Undeclared War Read online

  “Shit,” Bear said. “He’s from Dearborn. That city has the largest Arab population outside of the Middle East. I didn’t exactly spend a whole lot of my life there. You even told me that he made you itch, Reaper when…”

  Bear stopped in midsentence as Reaper put up his left hand in a fist to signal that he had spotted something. No one spoke as each SEAL instantly snapped into sharp attention. The rain had stopped and the early evening air was clear. “I have lights moving to the east of the village,” Reaper said.

  Just past the crest of a rise, the Humvee eased quietly to a stop, facing partly downslope. All of the occupants of the vehicle could see the few moving lights to the east of the village a few hundred meters away.

  The third-generation light-amplifying tubes of the night-vision devices the SEALs were wearing showed everything in shades of green. The lights Reaper had seen were invisible to the naked eye, but were plain to see through the electronic tubes. The dimness of the lights suggested that they were probably screened in some way, like the red lens used on a military flashlight. That was not something a group of refugees would be using.

  The outskirts of the small village weren’t more than a few hundred meters away, starting at the foot of the hill the SEALs were stopped on. The schoolhouse was just a few meters farther on down the single village street. It was in the woods beyond the village, approaching the schoolhouse, that the scattered lights moved in closer.

  The kerosene lamps lit in the schoolhouse gave a soft golden glow to the light pouring out the few windows of the building. That light was magnified to a brilliant level in the night-vision devices. The drawback the devices had was that they robbed the users of natural night vision when they were taken off. The very new AN/PVS-14 NVDs eliminated that problem by being a monocular design. Only a single tube was placed in front of one of the operator’s eyes. The other eye just looked out into darkness. The effect was a little strange before you got used to it, but the extensive training the SEALs did to prepare for any of their missions made these men well practiced in using their equipment.

  “Bear, with me,” Reaper said, “Ward, get on the Mark 19, Martell, contact Paxtun and give him a sitrep.”

  Not another word was spoken, it didn’t have to be. Mike Martell turned to his radio to send the situation report that the unit was investigating a possible contact. Ed Ward secured the Humvee and reached up to unlock the hatch cover above and between the two front seats.

  As Ward was opening the half-moon-shaped hatch cover, Reaper and Bear pulled up the black balaclava hoods they had been wearing around their necks. Their faces and heads were now completely covered except for their eyes and the gleaming monocle of the AN/PVS-14s. Without a further word, the two SEALs opened their doors quietly and slipped into the moonless night.

  The hillside was wet and slick, but the two SEALs moved smoothly and quietly over the rocks and mud. Behind them, Ward stood up in the weapon platform mount on top of the Humvee. There, he pulled the cover off the Mark 19 40mm grenade launcher and removed the travel retaining pin to release the mount.

  The sixty-two-pound box of ammunition on the feed bracket of the weapon only held a single forty-eight-round belt of grenades. Even a big SEAL would be hard put to quickly manhandle a fresh box of ammunition that size into reload position. An accurate gunner wouldn’t waste ammunition—and Ward was a very accurate gunner. With two careful and quiet pulls on the charger handle, Ward prepared the big weapon to fire in support of his Teammates out in the darkness.

  Moving carefully from cover to cover, neither SEAL had a need to speak as they approached the village. Constant training had almost removed the need for words between them. The two men had worked together so long that each knew what the other would do in any situation. They were a shooter pair, and they had done this kind of target approach a hundred times in all kinds of terrain. Holding their M4 carbines out at the ready, the SEALs stealthily moved and froze in concealment to assess the situation.

  As they came closer to the village, the two SEALs could make out more and more detail through their night-vision devices. The village was made up of a number of cottagelike homes of white walls and tile roofs, the same as could be seen in thousands of European countrysides. The houses faced a central street, which the SEALs’ Humvee would have reached if it had continued on its way. At the far end of the village was the larger schoolhouse. The rubble of a small mosque was near the school, the house of worship having been destroyed by the Serbs and not yet rebuilt.

  Beyond the school were open fields interspersed with woods, and it was in those woods that the SEALs had seen the moving lights. But it was more than just their eyes that gave the two SEALs information about their surroundings.

  The rain had stopped, but the night was still wet. The musty, earthy smell of the rain covered a lot of the night’s odors, but Reaper could still pick up the sharp tang of wood smoke from some of the village’s chimneys. And there was the slightly sweetish stink of the decomposing grass and leaves that had been uncovered by the spring thaw. The bite of the still-cold night air dulled some of the SEALs’ sense of smell, but they could still notice odors well enough to file away the information.

  The one smell that was not consciously noticed by each SEAL, but would have been of immediate concern by its absence, was the smell of his partner. They knew each other’s smell in the dark. They had worked and trained that intensely together.

  Both SEALs had sharp hearing. The men heard the burring sound of the light wind as it pushed away the storm clouds. There was a slight rustle of cloth as each SEAL moved through the night, a slight rubbing of their Gore-Tex jackets or trousers against the hard nylon of their assault vests and body armor. In spite of this being planned as just an observation mission with no action expected, each of the SEALs was wearing a full loadout of weapons, equipment, and ammunition. The gear included an assault vest filled with ten loaded thirty-round magazines for their M4 carbines, a SIG P-226 pistol in a low-slung assault holster secured to the right thigh, three spare fifteen-round magazines to their pistols, and a knife. This was in addition to a first aid kit, signaling flare, Motorola MX-300R radio, throat mike and earpiece, and tactical Level IV B/C hard body armor that could stop a standard bullet from an AK-47 or M16.

  In spite of all of their equipment, the most valuable thing the SEALs had with them was their training and experience. There was no noise from their gear. Each piece of equipment had been examined, taped, and padded as necessary until nothing made any unintentional noise. The rustle of their clothing was so faint it couldn’t have been heard more than a few feet away. The loudest thing that the two SEALs could hear was their own breathing, but they knew that couldn’t be heard by anyone else around them—if there was anyone there.

  Both men quickly slipped past the schoolhouse and into the woods beyond. The question of who might be out there was partially answered by the sounds of metallic clicks and bangs as loose pieces of equipment and rifle slings tapped against each other in the darkness. There were probably armed men in the woods, not more than a few hundred meters away. Almost that same distance behind the SEALs were their Teammates at the Humvee.

  Suddenly from the dark came a sound that confirmed the SEALs suspicions, the sharp metallic clack of an AK-47’s safety being clicked into the firing position. A unique sound that was instantly recognizable to anyone who had heard it in serious circumstances. And both SEALs knew that the villagers were not armed.

  Taking cover behind a tree, Chief Reaper partially covered his mouth with his hand. Keying the throat mike to his MX-300R radio, Reaper whispered, “Smokestack Four this is Smokestack One. Contact, I say again, contact. We have an unknown number of hostiles in the woods to the east of the schoolhouse.”

  The response from Martell back at the Humvee astonished both Reaper and Bear who heard the answer over his own radio.

  “Smokestack One this is Smokestack Four, return to the ride. I repeat, return to the ride.”

  There was
no question but that Reaper and Bear would get back to the Humvee as quickly as they could, while still maintaining a silent movement. They slipped through the woods and village area like two shadows. Martell wouldn’t have called them back unless the need was serious. It was only a matter of minutes before the two SEALs were back inside the vehicle.

  “What’s the problem?” Reaper said not seeing anything out of the ordinary.

  “Chief,” Martell said, “it’s Engine One. Captain Paxtun said we are to immediately cease operations and return to base.”

  “What?” questioned Reaper. “Get me Paxtun on the box right now.”

  As Martell started calling out on the radio, Bear just looked at his chief and shrugged his shoulders. As Reaper was going to say something, Martell reached forward and handled him the microphone from the radio and clicked on the speaker.

  “Engine One, this is Smokestack One,” Reaper said as he pressed in the bar at the side of the microphone.

  “Smokestack One, this is Engine One,” Reaper and the rest of the SEALs in the Humvee heard. “Have you started back to the train?”

  “That’s a negative, Engine One,” Reaper said. “I don’t think you understand the situation here. We have hostiles closing in on friendlies. I suggest a full tactical response.”

  “Negative on that request Smokestack One,” the speaker replied. “I have put out a cease-action order on all operations in our area of responsibility effective 2000 hours today. You are to immediately proceed to the train. Restricted rules of engagement are in effect and you may not fire unless fired upon and in imminent danger.”

  “Sir,” Chief Reaper said as he began to lose his temper. “We have friendlies in danger from a hostile group of eight to ten…”

  “Stand down, Chief,” came out of the speaker. “You have a direct order to return to base and cease all actions immediately. There are no hostile forces known to be in the area.”

  “Sir,” Chief Reaper spoke angrily, “I’m looking at the hostiles! I wish to immediately refer this up the chain of command to headquarters in Tuzla on an Emergency Flash Priority.”

  “That is a negative, Reaper,” Captain Paxtun’s voice came over the speaker. Anger could now be heard in the officer’s voice. He must have been shaking with anger as Paxtun had just committed a serious breach of communications protocol by using the chief’s real name over the air. “There is an electrical storm over the Majevica mountain ridge that is breaking communications with higher command. You will immediately return to base or face charges under the…”

  Martell, observing Chief Reaper’s knuckles grow white as his hand clenched the microphone, suddenly reached over and twisted a dial on the face-plate of the radio, then he flipped a switch.

  “Sorry, Chief,” Martell said with a grin, “it must be all of that electrical interference. When those electrical storms hit the mountains, radio reception just goes to shit and…”

  Gunfire suddenly erupted to the east of the Humvee’s position. Immediately Martell stopped talking and everyone looked toward the schoolhouse. The sound of gunfire was slightly muffled, but there was no mistaking the deep stuttering boom of an AK-47 fired on full automatic. Between the shots could be heard the screams of the refugees. Whoever those troops were, they were attacking the schoolhouse and slaughtering the unarmed refugees inside.

  “Bear, with me,” Reaper said. “Martell, try to get command at Tuzla on the horn.”

  Before actions could be put to the chief’s words, there was the sound of glass breaking in the distance and a wail cried out as a small body was thrown from the schoolhouse. The cry of the little boy was cut short as the child struck the stony ground near the schoolhouse.

  The limp form of the child lay still. In the green glow of the night-vision devices, the pitiful body looked like little more than a discarded bundle of rags. Even at a distance, the child was so small he could not have been much older than Reaper’s own six-year-old son back in the States.

  A cold fury settled in on the occupants of the Humvee. Without a word being spoken, Reaper and Bear exited the vehicle and headed for the schoolhouse in a low, crouching run. In spite of their haste, the two SEALs would alternately stop as one covered the other’s advance. As the leading SEAL knelt in a crouch and covered with his weapon, the trailing SEAL would move forward and pass the other.

  The practiced leapfrogging movement was quick and efficient—eating up the meters between the Humvee and the far edge of the village where the schoolhouse was. The gunfire increased as the SEALs grew close, then suddenly tapered off. As they came close to the side of the schoolhouse, the SEALs passed the small, still form of the child who had been tossed out onto the rocks.

  There was no time to feel anything for the child, or even to stop and see if he was still alive. There were others in immediate danger inside the schoolhouse—if it wasn’t already too late to save them.

  Reaper did not feel rage. Even the anger he felt against the astonishing orders of his commanding officer had melted away with the need for sudden, precise and controlled action. Only a cool head would prevail in such a situation, and Reaper could be as cool and hard as old bone if the situation warranted. It was one of the reasons he had long ago received the nickname “Grim” Reaper.

  Other figures were slipping away into the woods as Reaper and Bear moved up to where they could see the door of the building. As a figure came out the door, Reaper could see that the man was wearing the same mottled, gray-and-brown camouflage uniform that so many of the mixed regular and irregular forces in the war-torn country used.

  On the man’s head was an odd thing, a flat round cloth hat with a rolled brim. It was a Pakol, the traditional Afghan hat. But it was the objects in the man’s hands that seized Reaper’s eye. In his right hand was an AK-47, held away to shield the man from the smoking-hot barrel. In his left hand was a child’s rag doll. The man was laughing and saying something in what sounded like Arabic to Reaper. Coming out of the well-lit schoolhouse, the man probably never even saw Reaper standing nearby.

  The gap-toothed smile on the raider’s face was enough to heat the SEAL’s cool resolve. And the weapon in his hand registered as a threat. Reaper didn’t even consciously think of his action as the muzzle of his shouldered M4 carbine settled on the center of the man’s chest. The short stutter of a three-round burst was quick justice for a single individual’s action of ethnic cleansing.

  Just to the right side of Reaper’s field of vision, he saw the orange-white flower of an AK-47’s muzzle blast bloom in the night. Before Reaper’s mind could do more than register the light, there was a smashing pain against his chest. A thundering blow knocked the big SEAL down to the ground. Multicolored lights danced in front of Reaper’s eyes as he tried to just draw in a breath. As he fell back, the rest of the rounds fired from the AK-47 passed over him.

  His hands tingled oddly as Reaper pulled up his M4 and fired back. Or at least he tried to fire back. When he squeezed the trigger, the M4 refused to fire. Without conscious thought, Reaper let go of the M4, which dropped to his chest, and he reached for his SIG P-226. In a smooth movement, his right hand grasped the pistol, his thumb releasing the restraining strap of the holster as his fingers closed around the rough, checkered finish of the plastic grips.

  As the bearded face of the man who shot him came up from the darkness, Reaper was already pulling his pistol up and thrusting it out. As he pulled the trigger and double-actioned the SIG, time seemed to change in its natural flow. As if in slow motion, Reaper could see his pistol come up even as the hammer was going back for the shot. The bearded man appeared to be moving very slowly as he started to point his rifle. There wasn’t much of a question that there wouldn’t be a second place finisher in this race. The winner would be the only one who lived.

  Reaper noted the thick, bushy black beard of the man who was trying to kill him. There were broad black eyebrows above eyes that were widely open. As the man opened his mouth, Reaper could see teeth stained from
years of neglect and tobacco use. Then the face dissolved in a mask of red as Reaper won the race and the SIG in his hand bucked and roared.

  With the immediate threat neutralized, the passage of time went back to its normal rate of flow. There was the sharp report of another M4 being fired as Bear took down one of the other armed men who had come to wreak havoc among the unarmed villagers. Then Reaper heard the slow knocking, spaced-out, thunk…thunk…thunk…of a Mark 19 being fired. It took a moment for the fist-sized 40mm grenades to travel from the muzzle of the weapon to the target. Just a second or two after the sound of firing rang out, the spaces between the trees bloomed with the flowers of high-explosive grenade detonations.

  Back at the Humvee, Ward fired the Mark 19 grenade launcher in a long burst, tracking the grenades so that they would explode in the woods beyond where his Teammates were fighting. The blasts would convince the raiders that rapidly going someplace else would be a very good idea.

  Thousands of ripping steel fragments from the exploding grenades slashed through the trees and brush of the woods. As the razor-sharp steel cleared the area, Reaper quickly picked himself up from the ground and shook off the effects of the blow to his chest. His M4 carbine, dangling across his chest on its sling, was not going to be of much help to him. Even without the night-vision device strapped to his head, Reaper would have seen the large dent and hole in the receiver where the weapon had stopped the first round from that AK-47.

  “Well, fuck me,” he said quietly to himself.

  His SIG pistol had served him well enough and would have to continue to do so. As Bear ran up to his chief, neither SEAL could see any sign of more activity on the part of the raiders. Whoever they had been, they had cut and run, leaving their dead behind. They didn’t have the stomach for a protracted fight when what they had thought would be a soft target had suddenly turned very hard.