The Pirate Hunters (2 page)

Nolan took off his oxygen mask now and checked the time. It was 0715. He pulled out a small transistor radio.

According to Real Deal, the signal that bin Laden’s escape was imminent would come in code during his daily radio broadcast to his fighters.

The radio crackled to life. A voice came on, one they all knew by now. Strangely calm. Clear. Articulate. It was the Sheik himself.

“Here we go,” Nolan said. “Showtime. . . .”

“Batman” Bob Graves was Whiskey’s air combat controller. He was a captain in the Air Force, a fighter pilot, well-trained, well-educated, a no-nonsense guy with the slicked-back look of a card shark. A bat had bitten him during basic training, earning him a nickname that would stick forever. Graves’s job within the team was to call in air strikes. He also spoke Pashto and Dari, the languages of the region, as well as Arabic. So when the broadcast started, he translated.

“Things are not well, my friends . . .” the voice began. “Our world might have been different if our Muslim brothers in other countries had helped us in our time of need, but our prayers have not been answered.”

“That’s it,”
Real Deal said excitedly, tapping his chest in triumph. “ ‘Our prayers have not been answered.’
That
is the code phrase. He is escaping today.”

Nolan eyed the other team members. They all questioned Real Deal’s trustworthiness. His price had gone up twice
since they’d first met him, and he seemed stoned pretty much all the time. But at this point, he was the only game in town.

Nolan flipped open his satellite phone and called their division commanding officer up at Bagram Air Base. He told the DCO what they’d just heard. The DCO already knew what Whiskey was planning. All they needed now was his clearance to move out.

The superior officer responded in such a booming voice, everyone in the tent could hear him. “I don’t know how you talked me into this, but you’ve got exactly two hours. What you’re doing is so against the grain, I’ve bypassed everyone right on up to CENTCOM itself—and if it doesn’t work out I’m disavowing any knowledge of it, which means you’ll all be looking for new jobs.”

“What about air support?” Nolan asked him.

“Just as long as they don’t declare this party over today, there’ll be a Buff in your general area at all times. Tell your air controller his code sign will be Nail 22.”

Nolan asked, “Will the blocking force be in place when we need them?” This was the most important question.

“They’re already loaded onto TF-160’s Chinooks,” was the reply. “They should be in place in time.”

“Will there be enough of them?” Nolan pressed. But the DCO was running out of patience.

“You said you needed two companies of Marines and that’s what you’re getting,” came the terse reply. “I don’t know how big this pass is that you want them to seal, but they’re on the way. Now get going while I still have my commission—and remember, for this one, you’re on your own. So don’t let the other teams see you.”

Click.

End of phone call.

TORA BORA WAS
one of the toughest battlefields Delta Force had ever faced. Nestled in the towering White Mountains close to the Pakistan border, it was a dizzying complex of tunnels and caves, some natural, some built during the war against
the Soviets and now taken over by al Qaeda. Thick with weapons bunkers, antiaircraft positions and ammo dumps, it was not far from parts of Pakistan where bin Laden was considered a hero. With peaks as high as 14,000 feet and lots of fir trees, dry creeks and blind canyons, it also had an abundance of places to hide.

It snowed in Tora Bora every day, usually in the morning. Fortunately these mini-storms rarely lasted more than fifteen minutes, because it was when the sky was clear that the alliance forces felt most secure on the ground. That’s when the doughnut rings could be seen overhead, contrails of big B-52 bombers—the Buffs—constantly circling, their bomb bays full of JDAMs, laser-guided weapons that could be dropped on the head of a dime.

But whenever the contrails weren’t there, the al Qaeda fighters came out of their holes and started firing huge 122mm Chinese mortars. And if there was one thing bin Laden’s fighters were good at, it was firing mortars.

They could put a mortar round down your shorts from just about anywhere.

BOARDING THEIR PAIR
of Toyota trucks, Whiskey drove at top speed up the steep face of Hill 3434A.

Kenny “Twitch” Kapula, the team’s demolition man, was behind the wheel of the first truck. Small and muscular, he was a
kanaka
, a native Hawaiian. His dark skin and Polynesian features allowed him to blend-in in many parts of the world, a great asset for the team. It made him perfect for extended undercover missions, too, of which he’d done many. A man of few words, he’d been an elementary school teacher before joining the military, which was funny because when it came to combat, he was absolutely cold and ruthless. He had a distinctive head twitch that grew worse the angrier he got, thus his nickname. He also routinely fired off twice as much ammunition as anyone else in the squad during combat. No one could imagine him molding young minds.

Driving the second Toyota was Huey “Gunner” Lapook, Whiskey’s weapons expert. A product of the Louisiana bayous,
at 6’3”, 260, Gunner took up a lot of space. He carried the team’s Striker Street Sweeper, a massive shotgun that fired like an automatic weapon. He was also the squad’s door-kicker. During forced entries, Gunner always went in first.

It was a tough climb up 3434A and the air grew thin rapidly, which is why the team had been taking in oxygen before they left. They carried no rucksacks, no food, no Kevlar helmets, body armor or heavy clothing. They had to move fast and travel light. Weapons, ammo, their sat phones and their three lucky flags. Just about everything else stayed behind.

They had to reach the opposite end of Tora Bora quickly, but the higher they drove, the more enemy positions they could see arrayed across the nearby mountains. Dozens of gun emplacements, dugouts and bunkers, some with smoke coming out of them, others displaying the telltale flash of weapons fire. In the thinning air, the noise was deafening. So far, at least, no one was shooting in their direction.

It took thirty minutes, but they finally reached the pass between Hill 3434A and 3433. Real Deal directed them across a ridgeline that served as a bridge all the way over to Hill 3014. It was in a small valley next to this mountain that he claimed Looking Glass could be found.

They reached a frozen stream that ran down the side of Hill 3013, the next mountain over. Here they found four burned-out al Qaeda T-62 tanks, each victim of a direct hit from a JDAM earlier in the fighting. There was little left of them or their crews; still, it was amazing that bin Laden’s fighters had somehow gotten the four tanks up to such a high elevation.

Nolan ordered the trucks to stop and called out: “Crash, front and center. . . .”

Jack “Crash” Stacks was the team’s SEAL sniper. A surfer dude from LA, he was also known as “Nun Killer,” because shortly before making Delta, he’d been involved in a car accident with a minivan full of nuns. Crash was an outstanding marksman. He rated at an astounding 6,800 meters on the Barrett M107 sniper rifle, meaning he could shoot out someone’s eyeball from almost four miles away. He was also the team’s medic.

Crash was quickly beside Nolan. The team CO pointed to the area below and said, “Take a look.”

Crash adjusted the high-powered scope on his weapon and scanned the terrain at the bottom of the hill. He saw lots of bomb craters, lots of ice, lots of trees blown apart, but no signs of life.

“I doubt anything is breathing down there,” he told Nolan. “My guess is the battle passed this place by at least a week ago.”

The team left the trucks and, one by one, slid down the frozen streambed to the foot of 3013. Once at the bottom, they took cover in a tree line on the stream’s eastern bank. Real Deal pointed to a cave opening on the side of the next mountain over, Hill 3014. From their position 100 yards away, the opening didn’t look any different from the dozens of similar caves that dotted Tora Bora, except this one had bales of hay stacked around its entrance.

But Real Deal was insistent.

“That is it,” he told Nolan. “Your Looking Glass.”

Real Deal already had his hand out—he was expecting Whiskey to pay him on the spot. But just as Nolan was reaching for the money, the air erupted with heavy-weapons fire. The team hit the ground as a long, noisy fusillade went over their heads and crashed into the ice sheets behind them, shattering them like panes of glass.

The barrage was coming from the entrance of the cave; some weapon normally used to shoot down aircraft or destroy armored vehicles was firing on them. Nolan didn’t have to yell any orders. The team immediately returned fire, trying to zero in on the cave’s entrance. But it was like shooting BBs at a battleship. This was a
huge
gun they were up against, and they were absolutely pinned down.

Nolan had taken cover behind a large boulder. Twitch was jammed in beside him; Real Deal was on Nolan’s other side. Twitch wasn’t firing his weapon, but instead was looking directly at Nolan and making the knife-across-the-throat gesture. Nolan got the message: Real Deal had set them up, walked them into an ambush—and Twitch was going to make him pay, here and now.

But Nolan waved him off. Real Deal was so badly shaken by the gunfire he’d wet himself. He’d been as surprised as they were.

“This is a good thing,” Nolan told Twitch instead, yelling to be heard above the noise. “No one else around—but someone operating a big gun like that? Someone high profile
must
be nearby.”

Twitch finally opened up with his M4, firing madly as usual. “Always the optimist,” he yelled back at Nolan.

The one-sided battle was frightening—for about thirty seconds. Then the gunfire from the cave mouth suddenly stopped. Whiskey hadn’t killed any of their attackers; instead, the enemy had mysteriously abandoned its big weapon. Through the smoke and swirling snow they saw a handful of al Qaeda fighters rush to the cave opening and disappear inside. They were all wearing black clothes.

“Fucking Egyptians!”
Nolan exclaimed.

This was significant—and it also explained the bales of hay. Bin Laden’s most-trusted troops were from Egypt. There were at least a dozen of them around him at all times, and they always dressed in black. Whenever bin Laden was on the move for long distances, he was accompanied by several dozen of these black-clad Egyptians. Many times he rode a horse with this small army running alongside, trying to keep up.

It was beginning to add up. The deserted part of the battlefield. The heavy weapons in evidence. The huge gun fired at them and then abandoned. The Egyptians. Even the hay . . .

He
is
running, Nolan thought. And we’re right behind him. . . .

The team moved quickly. Protecting one another with covering fire, they made their way up to the cave, the still-shaking Real Deal in tow. But there was no further opposition; whoever had fired at them was gone.

Besides the hay, the team also found a stack of cut firewood outside the cave opening. It was wrapped in plastic and covered by fir limbs and branches for camouflage from above. There were lots of empty ammo canisters scattered about, too, and every tree within 100 feet of the cave was riddled
with shrapnel. But most telling, hidden in the brush on one side of the opening was a massive 122mm antiaircraft gun.

Team Whiskey had seen many of these caves before, mostly through night-vision goggles or the scopes of their M4 rifles. But a big AA gun, so well-hidden, protecting a single cave? That was a first.

They checked the opening for tripwires, then threw in two flash grenades. Both exploded with a loud
pop!
They waited ten seconds, and, receiving no return fire, turned on their gun lights and rushed inside. They were ready for anything—booby traps, mines or even suicide bombers hiding in the dark. But the front part of the cave was empty—except for a lot of trash.

Discarded clothing, bloody bandages, used-up water bottles and dirty socks were strewn everywhere. A woodstove in one corner was still hot, a pan of water on it still boiling. Boxes full of Chinese-made ammunition were piled high in every corner.

“They’re running so fast they’re leaving their ammo behind,” Nolan said.

Most telling, dozens of empty vials and used hypodermic needles littered the cave’s floor.

Batman picked up one vial and sniffed it. “Adrenalin,” he said. “Whoever was here left hopped up like supermen.”

Nolan got the team running, but 200 feet into the cave, they came to a dead stop. Two wooden beams the size of railroad ties were locked firmly in place on the wall, marking the end of the cavern.

But under the glow of Nolan’s gun light, Real Deal pointed to the bottom timber. “Help me move this,” he said.

Nolan and Twitch complied, and the three shifted the beam, causing a huge brick door to swing open. Beyond was a hidden tunnel, at least twelve feet in diameter, which ran straight for as far as their gun lights allowed them to see. On its floor were more discarded ammo boxes and empty Adrenalin vials.

The team froze and listened. In the distance they could hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps running away.

“We’re right behind them,” Nolan said. “Let’s go!”

The team charged into the tunnel and started running full out. Nolan and Batman, in the lead, fired their weapons every few seconds, knowing they probably wouldn’t hit anything, but firing anyway, just to add fuel to their excitement.

But suddenly, Batman went down hard. Everyone skidded to a stop, weapons up, their gun lights pointing in all directions. Nolan was sure the Air Force officer had been shot, but looking over at him he could see he wasn’t bleeding. Instead, he was scraping something off the bottom of his boots. He’d slipped—on horse manure.

“God damn,” Batman said. “He
is
on a horse.”

They ran for the next ten minutes; finally a faint light appeared ahead. It was the outside world again. They’d reached the end of the tunnel.