Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Godfather

By Eric Meyer

Rafe Stoner is a tough, hard fighting, embittered former Navy SEAL. He makes a precarious living inside Afghanistan with a loss-making surplus machinery business. Although he earns his real money by other means. Stoner is a gun for hire, and business is brisk in the lawless country. Yet his life is going nowhere, and most everyone he was ever close to is dead, victims of the insurgent violence. He finds his comforts in booze and whores, and it is a life he increasingly despises. Until a miracle occurs.

His best friends, Greg and Faria Blum, invite him to be Godfather to their three children. Including the oldest, Ahmed Durani, a teenage boy to whom he owes a lot, including his life. At last, Stoner’s life if starting to turn around. Until Ahmed embarks for America, to attend college with a view to training to be a doctor. He arrives in Los Angeles, and disappears. Kidnapped, by person or persons unknown.

It is the start of a long and brutal hunt for Stoner and Greg Blum to find him and get him back. A hunt that takes him to Mexico, where they meet Carmen, Ahmed’s sultry Afghan-Mexican cousin. She helps them fight a vicious drug lord, and leave his empire a smoking ruin. Yet there is still no sign of Ahmed, and in desperation Stoner calls in every favor ever owed to him. It means a return to Afghanistan, more violence and more killing, before he gets a lead. His godson is held prisoner by one of the most vicious and powerful warlords in the country. A man he fought before, long ago, and lost. This time, he will win. He has to win. His promise to always take care of Ahmed is a vow a godfather must fulfill.

This is an incredible story of tough, violent men in a tough, violent land. Black-Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan - Godfather is the latest title by the bestselling author of many Special Ops novels. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo stories, the Raider series, Echo Six, and a number of Devil's Guard titles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Oct 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911092308

Eric Meyer

An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

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HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

GODFATHER

By Eric Meyer

Copyright 2016 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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.

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Prologue

Four years earlier

The hunt had been long and hard, one of the worst. Several times they almost lost the trail. It had started with an initial sighting by an unmanned, unarmed General Atomics MQ-1 Predator drone. The aircraft was flying surveillance over the fields of waving poppies, cash crops nestling in the harsh, rocky, and mysterious interior of Helmand Province, crops vital to the survival of the hardscrabble peasants who nurtured them. And to those wealthy and powerful men who took delivery of the product, and shipped it to eager buyers across the world, many of them in the United States.

The unseen watchers were patient, looking down through the lenses of the onboard cameras from thousands of kilometers away. Their bosses didn’t want to put mere growers behind bars. They were poverty stricken farmers, just making a few bucks growing the ‘golden crop,’ opium, both the salvation and the ruination of an entire country. They’d set their sights higher. They wanted the men at the top. So they waited for the farmers to bring in the harvest, and send the product on the next stage of its long journey to the West.

The bales of raw opium journeyed across the war-torn country, en route for processing at remote mountain laboratories, converted into the refined product, heroin. Another drone observed them load the wooden crates onto donkeys for the next stage of the voyage. The sturdy beasts of burden carried the crates across the rugged, mountainous border dividing Afghanistan from Pakistan. On arrival inside Pakistan, the donkeys were relieved of their burdens, and men relabeled the crates. They now read, ‘Medical Supplies - Urgent.’ They loaded the crates onto anonymous trucks for transport south, through the lawless heartlands of Pakistan. Until they reached the southwest of the country and halted at their destination, the teeming port city of Karachi.

Satellite surveillance observed the trucks unloading adjacent to a ship tied up in the harbor, and soon, a crane swung the cargo on board. On checking the ship’s manifest, they discovered a destination that didn’t raise a single eyebrow. A small harbor located outside Los Mochis. A small city on the shores of the Gulf of California, in the province of Sonora, Mexico, a province popular with both tourists and drug traffickers.

They offloaded the precious cargo onto trucks, making sure to split the loads to reduce the risk of losing everything in the event of a raid. Not all the Federales were corrupt. There was always a risk, no matter how slight, of bumping into a rare honest cop. The trucks departed, carrying most of the heroin on the start of its journey north. Aiming for the lucrative markets of North America, they’d cross the border at places like Tijuana, Nogales, or Ciudad Juarez; anonymous amongst the queues of commercial traffic that crossed into the United States each day.

Some of the product arrived in America by means of a different route, through the numerous tunnels that threaded underground between Mexico and the United States. An endless flood of illicit drugs to poison the minds and bodies of American youth. Yet the debilitating hard drugs would bring more than chemical devastation on the youth of the U.S. Some of the vast profits would be used to fund overblown, criminal lifestyles. Much would go to fund terrorism, laundered to the accounts of arms dealers to buy guns and bombs for the Islamic crazies. A percentage of the cash would compensate the families of suicide bombers, when they attacked American and other targets worldwide.

The war against drugs was endless, and many had concluded it was impossible to win. Yet it was no excuse not to fight, and so they fought. For this particular shipment, CIA repositioned one of their satellites to bring its orbit over the target area. Hundreds of miles to the north lay the State of California, and in the port city of San Diego, a group of U.S. Navy SEALs listened to a briefing from a harassed-looking full Naval commander.

The officer brought his fist down hard on the lectern. It has to stop, and it stops with this shipment.

U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Rafe Stoner had listened to the exact same briefing on more than one occasion in the same, airless, windowless room at Coronado Base. He'd stared at the bare and cheerless surroundings, and felt the gloom seeping out from cold, concrete walls; gray, institutional, and cheerless, and on this occasion, the sole adornment a large-scale map of North and South America.

How many times will they have to repeat this? Knowing no matter how many crops they destroy, how many traffickers they kill, or dealers they pull off the street, they’ll keep coming.

He mentally shrugged.

Someone has to do something. It’s what they pay us for.

He signaled to catch the officer’s attention. Let’s get this straight. You want us to go into Mexico, ambush the convoy and destroy the cargo, without the Mexican Army or National Police knowing anything about it. Then disappear and cross back over the border. What’s so special about this shipment? After we’ve torched this one, you know they’ll bring in another.

The officer grimaced. What’s so special about this one? Let’s see, it’s the biggest they’ve ever brought in. Hundreds of millions of dollars of heroin are at stake, maybe five hundred million. You could fund a war with that kind of money. And they probably will.

He whistled. Yeah, they’d go to a lot of trouble to protect that amount of dough. I take it an airstrike isn’t an option?

No, it is not. Politics, Lieutenant, if they found out, the locals would raise hell, which is why we want a ground attack, so they’ll put it down to a rival gang. Even if we could arrange it, we’d need to clear it first with the Mexicans. You understand they may not take too kindly to a bombing raid on their territory. That poses another problem. If we did tell the Mexicans, the word would be all over town in a matter of hours. Their security is, well…

He didn’t need to elaborate. South of the border, the police and military bought and sold information to fund their early retirement. Most regarded it as a legitimate part of their earnings. Stoner nodded. I get it. More holes than a Swiss cheese.

Right. What we plan is for you to HALO jump from a C-17 Globemaster, twenty klicks out from the intersect point. The traffickers have been known to use radar these days, so we don’t want to alert them. Our planners have selected an LZ close to Chihuahua. Intelligence pinpoints the city as the likely point where they’ll split the cargo. From there, they’ll cross into Sonora Province and travel north to different border crossings. This operation has a simple objective. Stop them, and destroy the cargo. It’s a huge shipment, a vast amount of money, and it’ll put a massive dent in their operations. Any questions?

That was the day before, and crouched in the streaming, Mexican jungle, Stoner smiled to himself as he recalled the briefing. The officer’s shifty expression when he put the question of Rules of Engagement. They’ll have guards, Commander, plenty of them, and they’ll be well armed. These guys won’t give up half a billion dollars of product without a fight, so how do you want us to deal with them?

Well, obviously, if they open fire, you’ll have to shoot back.

And if they don’t open fire? Do we ask them nicely to stand aside while we destroy their livelihoods? Wait for them to rake us with gunfire when we try to leave?

I, er, I guess you’ll handle that as the situation demands.

The situation demands we kill them all. Period. Traffickers are the meanest, lowest, most cutthroat scum you could imagine. Most of 'em would slaughter their own families if the price were right. Either we kill them all at the start, or they’ll hit us with everything they have the moment our backs are turned.

That’s the kind of decision you have to make at the time.

No, Sir, that’s the kind of decision we have to make now. Either we kill them all, or we’re wasting our time.

Whatever you say, Lieutenant.

No, it’s whatever you say, Sir. We’re going into harm’s way, up against a violent drug cartel. Some of these people make the Taliban and Al Qaeda look tame. What’s it to be?

One moment.

He turned on his heel and left the room. He returned a few minutes later, and he looked angry. You backed us up against the wall, Lieutenant, and the brass don’t like it. Stoner waited, However, they’ve clarified RoEs. Shoot to kill.

They’d jumped from ten thousand meters above the dense, dark-green foliage, glided down through the night, and landed five klicks outside Tijuana. Close enough to the highway they expected the traffickers to use. His unit consisted of ten men. The geniuses back at SOCOM planning said it was sufficient personnel to handle the operation. Provided the enemy didn’t spring any surprises, of course.

When does the enemy not spring a surprise? Not too often.

They’d trekked toward the target, moving silently through the thick entanglements of branches and vines, and dug in fifty meters from the edge of the highway. They could see for hundreds of meters in both directions, making it an ideal spot for an ambush. Now they were in position, and nothing was happening. So far so good, and all they could do was wait. And think. He checked the time. His watch showed 03.00.

The feed from the orbiting spy satellite streamed directly to his tactical pad, and the lowlight cameras displayed the pale, moving dots of the target heading toward them. Five trucks in all, which meant enough drugs to finance a small country. The product would be hidden behind an innocuous cargo, anything from foodstuffs to kitchen appliances. It could be religious figurines, a favorite in a country where Catholicism still carried considerable sway.

He glanced at Joe Rogers, the Chief Petty Officer, his second-in-command.

I can see them on the display, and the estimate is for ETA 03.50. Chief, five trucks could be a problem. We have ten men, and we have to make sure we force them all to stop. If one gets away, I don’t need to tell you the shit’ll hit the fan.

Rogers grinned. I copy that. You’re thinking about that new missile system they gave us to evaluate. Gerry, get over here, and bring your new toy.

Petty Officer Gerry Parr slid over to them, clutching his assault rifle. Slung underneath was a bulbous launcher, alien and unbalanced against the rifle. Similar in appearance to the M203 grenade launcher, this one was very different. Instead of firing a point-and-shoot grenade, the latest product of Raytheon Co., the world’s largest missile maker, used a laser to guide a small missile, known as a Perch, onto the target. Still in the experimental stage, they’d equipped Stoner’s unit with the weapon and told them to evaluate its performance in the field if the chance came. It looked like they about to get that chance.

Parr eyed him. What’s the deal, Boss?

A chance for you to put that Perch missile system to work. Five trucks coming in, and we need to stop them. It’s a narrow highway, just one lane in each direction. We have to stop at least two adjacent trucks to block it. How fast can you reload that thing?

He shrugged. About the same as an M203 grenade launcher. I can take out two trucks, no sweat. Five, no way.

It won’t just be you. We have to hit them real hard from the word go. Otherwise, they’ll dive for cover and start trading shots, and we could wind up with a war on our hands. The moment you launch the first missile, we open fire. Pass the word, Chief. No shooting until the first missile is away.

Copy that.

Rogers disappeared along the line to make sure they got the message. All they had to do then was wait. The occasional vehicle passed. Modern semi-trailers, destined for the cities, or perhaps to cross into America. Maybe some would have illegals hidden in the back. Not their problem. A dilapidated Buick went past. It looked about forty years old, and if the owner had ever carried out any maintenance, it wasn’t evident from the rattling engine.

It wasn’t just the engine. The driver’s side front wheel wobbled like it would fall off at any moment, and the exhaust scraped along the ground as it rode along the narrow highway. When it passed them, they could see the rear fender was missing, along with the lid for the trunk. The driver had piled boxes on the back, and Stoner counted at least eight adults and three children riding inside, probably heading for the border. For a new life in North America, scrubbing floors, and maintaining gardens and pools, for those who made it.

He checked the return from the satellite for the last time, and they were close. About a kilometer away, and the trucks would reach their position in about a minute.

Gerry, you ready?

As ever was.

They waited, fingers on triggers. Relaxed, confident, they were on top of it. Ready to wipe out the scumbags. That was when it all went wrong.

When the trucks departed from the port, they traveled bunched together. An easy target, hit them with automatic fire, and they’d be sure to hit something. Now, for some reason, they’d spread out. Maybe they suspected something, or had another reason, but they now traveled at intervals of fifty meters apart. It was going to be difficult. When Gerry Parr launched the first missile, they’d take evasive action. Try to turn around, or maybe drive into the side, climb out and start shooting. It was time to make a decision. Letting them pass wasn’t an option.

Gerry, wait until the lead truck is one hundred meters past our position, and then hit it. Chief, hold fire and we’ll see what happens. With any luck, they’ll stop adjacent to us and we can take them all. Damn.

If he’d known before, he could have detailed a couple of men to set a blocking position two or three hundred meters back. But he hadn’t known, they’d rearranged the convoy at the last moment. Then the trucks appeared, and the first vehicle passed them, traveling at speed. The others were strung out, and it would be a close thing to get them all. The darkness gave way to light as Gerry Parr let fly the first Perch missile, and it struck the target a second later. The truck disappeared in a welter of smoke and flames, and the others began to slow, coming to a halt bunched up and almost on top of them.

Open fire! Hit them now, Benny. Rake the machine gun along the line.

Petty Officer Third Class Benny Rosenthal squeezed the trigger. The light machine gun opened up, and the chattering roar served as a backdrop to the noise of exploding fuel tanks. The SEALs poured sheets of gunfire at the beleaguered traffickers. A missile struck the second truck as it was trying to turn, and it exploded. Smoke poured out of both wrecks, and Stoner realized they must have been carrying something flammable. It could have been anything, nitrate fertilizers, straw, even the product itself, heroin.

The first return fire came in from behind the cloud of smoke, so the guards had reacted quickly. They weren’t trying to escape. They wanted to kill the men who’d dared to ambush their convoy. Raking machine gun fire sliced the air around them, forcing them to stay low as they worked to identify individual targets. The enemy had the advantage, concealed inside the smoke, and the SEALs were exposed. Parr targeted another truck with the missile, another hit, and the vehicle exploded. Except more smoke poured out, giving more cover to the hostiles. Rob Jaffe, a new recruit to Stoner’s unit, was hit and collapsed. All he could hope was he’d taken the bullets on his vest. But when he got to him, the man was dead. The bullets had slammed into his neck and almost decapitated him.

The enemy fire intensified, and Stoner knew they had another problem. The traffickers outnumbered them. Instead of carrying cargo to conceal the shipment, at least two of the trucks had been crowded with shooters. He cursed; they should have worked it out before the operation started. A huge shipment worth hundreds of millions of dollars would demand a large contingent of gunmen to guard it. The ambush had become a death trap, and the question of fulfilling the mission brief, destroying the drugs and killing the traffickers, had become moot. It was a question of escaping with their lives.

We need support, Chief Rogers shouted to him over the roar of gun fire and the whine of bullets whistling all around them, There must be upward of forty men out there, and if we don’t do something soon, they’re gonna swamp us.

I’m on it.

Lieutenant Stoner hit the transmit button on the secure comms system, This is Delta One, Delta One to Hawk Control. We’ve hit unexpected resistance. Forty plus hostiles, we need an airstrike close to our coordinates. Over.

The enemy fired hundreds of rounds before the reply came through, and he had to hug the ground just to stay alive. This is Hawk Control. That’s a negative, Delta One. We are unable to mount a fire mission inside the sovereign territory of Mexico. This is solely a ground operation.

He knew the gunship wasn’t too far away, waiting to take them out when the job was done. He also knew the aircraft carried a handy General Dynamics Vulcan M61 minigun. The weapon fired 20mm rounds, at a rate up to six thousand per second. A single pass overhead, and the hostiles would be toast. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Death.

What do you mean negative? I have ten men down here, no, make that nine. I’ve already lost one man. Jesus Christ, I’m just asking for a single pass. Either that, or you’d better bring plenty of body bags when you come in for the pickup.

A pause. No can do, Delta One, call us when you need an exfil, but until then, our orders are clear. You guys do all the shooting. No airstrikes, period. That’s what they told us, buddy, and I’m not about to disobey my orders.

He nearly lost it then. Either you lend a hand, or men are gonna die.

The answer is still no. The voice was calm, and Stoner had an image of the pilot of the Black Hawk listening to music on an iPod while he navigated the aircraft, he sounded that laid-back. He made a silent promise to smash his fist into the man’s face when they met up, but for now, he had other problems, like staying alive. He gave up on the radio and searched for the next step. Plan B.

Parr, how many rockets do you have left?

One, Boss. You know it was an experimental system. We were just supposed to evaluate it and report.

Stoner ducked as a heavy burst of lead thrashed the air around his head. It sounded like an M60. Okay, when you’ve launched the last one, start throwing lead. We have to hold them back. They’re building up to something, and it won’t be anything good. Whoever is directing their shooters knows his stuff, ex-military, has to be.

Gerry Parr poked his head up to launch another missile and jerked down, dropping the launcher. Stoner gave him an anxious glance.

Gerry, you okay?

No reply. He put his head close to him and checked him out. He was dead, with blood pouring from a massive head wound.

Shit! If that helo pilot had some cojones, he’d have flown low, hosed them down, and taken us off for the trip back across the border. As it is, I’ve lost two men. This is developing into a major fuck-up.

The time had come to do something drastic, and his eyes fell on the fallen missile launcher. He picked it up and looked for the right place to put his plan into action.

Chief, I’m going hunting. I want to locate the guy who’s running the show over there. Cover me, I’ll stick a missile up his ass.

You won’t make it, Boss. Let me go. You’re the man in charge. You can’t…

Tell them to cover me, he said, his voice terse. It was his show, and it was for him to take the risks. That’s why they made him a lieutenant, and paid him to do. He slung the M4A1 on his back, tucked the Sig Sauer in the holster, and grabbed the launcher. He turned to Chief Rogers, Give it everything you have!

They responded with a renewed burst of firing, and he sprinted out from cover, ducking into the smoke cloud, and rolling beneath a stationary truck. The smoke was starting to thin, and the wind had changed, allowing him to see the enemy positions. He’d been right. There were upwards of forty shooters, and they were bunched up, preparing to escalate the gunfight.

The Mexicans had surrounded a man who was spitting out orders. To Stoner’s astonishment, he didn’t look Mexican. Quite the opposite, he had the dark, olive skin of a native, but the bald head and long beard was not native to South America.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s an Afghan. An Afghan, here in Mexico! Maybe I’m mistaken, but wherever he came from, he’s not going home, not after I’ve launched the missile.

The sighting indicator showed missile lock, and he tightened his finger on the trigger. And stopped. A new sound had intruded over the noise of battle. A helo was coming in. Was it possible the pilot of the helo had decided to ignore his orders and come back? He relaxed his finger on the trigger and waited. Seconds later, the aircraft appeared in the night sky. It wasn’t the Black Hawk. This was something very different, a Bell Jet Ranger, a civilian rotorcraft, and it dropped down for a landing behind a clump of trees, out of sight.

A small number of hostiles detached from the rest and began retreating toward where the aircraft had landed. He knew what was happening. The leader, the Jefe, or whatever he called himself, had decided to get out. Save his skin and leave the fighting to his men. They were the disposables. Expendable. Stoner had to make a quick decision. He had a single missile, and he could use it to target the helo, in which case the leader would die in the blazing explosion of smoke and fire. Goodbye, El Jefe, or Abdul, or whatever his name was.

The problem was, they’d still be facing forty-plus shooters, and even without their boss, they looked to be good at their job. The helo would have to wait. He altered the aiming point to the center of the bunched up group of men and squeezed the trigger. The missile fired, blazed a thin trail of smoke as it closed on the target, and detonated.

When the smoke cleared, most of the hostiles were down. They’d been standing next to a truck carrying explosives that had exploded in a sympathetic detonation. Those men who weren’t dead or dying were running to escape, and some had their clothing on fire. Stoner’s men took full advantage of the chaos and picked off the exposed targets one by one. Moments later, the roar of an engine echoed through the trees, and the aircraft appeared. His hand flew to the transmit button.

This is Delta One, all of you hit that helo with everything you have. Don’t let it escape. That’s the head honcho inside.

They shifted their aim, and Stoner joined them, firing burst after burst at the fleeing craft. If any of their bullets hit, it wasn’t apparent. The noise of the engine receded, and then it came back, as the craft hovered two hundred meters away, a ghostly shape in the night sky. What happened next was eerie beyond belief. First, the loud click coming from a public address system, followed by the whistle of audio feedback. The voice that shouted from the helo had an accent, although he couldn’t place it. Amplified over the loudspeaker system, it had a grating, menacing quality. Something like he’d heard in old documentaries about Adolf Hitler, the voice of an incensed and crazed maniac.

"You foreigners, you think I won’t find you! I know who you are. American Special Forces, Navy SEALs, Delta Force, I don’t care. It makes no difference. I have a