Seal team bravo, p.1
SEAL Team Bravo, page 1
SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS
SPECIAL OPERATIONS
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2016 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS – BROKEN ARROW
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2016 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
Prologue
Two days before Christmas, and they were on their way home. For Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, he’d come to a decision. Enough. He wanted out. He gave no inclination of his plans to the man sitting next to him on the aircraft as they chatted. Master Chief Will Bryce was one happy dude.
Why ruin the moment?
“Boss, for a while I thought we weren’t gonna make it back. Whoever decided to concertina the schedule deserves a medal. This is one Christmas present I won’t forget.”
Nolan forced a smile. “I’ll second that medal recommendation. Home for the Christmas vacation, damn, but it feels good. Maybe we’ll have a peaceful few weeks. A pity the Muslims don’t celebrate the festival, it may take their minds off the brutality and killing. For a few days, at least.”
“We should mention it to the Mullahs,” Bryce suggested, “Make love, not war. Peace and goodwill to all men.”
“Merry Christmas to Mohammeds everywhere.”
He grimaced. “Santa Claus with an AK, that’s enough to give a man nightmares.” He yawned and adjusted the seat; “I’ll grab some shuteye before we land. Any more great ideas, don’t wake me until we’re on final approach.”
They were on the way back from a tough spell of Arctic Warfare exercises in the rugged Northwest of Alaska. Muscle-wrenching cross-country skiing, and simulated battle drills that taxed each man to the very limits of his strength, and beyond. The harsh, unyielding environment was a place where life and death were always at odds, with death often the victor.
U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, with Master Chief Will Bryce, and Petty Officers Vince Merano and John-Wesley Ryder, dozed in the coach class section of the Alaska Air Boeing 737-800. Despite the allure of the pretty cabin attendants, all they wanted was to switch flights and head south, homeward bound. A member of the cabin crew approached Nolan’s seat, but he was lost in thoughts of home, until he scented her perfume and looked up.
She’s pretty, real pretty. Maybe home can wait a few hours. She’s worth a short stopover in New York, should the opportunity arise!
“Can I get you anything, Sir?”
Her eyes twinkled. Nolan was no stranger to approaches from pretty girls. Some said he resembled a younger Clint Eastwood. Tall, slim, and with chiseled good looks. It was all crap. Although he accepted his dark, wavy hair and eyes the color of a pale blue sky could tempt a girl. Sometimes.
“I’m good. Thank you, Ma’am.”
A warm grin, “If you change your mind, press the call button, and I’ll be there. Anything you need…” Her eyes raked him. She wanted him to be in no doubt about what was on offer, “Just ask. And I mean, anything.”
Yep, it could warrant a stopover in New York, no question.
“I’ll do that.”
“Be sure you do.”
She went to the rear of the plane, trailing a cloud of erotic scent in her wake. The allure of the perfume receded, and he thought again. He had people in California who needed him, his kids, for one thing, his friends for another. California, blue and sunny skies even in winter, a change from the mist and fog-shrouded Alaskan peaks, and a welcome respite from the bleak chilling wastes of the frozen north. Home to San Diego, where the SEALs had their base at Coronado. San Diego; where men would return to the bosom of their families, those men who had families. He wasn’t one of them.
Service in the Navy SEALs was not a recipe for stability. The Lieutenant was divorced, with two kids who lived outside Sacramento. Vince Merano, the sniper, was also divorced. John-Wesley Ryder, the son of a fire-breathing fundamentalist New Orleans preacher, was single. Which meant Will Bryce, Nolan’s number two, was the only member of his fireteam with a normal family life. And that was under threat. Before they boarded the aircraft, he’d hinted his long-time marriage was heading for the rocks. She was tired of the constant waiting for her husband to come home, and her patience had run out. Broken marriages were the price men paid to protect America from those who would destroy it.
Nolan thought about his own kids, whether he’d get to see them during the vacation. He’d tried to make contact with their grandparents, who looked after them after the death of his wife, without success. The unit had left for Alaska, and there’d still been no reply when he called.
C’est la vie, as the French say. That’s life. Or is it c’est la guerre? That’s war.
He’d kept quiet over another problem these past few days, a leg injury, and so far he’d hidden it. He’d probably pulled a muscle during a grueling uphill climb, maybe even cracked a bone. He’d get if fixed up when he made it home, and after that, he’d some serious thinking to do; whether to hand in his commission.
He’d had more than enough. He didn’t need the pain of the frequent injuries. Didn't need the hassle of constant alerts to fly anywhere in the world, to drop into some squalid shithole and put his life on the line. He needed a life, his kids needed a father, and instead he wandered the world’s trouble spots, cursed to walk the Earth until the day he died. He needed a regular girlfriend, someone he could settle down with. As long as he remained a SEAL, it wasn’t going to happen.
He drifted into a doze, plagued with worries and indecision. His mind was still battling the snowy wastes of the Alaskan northwest. Nightmares of the lung searing, gut-churning uphill skiing they’d endured. Going to places no sane person would even consider, forcing tired and aching muscles to keep moving in temperatures colder than thirty below zero. Pushing into the teeth of freezing gales that threatened to toss a man all the way to the bottom of the slope he’d just climbed.
The engine that drove them was the knowledge they couldn’t go back, wouldn’t go back. Retreat and you’d have to do it all over again. They never went back. SEALs didn’t retreat. Each man had faced down every challenge and boarded the homeward flight victorious over the brutal elements. Battered, bruised, and bloody, but they'd triumphed where lesser men may have stumbled and shied away.
They had yet to cross the final hurdle. Climbing ice-sheeted glaciers, firing a few shots, and skiing downhill afterward was one thing. Under fire, when a real-life, spitting and snarling enemy was doing his utmost to kill you, was another.
He came awake in an instant. A chilling shout had intruded into his dream. A violent reminder of the Islamist insurgents he’d fought on so many fronts.
Allahu Akbar!
The crazed scream that preceded a suicidal attack; the mindless pig grunt of the deluded, maniac followers of Islam, intent on death and destruction in the name of their Prophet. His eyes opened in time to see two men walking through the center aisle, armed with short AK-47S assault rifles. Compact and deadly, the iconic banana-shaped magazines loaded with thirty 7.62mm rounds, more than enough to turn the cabin into a bloody slaughterhouse.
The SEALs' weapons were in the hold, out of reach, which meant they’d have to face two hate-spitting maniacs unarmed. So be it. He tensed, knowing the other three SEALs would also be ready. The older terrorist, a man in his mid-20s, reached the cockpit door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Incredibly, the flight crew had failed to lock it, a criminal failure in the wake of the 911 attacks.
The remaining hostile, who looked to be about eighteen years of age, walked along the aisle. He was screaming threats and shaking his assault rifle at the infidel passengers to make a point. As if one needed to be made. It was normal to pay an armed Arab hijacker serious attention. The language was Arabic, but the meaning was clear. He also carried a knife, a curved dagger tucked into his belt.
Two shots rang out from the cockpit, the aircraft lurched, and not until a full half minute later did it return to level flight. Nolan guessed the terrorist had shot the flight crew and fumbled the switchover to autopilot. He glanced up the aisle, but the second man wasn’t near enough for him to lunge at him. He had to wait. A moment later, the cabin speaker came to life.
"We have taken over this aircraft in the name of the Islamic State. You will remain in your seats. My comrade will kill anyone who moves. If you keep calm, we will continue the flight to New York. If anyone tries to interfere, we will crash the aircraft, and you will all die."
Bullshit. Best guess they’re on their way to yet another spectacular and murderous attack on the Big Apple!
He glanced around the cabin and caught the eye of Will Bryce. The Master Chief gave a fractional nod. He was ready. Will signaled to Vince Merano they were about to move, and N olan caught the eye of John-Wesley. The half-crazed Louisianan stared back at him without expression. His sallow, killing face was white and vicious. He was ready, waiting to taste the blood of an enemy. Islamic blood.
Nolan prepared to make the leap as the younger terrorist approached, but John-Wesley got there first. As the man was about to turn and walk back toward the cockpit, Ryder was on him, moving like a striking cobra. Out of his seat, with one wiry arm wrapped around the man’s neck, the other snatching the dagger. As he choked off the man’s air supply, the dagger rose, and the curved blade drove into his heart. The body was limp, as he lowered it to the floor and took the AK from lifeless hands.
Nolan catapulted out of his seat and ran toward the cockpit. The three SEALs were right behind him. They moved without sound on the carpet, careful not to slip in the pooling blood from the dead terrorist. Bryce snatched a fire extinguisher from the bulkhead as they reached the cockpit door. They were ready. Ryder covered Nolan as he tried the handle and opened the door. At first, the Arab sitting in the seat that belonged to the aircraft captain didn’t notice them. He was hunched over the instrument panel, playing with the navigational system, as if searching for a positional fix.
The stupid bastard is lost. Maybe he pointed the aircraft to target Mecca. Shame.
A female passenger gave an anguished cry when she spotted the second terrorist through the open door. The Arab swung around, bringing up the barrel of the AK. It was a pivotal moment. Ryder couldn’t shoot for fear of puncturing the fuselage, and Nolan froze, raising his hands to show them empty. If the man opened fire, the bullet holes would result in immediate depressurization. The aircraft would go out of control, and it wouldn’t stop until it hit the ground. He tried to tackle him the gentle way.
“We can discuss this. There’s no need to kill everyone. Tell me what you want.”
The response was a sneer. “There is nothing to discuss. Tell your friend to drop the weapon, and I may let you live.”
Nolan plastered an easy, relaxed grin on his face. “Sure, sure, don’t get excited. Look, he’s putting it down.”
Like hell you’ll let us live. We’ll live long enough for you to collide with a major target somewhere inside New York City.
As Ryder put down the AK, the Arab noticed the body lying on the floor of the cabin. “What happened to Mahmoud? Did you kill him?” His voice was harsh, hard with suspicion.
Behind him, he heard John-Wesley’s murmur to him, “Your call, I’m ready, anytime.”
Nolan kept the grin in place. As if to say, ‘Hey, relax, buddy. We’re on your side.’ Until we kill you, motherfucker.
“Kill your pal? Absolutely not, we’re just regular guys, not soldiers. On vacation, Alaska is a wonderful country. Sir, why are you doing this? Tell us what we can do to help.” The sincere approach, sometimes it worked.
The man scowled and ignored the question. “How did he die?”
Nolan glanced at the body. Someone had tossed a coat over the gaping wound in the chest, perhaps a gesture of respect for the dead. Perhaps they didn’t want to frighten the kids. “He tripped and banged his head. The poor guy, he needs medical attention.”
“I will decide what he needs. Tell the men behind you to bring him to the cockpit. Stay back, or I shoot.”
“No sweat, take it easy, pal.” He turned around to speak to his men. “You guys, help the injured man to the cockpit. Let’s see what we can do for him.”
Ryder had slid out of sight. Will and Vince retreated along the aisle and picked up the body with great care. Their performance was impressive; it looked like they were handling a genuine casualty. They advanced toward the cockpit, and the stage was set for the SEALs to take out the Arab. The trick was to prevent the assault rifle firing. Everything else was SOP, standard operating procedure, or death, a long, mind-numbing spiral of descent to the ground below. The key was Ryder. They needed to cover his attack, so he could kill the Arab before he destroyed the plane with a long burst from the assault rifle.
They came to the cockpit door with the body, holding the coat over the wound. The terrorist gestured with his rifle as they moved to enter the cockpit.
“Stop! Put him down and return to your seats.”
They glanced at Nolan, shrugged, moved back two paces, and waited. He tensed. The moment was coming.
“Tell me what is wrong with him!”
He knelt, touched his neck, pretended to listen to his breathing, and climbed back to his feet. “He sounds bad. His breathing is very faint. Take a look.”
A suspicious glance, “Pull him nearer so I can check. Be careful, or I will shoot.”
He held his hands out, palms upward. “No sweat, I won’t do anything.”
He dragged the body into the cockpit to within a meter of the terrorist and stopped. “Here, take a look.”
“Stand back!”
He moved back a half pace and tensed ready to jump. It didn’t happen. The Boeing chose that moment to hit a patch of turbulence, and the nose lurched, twisted, and began a sharp descent. The autopilot adjusted to regain control, but it was too slow. Nolan wasn’t slow. He leapt, grabbed for the AK, and wrenched it from the man’s hands. The Arab snarled, and instead of grappling with him, swung back to the controls. A pistol had appeared in his hand, but instead of using it shoot his opponent, he fired three rounds into the panel. The Boeing lurched over to port. The starboard wing went up and began to push the airliner into a spin.
Nolan leapt at him and tried to wrestle the gun away. First, he jammed his finger into the trigger guard to stop a wild shot drilling through the thin aluminum skin of the fuselage. The integrity of the metal was their sole protection from a catastrophic encounter with the icy cold, thin air outside. He used his free hand to slam a knife strike into the man’s throat, but the Arab twisted at the last moment and avoided the worst of the blow. He hammered at Nolan’s head, hard enough to cause him to see stars as the repeated blows slammed into him.
He took the punishment. There was no choice. The 737 yawed further into the spin, and they were running out of time to correct. Yet if he let go of the gun, a single bullet would send them to eternity. He held on fast and felt himself starting to lose consciousness from the blows. The beating ceased when Ryder leapt at the terrorist, like a wolf pouncing on its prey. The man stopped and turned to face the new threat. Nolan shook him off and lunged for the controls as John-Wesley hacked down with the knife. He cut across the Arab’s hand, and the blade of the dagger sliced across the tendons. The gun fell to the floor, but as he stabbed again, his opponent snatched out his own dagger and began to fight back.
He left them to it and untangled himself from the fight to reach the controls. The Arab ignored John-Wesley for a second and aimed a kick at him, but he avoided it. Ryder came back at the terrorist, and the two men were engaged in a swirling battle of razor- edged blades.
For the terrorist, victory would mean he’d achieved mass murder. For Ryder, victory would entail one less Islamist to poison the world with their toxic screech of ‘Allahu Akbar.’ As they fought, Nolan jumped into the seat and gripped the control yoke. Nothing. He put his feet on the rudder pedals and heaved. The Boeing began to respond, but it was too slow. The dive slowed, but the spin carried on increasing its momentum. The engines were still throttled back for cruising speed, and he slammed the levers all the way to the stops to gun the engines up to full power.
The turbofans screamed their powerful wail. Behind him, John-Wesley engaged the Arab in a cruel contest to the death. The wiry Louisianan was almost without peers in the world of knife fighting, but this time, he’d met his match. Even with one hand dripping blood, the terrorist fought a vicious battle inside the close confines of the cockpit. If Nolan had been able to grab the gun, he could have put a bullet in the Arab’s brain. But the weapon had slid under the co-pilot’s seat, where it rested against the bodies of the pilots. He didn’t have the time to snatch it up. He had his work cut out battling to bring the plunging aircraft back under control.
There was a technique for pulling out of a spin, although it wasn’t guaranteed to ease the passengers’ panic. The maneuver required the pilot to put the nose into a steep dive, go to full throttle, and put on enough airspeed to be able to snap out of the vicious dive and put the aircraft back on an even keel. That was the theory. Although it wasn’t clear how many pilots had tried it and failed. They didn’t come back to tell the tale. The engines screamed their fury, and the slipstream was a constant, loud roar outside the windows as the Boeing plunged to its doom.
