Rules of Betrayal

36

Firebase Persuader was located at the head of a narrow mountain valley in the northern Afghan province of Korengal, five kilometers as the crow flies from the Pakistani border. The firebase was home to fifteen United States Marines, the members of Special Operations Team Alpha, Third Battalion, First Marines. The firebase’s footprint ran twenty meters by thirty and was surrounded by a waist-high HESCO wall, the successor to sandbags, and a three-meter-tall fence topped with coils of razor wire.

For four months, Special Operations Team Alpha had combed the valleys that ran like a witch’s fingers through the mountains. They had set up ambushes and constructed hides and humped up and down more hills than Sisyphus. Their mission was simple: interdict the flow of weapons and materiel from the ungoverned tribal regions of neighboring Pakistan and stop the traffic of foreign fighters slipping across the border to join their Taliban brethren. There had been some successes and some defeats. They’d lost two of their own, but they’d killed a hundred times that number. It was a painful trade-off, but no one would argue it wasn’t fair. In the war, Special Operations Team Alpha was a single barb in the country’s defensive perimeter. But it was a sharp barb.

Captain Kyle Crockett heard the flutter of the helicopters before he could see them. It was dusk and a purple haze hung in the air, obscuring the view down the valley leading from the northern plain. In a war zone, helicopters always flew in pairs. If one was shot down, the other was there to ferry the survivors, if there were any, and to provide cover for their rescue. Grabbing his rifle and his ruck, he left the CP and crossed the muddy ground to his men. The team going out this evening numbered twelve in all. They were well trained, disciplined, and fit. Under fire they kept their cool, and when called upon, they could be as vicious as a pack of wolves.

The team was dressed in winter gray camouflage utilities with anoraks covering their Kevlar vests. Ten of the men carried the standard-issue M4 automatic rifle, a look-alike of its predecessor, the M16, along with ten clips of ammunition, a total of 270 bullets per man. Four had mounted M203 grenade launchers under the barrel of their weapons, and two had the more accurate M79 launcher. The eleventh man was a sniper, who carried an M40 rifle, essentially a souped-up Remington 700. The twelfth was the team gunner, who carried the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, a heavy machine gun capable of laying down 2,500 rounds of ammo a minute. Tonight’s fighting would be done with machine guns set to full auto.

The radio crackled and the helicopter told Crockett to clear the LZ. “Landing in two minutes.”

“Oscar Mike,” called Crockett to his men. On the move. “Two minutes to deploy.”

The Marines threw their rucksacks on their backs and headed down the hill to the LZ.

The Chinooks barreled through the valley and landed, one after the other. The crew chiefs jumped to the ground and waved the Marines aboard.

Crockett drew his men close for a final word.

“We can expect some fight from these guys,” he shouted, straining to be heard above the rotors. “Once we engage, you are to shoot to kill. These are enemy combatants. We don’t have any room for prisoners on the ride back. Are we good?”

“Hoo-yah,” shouted the Marines as one.

“All right then,” said Crockett. “Let’s go get us some.”