Part 58 (1/2)
I didn't have my whole team with me. Most of my guys were taking some R and R after a c.o.c.ksucker of a firefight we had in North Carolina.Yeah, that's right. The homeland itself. The DEA had been working a joint op with the FBI, something about a rumor that terrorists were backing meth production. Meth is not really an export drug-it's mostly s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up people at home, and in increasing numbers. The joint task force got themselves into a firefight with a distribution team, and in the process, a lot of bags of crystal got torn apart by live rounds.Worst case should have been contact highs. Instead, every single man there-DEA, FBI, and the bad guys-died within twenty-four hours.
Cause?
A brand-new strain of synthetic anthrax that had been mixed with the meth during the cool-down stage. Stuff had a contagion factor of 94 percent and a 100 percent kill rate. The Feds shut down the hospital and the site of the gunfight, and my guys were called in. I'm top-kick of Echo Team, a crew of first-chair shooters based out of the Warehouse in Baltimore. We took over the operation from the DEA and backtracked the meth to a major supply depot in a hangar of a bankrupt private airfield. Forty guys on the deck, mostly Russians with a few Cubans there for variety. They were in combat hazmat suits and everyone was armed for bear.We had our own protective gear-the latest generation of Saratoga Hammer Suits, which are designed for combat in the age of extreme bioweapons.
Echo Team was joined by Riptide Team out of Florida and Bronco Team out of Atlanta. We hit the place in a coordinated strike that started with a total lights-out thanks to a low-yield e-bomb that fried all their electronics. Then, with our night vision online, we raided from three points and cut them down.
They made a fight of it. Not sure if I admire that or not. Soldiers are supposed to respect their enemies, but that math gets skewed when your enemy is a terrorist who's trying to unleash a plague on a big chunk of the nonmilitary population. Junkies aren't the only ones who smoke meth. Lots of kids do, too. And lots of ordinary citizens.With that synthetic bacterium in there, it only needed one puff for a death sentence.
Of the forty bad guys and the eighteen of us, there was a big butcher's bill.Twenty-six thugs went to the morgue. I've blocked out two seconds sometime next year to give a s.h.i.+t about that. Three DMS guys went down, all from Bronco, when they raided a Quonset hut our intel said was cold storage and it turned out to be a lab. The bad guys were in the middle of a cook and everything blew.The three shooters from Bronco never knew what happened.Apart from that, there were nonfatal gunshot wounds and some shrapnel cuts. Anyone whose Hammer Suit got so much as a nick in it was washed down with antimicrobial soap and medevaced to a quarantine facility at a hospital a few blocks from the CDC in Atlanta, where they were given a c.o.c.ktail of antibiotics. The only bright spot was that the synthetic anthrax responded really well to treatment.
So, that left me with two gunslingers-First Sergeant Bradley Sims, known as Top, and a giant of a kid from Orange County whose real name was Harvey Rabbit. No surprise that everyone called him Bunny. Top and Bunny had been with me since I joined the DMS.They'd been through almost everything I'd been through, and even between us, there were things we didn't talk about. Even though I had no way of knowing it, an itch between my shoulder blades told me that the situation we were flying into was going to be one of those.
I looked out the window and saw the Black Hawk's insectoid shadow fly and up and down the sides of the austere Afghan mountains. Here and there, I saw a few small flocks of sheep, and in the hollow between two almost-vertical mountains was some burned-out wreckage.
”Dead crocodile,” murmured Top.
I nodded.The debris was that of an old Soviet Mi-24 a.s.sault helicopter, known as a ”crocodile” because of the scale-like camouflage paint job.
”Thought the Russians always recovered their downed birds,” said Bunny.
”When they can find 'em,” said Top. ”Too d.a.m.n many places out here to get lost.”
That was true enough.These mountains were so remote and in many parts inaccessible to anyone but a goat or a goatherd.
”Besides,” said Top, ”sometimes an area's too hot for a recovery, and I can see at least fifty pocked-out cave mouths up the sides there.Taliban could have put a single shooter in each, and maybe two or three guys with RPGs, and half the d.a.m.n Russian army couldn't smoke them out. It'd cost too much.”
Bunny and I nodded, knowing that Top wasn't referring to a price tag in dollars.
That was really the story of the Afghan wars right there.The landscape favored hit-and-run guerilla fighters and was a total pain in the a.s.s to a heavily mobilized ground force. Air support was good when the winds were right, but one eighteen-year-old kid with a rocket-propelled grenade and a six-foot-deep cave to squat in could turn the five-million-dollar fully armed and loaded UH-60L Black Hawk into flaming debris as useless as the old Russian crocodile that was now dwindling into the distance behind us. In the modern age, unmanned Predator technology was giving us a marginal edge. Yeah, marginal, against guys in sandals and robes. War wasn't war anymore.
I knew that if my team went down, someone else would pick up the mission, but no one would come looking for us. Our helo was equipped with a telemetric response system, which is a fancy way of saying that if the entire crew and all authorized pa.s.sengers died, the cessation of our telemetry from the chips we all had under the skin would trigger a self-destruct package. Boom. No evidence bigger than a paper clip. Our bodies? Vultures would pick us clean and the desert winds would strip the clothing from our bones. It was a chilling thought. If we died out here, our transport would die with us and all official records would be deleted. We'd cease to exist.