forward into the rock wall, smashing his hands. He struggled to hold on.

The ladder bucked. Secondary explosions rocked the mountain. Something hit him hard in the upper back near his right shoulder. Good thing he was wearing Dragon Skin silicon carbide ceramic body armor under his uniform, otherwise whatever it was might have gone right through him.

Hot air churned around him. He heard screams from below. His lungs wanted oxygen but could find little in the mountain air. Feeling light-headed, and with debris raining down around him, he kept climbing as well as he could and somehow neared the top, where arms reached out and helped him up.

“Thanks.”

He sat on a rock, caught his breath, and checked to see if his shoulder was still working. It was. To his left he saw the barracks King and Wolf behind him. The snow continued to fall in a steady hiss in the otherwise quiet valley.

Davis handed him a bottle of water. “Boss, you okay?” he asked.

He nodded. “Everybody good? They all make it up?”

“Yeah.”

The sounds of combat were gone. “The enemy’s stopped firing,” he said, looking up at Davis.

“That’s correct. Ritchie thinks a good part of the land Stations C and D were sitting on slid down the hill.”

“No shit.”

“Talk to Ritchie.”

He did, as they climbed together up to Presley. Ritchie and Corporal Henne—the guardsman from Reading, Pennsylvania—explained how the charges they had strategically placed had opened enough fissures in the rock that it could no longer support the weight of the plateau, thus causing the whole damn thing to tumble down the mountain.

“Stations C and D, too?” Crocker asked.

“The whole kit and caboodle,” Henne answered. “Including the Taliban attackers.”

“Sweet.”



The first thing Crocker did when he reached Presley was grab ANA Major Jawid Shahar Mohammed and hold him at gunpoint while Davis disarmed him and Akil used tie-ties to secure his wrists behind his back.

Captain Battier, seeing what was going on, got in Crocker’s face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m detaining this man.”

“On whose authority?”

Crocker had to stop himself from punching Battier in the throat. He growled, “I strongly suspect that Major Mohammed was communicating with the enemy the whole time, right under your nose, Captain.”

“No way. Impossible!”

“I think you are a criminal!” Major Mohammed shouted.

“I really don’t care what either of you think,” Crocker explained. “When we return to Jalalabad, I’ll inform your CO, Captain. He’ll order an investigation. We’ll find out if I’m right.”

“Go to hell!” the Afghan shouted.

Next he called Mancini, who was still guarding the ridge above the post, and told him to climb down to Presley. Then he did a quick inventory of his men and their injuries. Aside from some minor scrapes, burns, bruises, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, they were all okay.

Jake slipped in and out of consciousness. Also, his blood pressure was low, his pulse rapid and weak—symptoms of neurogenic shock. Crocker administered a shot of dopamine to help elevate his blood pressure and ordered Phillips to continue keeping him warm and monitoring his IV.

He was halfway through his dinner of hot green tea, an energy bar, and a cup of noodles when he fell asleep. He dreamt he was alone in Station C, firing the GAU-17/A minigun at men in black turbans who kept charging from all directions.

In the morning when he awoke, the muscles in his arms and hands were clenched tight. His attention quickly shifted to the sun shining through intermittent clouds. By 0930 hours, medevac and relief helicopters had arrived. By noon he and his men were back at Jalalabad.