SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(7)
Crocker helped one of the marines to his feet. He had several long splinters of wood stuck in his face, which made him look like a character from a slasher movie. “You know where you are, son?” Crocker asked.
“Does it matter?” the marine grunted back. He retrieved his weapon, returned to his position, and resumed firing.
The second marine was sitting up and shaking his head. He asked no one in particular, “Don’t these people ever fucking stop?” An army medic knelt beside him and gave him water.
“The weather’s bad, chief,” Battier said. “Not looking good at all. Jalalabad is saying another four hours minimum before they can launch a single drone. Six, seven maybe before a bird can make it up here. Four more hours, we’ll all be dead.”
Crocker grabbed the front of his camouflage jacket. “Don’t talk like that. You hear me?”
“Chief?”
Technically the captain outranked him. In spite of that Crocker growled, “Man up, Captain. Your men are counting on you.”
“Yes.”
Crocker motioned to Akil to join them. Then, nodding toward Weed, who continued talking into the radio, he asked, “Who’s he talking to?”
Akil listened and answered, “He’s speaking in some strange local dialect, boss. I don’t know.”
“Any idea what he’s saying?”
Crocker imagined for a moment that he heard the blades of an approaching helicopter, but it was the pop-pop-pop of one of the big guns.
“I think he’s talking about us,” Akil answered. “You know, the arrival of seven more Americans.”
Crocker nodded, then turned to Battier and said, “My men and I are going down below to relieve Stations C and D. I’m counting on you to keep order up here. Concentrate your fire on the enemy attacking C and D.”
Battier said, “Okay, chief. But how are you planning to get there?”
“The fastest way possible,” Crocker responded, pulling on his pack and grabbing his HK416.
Battier said, “Jonesy’s our best climber. He’ll show you. Jonesy, yo!”
A tall African American kid with a shaved head stopped firing his MK19 automatic grenade launcher, walked over, and removed the purple plastic plugs from his ears. “What’s up, Captain?”
“I need you to take Chief Crocker and his men down the chute to Station C.”
“The chute, for sure. You bad boys ready?”
“Hell, yes!”
The SEALs reentered the wet and bitter cold weather. Snow continued to blow in all directions. Blasts and automatic arms fire echoed from the valley below.
“Follow me,” Jonesy said, walking with an M27 resting on his shoulder as if he was taking a stroll in the woods.
“I like this guy,” Akil commented to Crocker, who was thinking ahead, trying to cobble a plan together.
Jonesy spoke as he walked. “Mofos musta been planning this assault for some time, waiting for the first big winter storm. The major, he thought he’d been building up good relations with the elders in the village. All the time, they been aiding the Taliban. Now he’s dead. Mofos must have been assembling in that damn village, man, storing weapons and supplies, ’cause that’s where they attacked us from.”
Beyond two large pine trees they arrived at the edge of the cliff and a narrow gully in the rock. In warmer weather, it probably carried water, Crocker thought. He couldn’t see where the natural gully ended; fog and snow had reduced visibility to less than three yards.
“How far does it descend?” he asked Jonesy.
The skinny soldier hitched up his camouflage pants and answered, “Over a hundred yards. Most of the way down to Station C.”
Jonesy shook the snow off a plastic cover, lifted it off, then picked up a large coil of rope, which he heaved into the gully. The end of it was tied to a U-shaped pipe that had been cemented into the rock.
“You guys are SEALs, right?” he asked. “Then this kinda shit is probably like pissing in a pot to you. You want me to lead the way?”
“Sure,” Crocker answered. “We’ll be right behind you.”
As he pulled on a pair of worn leather gloves, Jonesy said, “Somebody’s gotta stay behind and pull this sucker up so the Tal-i-bads can’t use it.”
Crocker turned to Dog and barked, “You’re not gonna be able to do this with your shoulder, so on my signal, pull up the rope.”
“Yes, chief.”
Jonesy spit into his gloves, made sure the M27 was strapped securely across his back and shoulder, grabbed the rope, and started to shimmy down. Crocker went second, followed by Akil, Davis, Ritchie, Cal, and Yale.
Twelve feet down they entered a cloud of mist so thick Crocker couldn’t see Jonesy in front of him. All he heard was the hiss of snow and dull percussions in the distance. The scene reminded him of dreams he’d had as a kid, and similarly thrilling experiences skydiving through clouds. There was something exhilarating about not knowing what was coming next.