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  SEAL TEAM BRAVO: KILLING GROUND

  By Eric Meyer

  Copyright 2019 by Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  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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  Chapter One

  It was one of those days. A day when despite the efforts of the planners to cover every contingency, it wasn’t enough. No matter how many times you’d checked your equipment, weapons, ammunition and radio gear, it wasn’t enough. And when it wasn’t enough, men died.

  “Three o’clock high, guy on the roof, RPG.”

  “I see him.” Master Chief Will Bryce reacted fast. Immensely strong and always dependable, Bryce was the unit rock. He’d been forced to fight his way out of the Detroit ghettoes, slogging through the lower deck to achieve his reputation as one of the most respected operators in the U.S. Navy SEALs. The African American had a strong, crag-like profile, with big bones and a jutting chin under a powerful, almost regal countenance. His huge body was clad with slabs of hard muscle, the result of constant physical training to keep him at the very peak of physical fitness and skill. Strangely for a black man, he had gray eyes, undoubtedly a throwback to some long forgotten mixed ancestry.

  Now he used those eyes with the perfect vision to lock onto the target, like a guided missile. He took aim with the M4A1 and squeezed off a burst. Just in time, the bullets tore into the missile shooter at the exact moment he squeezed the trigger to launch his deadly rocket. A half dozen 5.56mm rounds have the effect of putting a man off his aim, and the rocket soared away harmlessly across the rooftops. But they weren’t out of trouble.

  It was a routine journey through Kabul on their way to meet a supposedly informant, four U.S. Navy SEALs, Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, Will Bryce, Vince Merano, and John-Wesley Ryder. They’d cleared the contact with intel and driven out of Bagram in a Humvee. They didn’t find the informant. Instead, they found a hornets’ nest. They’d climbed out of the vehicle and entered the non-descript building where they’d arranged to meet him, and the shooting started.

  A horde of insurgents came pounding down the staircase, more raced in from the back, and yet more men were rushing along the street to cut off their retreat.

  Nolan looked at Bryce as they threw themselves to the grimy floor of the hallway. “Whoever cleared that informant didn’t know his business. We walked into a trap like a bunch of rookies.”

  Will squirted a quick burst toward the men coming in from the rear. “Boss, I’m more concerned with how we walk out of it.” He glanced at the other two men who were crouching in doorways, returning fire. “We need to reach the Humvee. Vince, take a look outside and see if there’s any chance of getting out that way. Give him some covering fire.”

  “Copy that.”

  They hammered burst after burst at the enemy, enough to cause the incoming fire to slacken. Merano sprinted for the door, but before he made it outside, a huge explosion picked him up and threw him bodily back into the building. His body skidded and rolled along the floor, coming to rest alongside John-Wesley. Ryder grabbed hold of his vest and dragged him into the shallow recess where he was sheltering.

  “Are you okay?”

  He opened his eyes. “I think so, but I dropped my rifle.”

  Ryder nodded, not taking his keen eyes away from the street. He was the most unlikely looking of them, thin and scrawny, a weasel face and unshaven, sallow, sunken cheeks. The most dominant feature was the burning eyes of a religious fanatic. His father, the pastor of a small New Orleans church, had given him a strict upbringing. Some would say brutal, but John-Wesley Ryder would disagree. He’d argue the Reverend Ryder had given him something infinitely valuable, a set of rules by which to live his life. The incredible fighting skills he used to enforce those rules he’d acquired himself through constant, dedicated training, and long sessions reading the Bible.

  “When the blast hit you, it tore your weapon out of your hands. That gun took one hell of a beating, I doubt it’ll be any use to you.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, as he painfully climbed back to his feet and pulled out his sidearm, a Sig-Sauer P226, “They hit the Humvee with another rocket. There’re a few of ‘em out there, machine guns, RPGs, the whole works.”

  “We’ve got big trouble,” Nolan said, “I’ve called it in, but the insurgents have staged an attack on the Green Zone, and our people have their hands full trying to protect the government. There’ve been several other strikes around the city. They reckon the Taliban is testing the defenses, looking for weak points, ready for a big attack.”

  “This is big enough for me,” Bryce murmured, “Boss, we’re surrounded, our vehicle has been destroyed, and help is going to be a long time coming. Now would be a good time to put Plan B into action.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t that be a good idea? We have to get out of this building. We’re like rats in a trap. When I give the word, we’ll go out shooting through the front door into the street. They’ve destroyed the Humvee, so I doubt they’ll expect us to break out that way. When we get there, run, and keep running.”

  “Like the devil is chasing my ass,” Ryder murmured, “The Book says, ‘The devil prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.’ I hear him roaring, and he’s hungry.”

  “Just keep running, John-Wesley.”

  “I will. And no matter what happens, I’ll take a few of these devil’s spawn with me.”

  John-Wesley’s father brought his son up to be a true believer in God and the devil. A man with a set of beliefs based around the teachings of the Old Testament, and for Ryder, the notion of an eye for an eye wasn’t a line in the Bible, it was a way of life. He was a valuable member of Team Bravo, not least for his skills with a knife. With the ability to move across ground like a ghost, the first indication his victims had of his presence was usually when they saw their own blood dripping onto the ground, moments before they fell.

  “Time to go,” Nolan call to them, “Lock and load, fresh magazines, and when we go through that door, give ‘em hell. Go!”

  They catapulted to their feet, and he led them out the doorway into the street. Into a hail of bullets, and each man felt the hard blows as lead smacking into the ballistic plates of their Kevlar vests. They grouped against a stone wall, each covering the nearest quadrant, swapping bullets with the enemy as the incoming fire became a hurricane, and the firefight reached a crescendo.

  “We can’t last much longer,” Bryce shouted, “We’ll have to make a run for it.”

  Nolan had been thinking the same thing, looking up and down the street for the best route. There was no best route. Insurgents, Talibs, were all around them, sniping at them from windows and doorways. With no going back, and no help on the way, they had no choice. “We’ll hit them with everything we have, and take off down the street.”

  The Master Chief raised an eyebrow. “That’s Plan B?”

  “It’s all I have, Will. When I open fire, you know what to do. Give them everything you have, and
we run.”

  They ducked down as a light machine gun opened up from a window across the street. Nolan, who’d joined the SEALs as a sniper specialist, took aim with his M4 and squeezed the trigger. Three bullets left the muzzle, and the machine gun went quiet.

  “Okay, five seconds and let them have it. Four, three, two…”

  They tensed, each man taking aim on the nearest target, and Nolan didn’t make it to a count of one. The roaring of an engine echoed along the street, and to their astonishment an armored vehicle rounded the corner. A Stryker, the eight-wheeled Interim Armored Vehicle, and it collided with the corner of a two-story house, bringing down heaps of rubble. Then the whole structure tilted and collapsed into the street. If the driver noticed, they didn’t slow down. Whoever was driving, they gunned the engine, clipped a parked taxi on the other side of the road, wobbled back into the center, and roared toward them.

  It screeched to a halt alongside them, the armored bodywork protecting them from incoming fire. The side hatch opened, and a head peered out.

  “Get in, fast!”

  Nolan didn’t hesitate, ordering his men through the hatch, firing a last burst at the enemy, and then diving into the safety of the steel hull before the enemy renewed their gunfire. Bullets clanged against the side of the hull, unable to penetrate. He pulled the hatch closed, but before he could take a seat, the eight-wheeler lurched into motion, hurtling along the street, with machine gun fire frantically and trying to reach them. Someone launched another rocket. It exploded uselessly on the bolt-on ceramic armor. His mind was still reeling from the miraculous escape when the driver turned a corner so fast they almost overturned, and they drove at speed away from the ambush site.

  The driver was a woman, which astonished him. Wearing standard infantry camos, her rank tabs indicated she was an officer, a Major Shapiro. She was also alone inside the vehicle.

  He crawled toward her and managed to find a seat. “Major, I don’t need to tell you we’re more than grateful.”

  She glanced aside, and the vehicle veered to the right, ripping through a market stall and nudging aside a parked truck. She seemed to ignore the sound of tortured and broken metal.

  “You were lucky. I was in Kabul on another matter when I heard the call for any units in the area to help out. I went outside the building, and this vehicle was parked outside. There was just a driver inside. Apparently, he was familiarizing himself with the vehicle. I told him we needed to go to your assistance, but he said he’d have to clear it with his superiors at Bagram. So I tossed him out and came here myself.” She frowned, “I’ve never driven one of these before.”

  He kept his expression neutral. “Is that a fact?”

  She nodded happily. “You didn’t notice? Yes, it’s true. Maybe I should consider a transfer.”

  “A transfer from where, Major?

  “Washington.”

  She drove back to where she’d left the driver, only managing to collide with two more vehicles on the way. She ripped off the side of an ancient bus, leaving the passengers still sitting in their seats, staring out into space. The other was a motorcycle, driven by a young Afghan who decided to play chicken with the American armored vehicle. Driving straight toward them, expecting the Major to swerve. Maybe if she’d spent more hours familiarizing herself with the Stryker, she’d have obliged. The motorcycle collided with the frontal ceramic armor, and the rider flew clean over the top, landing in the street behind them. After a few hundred meters the cycle fell to the road and crunched underneath the massive wheels.

  She drove on, oblivious to the carnage she was causing to the capital’s motor vehicles and stopped outside an imposing building.

  “This is where I was going, the Ministry of Finance. I guess you guys can bum a ride home from here.”

  “No sweat. Major, I don’t know how to thank you. We were out of options when you turned up, and I don’t like to think what would’ve happened.”

  She smiled, and he felt immediately attracted to her. Of average height, with glossy dark eyes, her dark hair tied in a bun, and her skin an attractive shade of olive. She looked tough and capable, yet feminine and vulnerable at the same time. She was both woman and warrior. “That’s no problem. I did what anyone would have done.”

  “Except no one else did. Say, how about I buy you dinner? Are you busy this evening?”

  She considered it for no more than two seconds. “Not busy at all, and that would be nice.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, liking what she saw. He was tall, six-one, and lean, with the kind of features she guessed people would call chiseled. He reminded her of a young Clint Eastwood. The strong chin and piercing eyes, the color of a clear, deep blue sky, suggested this man would make an interesting dinner date. And that thick, dark brown hair was just made for a girl to run her fingers through. There was something else which fascinated her, the way he carried himself. With a quiet confidence, a strength and grace, which she instinctively knew would hide an inner core of hard, sprung steel.

  Tonight will be interesting.

  She walked into the building, turning once to give them a farewell wave. The driver of the Stryker was muttering about the damage to the paintwork, but they ignored him and caught a lift on an Army supply truck heading north toward Bagram. That evening, he went back into the city, ignoring the stink of smoke from where the attacks had tried and failed to damage the government, and they enjoyed a meal. Afterward, he took her back to her hotel room, and learned she was on a mission for the White House. She was also due to fly out the following day, and they made the most of it.

  He left her in the early hours to return to Bagram for the start of another day. But he knew it would be a long time before he forgot that extraordinary few hours he’d spent with Major Shapiro. The duties of the U.S. Navy SEALs spared little time for pursuing personal relationships. Yet he’d been without a girl for too long, and he’d have given a lot to spend a few more days with her.

  * * *

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  They were in a bar in San Diego, close to the SEAL base in Coronado. This was to be the last day of their leave before they shipped out on a new assignment. All he knew was the destination was somewhere in the Middle East, which almost ranked as the number one shithole.

  Afghanistan usually takes the top spot, although there are trouble spots in Africa that are no less desirable. There’s always Russia, of course. No, forget Russia.

  It was just him and John-Wesley Ryder. The others were busy celebrating their last night before they shipped out in different ways, and he hadn’t asked. The bar was rowdy, and they sat in a corner, sipping juice. There’d be time enough for drinking later, not the night before they were due to depart. But at least they could see other people enjoying themselves. They were both acutely aware they alone, each without a girl to go home to, to share a bed, something to look forward to.

  Nolan hadn’t been with a girl since Kabul, and John-Wesley was still nursing his feelings after yet another broken relationship. The fact he’d broken up with his last girlfriend a year before made no difference. Like the old song, he found, ‘breaking up is hard to do.’ Nolan felt the same, and something else. If you stayed away from relationships, there’d be no breaking up to do. And it always came to an end, no matter what. The answer was obvious.

  He glanced across the table at John-Wesley. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Enough of what?”

  “Relationships. They always end in misery, and from here on in; it’s strictly one-night stands. That’s the way it is in the military, at least in our job. Always away from home, and always when you get back the problems start, and then comes the breakup. It’s not going to happen again.”

  He looked dubious. When the trouble started, they were at first unsurprised. Bar fights were nothing unusual, except this one was. A huge guy wearing a studded leather jacket was shouting at a young woman half his size. They ignored it. It wasn’t their affair if a couple wanted a stand-up r
ow. The shouting became louder, and it seemed the girl was insulted because the guy had offered her money to sleep with him. She’d told him what to do with his money, and he took it badly. At first it was raised voices, which didn’t hurt anyone. Not until he went a step further and slammed a hard fist into her nose.

  John-Wesley started to climb out of his seat. During his religious upbringing, he’d learned to look after women. Especially when someone twice their size became violent toward them. A simple, old-fashioned philosophy, and when a female was in trouble, he never hesitated. Not ever.

  “Ryder, don’t hurt him too bad,” Nolan warned, “We don’t want the bar erupting into a riot.”

  “It’s the Word, Lt. ‘Deceit is in the hearts of those who plot evil.’ The guy is causing her trouble. He deserves everything he gets.”

  He pushed his way through the crowd toward where the couple was facing off. Her nose was bleeding profusely, yet the big guy hadn’t given up.

  “You fucking whore, why won’t you take my money?”

  “Because I don’t want to. Get out of my face, before I call the cops.”

  His face burned red. “Now you’re threatening me, I’ll kill you.”

  “Get away from me.”

  His reply was to bunch his fist, bring his arm back, and then he froze. A hand had gripped his wrist, and when he turned, he was looking at a man of average height. Thin, with a weasely face, and a calm expression. Maybe he would’ve been wise to notice the eyes, pale blue, cold and hard. But he didn’t notice them.

  His expression of surprise turned into a snarl. “Mister, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll let go my arm, and get out of here while you still can.”

  “You need to apologize to the lady, and leave her alone.”

  His jaw dropped open in astonishment. “Are you serious? Do you want to commit suicide?”

  “I said leave her alone.”