Cauldron of Fire

  By Todd McLeod & Eric Meyer

  THE HAWKINS’ HEROES SERIES

  Copyright 2018 by Todd McLeod & 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

  “The target village is named Balagor,” Intelligence Major Elliot McNally intoned. He was a shortish man, slim, and with a slight stoop. Like a legal eagle trying to make a name for himself as a warrior. He was earnest enough, but that didn’t mean he’d get it right. No slip-ups when they attacked another testament to Afghanistan’s crumbling infrastructure. No sending men to their deaths. Balagor was a place they'd never heard of, and Hawkins suspected they'd probably be more than satisfied if they never heard the name Balagor again.

  The Major paused and looked at the twelve men in front of him. Charlie Platoon, Hawkins’ outfit, under the command of Second Lieutenant Tony Lopez. He was a good guy, and he listened when his more experienced NCOs offered advice. Eddie Hawkins sat at the back of the briefing room, knowing he had no involvement in this high-level planning stuff. He was a nobody, a recent recruit, an Average Joe at five feet nine inches, with flaming ginger hair, an abundance of freckles, and clear green eyes.

  Hawkins was the gunner in Sergeant Dan Jones’ Humvee. His place was up in the cupola, behind the .50 caliber Browning machine gun. His job was straightforward, to keep his keen eyes peeled for any sign of the enemy. And hit them hard before they had a chance to hit them first. After a shaky start in country, he’d got the knack of aiming and firing the heavy weapon, acquiring a reputation as an ace shooter. He had another reputation as an ace shooter, and this reputation was worldwide. Call of Duty, the game he spent most of his off-duty time playing on a Dell eleven-inch laptop he’d recently acquired. Okay, it wasn’t an Xbox, but you couldn’t lug an Xbox into the field. The laptop was the next best thing.

  "You're wondering about this place, and why it's so important,” the Major continued, “Our intelligence assessment is they’re about to hold a high-level meeting between the Taliban regional commanders and several ISIS commanders who recently arrived in Afghanistan. They're planning to link up to hit a number of strategic objectives. Some are in Kabul, the capital, and these combined attacks are bad news. I don't need to tell you we have enough problems here with the Taliban, and our guys in Iraq and Syria with ISIS. If they link up, God help us all. A Taliban ISIS axis puts us into a whole new ball game.

  Sergeant Jones put up a hand. "Major, why don't we just bomb this place if we know they're gonna be there? Drop a few thousand pounds of iron bombs, or hit them with Hellfire missiles, and they'll never know what hit them."

  He nodded and smiled. "I see where you're coming from, Sergeant, and believe me, we've considered a bombing mission. You’re right; they’d never know what hit them. But the problem is we’d never know who we hit, and we need to know we got them all. This is a onetime opportunity, and that means we have to go in on the ground, identify the enemy, and take them out. Just like SEAL Team Six did with Osama. Eyeball the bastards, and make sure we're taking out the right people. If we offload several thousand pounds of bombs on that place, we could be dropping them on the heads of a few local women stirring the pot for the evening meal. No, this has to be up close and personal. Go in, hit the bastards hard, and leave nothing behind except bodies.”

  “We’ll be going in blind,” Lieutenant Lopez said, “We don’t know anything about this place. At night there’s a lot of room for mistakes.”

  McNally looked smug. “You’re right, Lieutenant, if we went in blind it could be a major screw up. That's why we’ve prepared a dummy village for you to stage a practice attack. The layout is almost identical to Balagor, and we've dressed up one of our units as insurgents, so you’ll encounter a real enemy, or as real as we can make it. This’ll be a practice run to be sure when you do it for real you get it right. Don't forget, this isn’t for real, so you'll be loaded with blank rounds."

  "Is that a good idea?" Sergeant Dan Jones piped up. He was no fool, a tough, leathery vet, working toward the end of his second tour. Tall, a commanding NCO, with piercing blue eyes that can at times be wintry, and at times mysterious, goes by the nickname of Sergeant Dan. He rarely smiles, just does his job, at which he is damn good. The kind of guy a man would feel good about having on his side when the fighting starts.

  "After all, that area is still Taliban central, and even though you've prepared this dummy village, we could still run into trouble at any time."

  He paused for a few moments. "I see your point, and you're right. No sane man goes unarmed in this country. Okay, you’ll load blanks when you go in, but you’ll carry live bullets in your spare magazines. Just in case."

  The men nodded to each other. Venturing anywhere in Afghanistan, and especially at night, without a good supply of bullets, real live bullets could be a fast way to commit suicide. The Major ended the briefing by handing out maps of the objective to each of the crews. The meeting dispersed, and they left the briefing room. The driver, Winston Bellows, a man who could make a Humvee dance the tango if he so pleased, glanced at him. He was an ace driver, and his dark eyes would squint at every inch of terrain, always choosing the best route. He was one tough hombre with a gangsta past as a getaway driver which he was trying to live down. But still, men counted him the best driver in the Division.

  "This looks like a piece of cake, Eddie. You won't need to use that Browning, you can sit in that cupola and play video games."

  Hawkins smiled. Gaming had played a large part in his life, but now the Army was his number one priority. Gaming was cool, but this was different, and he’d be careful. Men messed up all the time.

  This may be an exercise, but I’ll make damn sure I carry plenty of live rounds for the Browning.

  He returned to their hut and scanned through a new gaming mag. There was nothing new, and he fired up his phone, connected to the net, and browsed the sites for the latest news, but nothing had changed. He checked the news every day to see what's going on in the gaming world. New mods, new patches, new games. Keeping up was important. But not life or death, not like fighting in Afghanistan.

  The following morning they roused them before dawn, and after a hurried breakfast, they climbed into their vehicles. The target village lay ninety-five klicks from Bagram, heading north. North toward enemy territory, and the Intel Major was there to see them off. "I wish you luck, men. Any last questions before you leave?"

  Eddie strolled toward him. "Sir, this place, Balagor. I mean; I know it's a mockup of the real target village, but don't you think it's mighty close to enemy territory. If they’re watching, they could smell a rat.”

  He shrugged. "We've been over this several times, Private. Believe me, there aren't any insurgents inside a fifty-kilometer radius. And our own men will be there, although they’ll be dressed like insurgents. Relax; it’ll go like clockwork. You know what to do, drive in, and give them hell. Just blank rounds, and if it all goes well, we'll debrief you when you get back, and we can fix up for the real thing in the genuine village of Balagor."

  "When does this meeting take place, Sir?"

  "In five days. It may even be sooner. It's always possible things may change. We have a man on the inside, so we’ll know about it. But for now, that's the timescale we’re working on, five days."

  He thanked him; they swapped salutes, and climbed into their vehicles. Lieutenant Lopez led the column, and Sergeant Dan’s Humvee fell second in line. It was late afternoon when they reached the outskirts of the village, and everything was quiet.

  The Lieutenant's voice came over the radio. "This is it, lock and load. Don't forget, dummy rounds. We drive straight into this building where they'll be having their cozy heart-to-heart, storm through the door before they realize we’re even there, and take them all out. Hit them with everything we have, and they have referees watching, to keep score. Let's make sure we’re on the winning side."

  "Copy that," Eddie replied automatically, along with a chorus of acknowledgements from the other men. They drove in, their driver skidded to a halt outside the building marked on their maps, and they leapt out of the jeeps. Eddie stayed in place in the cupola. His job was to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of trouble. For pretend trouble, he reminded himself. At least up here he was alone with his thoughts.

  He couldn’t explain the feeling, not to himself, or anyone else. But deep down, he knew this mission had all the signs of a first-rate screw up.

  Chapter Two

  The first sign of the enemy came when a man came out of a building opposite, and he shouldn't have been there. Eddie decided they’d planted several surprises for them to make sure they were on their toe s, and he rotated the turret and took aim. Bullets roared out of his Browning, and the stink of bone powder assaulted his nostrils. The man kept coming toward him, ignoring the fuselage, and that was strange. One man walking out in the open, and he should have known he'd have been dead and falling to the ground. Yet he didn't fall to the ground. Instead, he raised his assault rifle, aimed at the jeep, and squeezed the trigger.

  The ‘clang’ of the bullets striking the armored cupola was loud, and Eddie took aim again, searching for a target to return fire. Except he was loaded with blanks, and the guy who'd fired at them was using live rounds. Something was wrong. Badly wrong, and after a moment's hesitation, he ripped out the belt of blanks and loaded a magazine of live .50 caliber rounds. He didn't know why that guy fired at him, but he assumed he was a real enemy who'd slipped into the village unnoticed.

  He saw friendlies racing out of the building, and two went down, hit from behind. The truth hit him like a hammer blow. They'd entered a real enemy village, and while he was trying to work out who was the enemy, a group of men came racing from around the side of the building. They were hostiles, Taliban, no question, and on an intercept course for the Americans who'd exited the front doors. He swiveled the Browning, and he still wasn't one hundred percent sure if they were real enemies or their own people. He wasn't sure of anything, only that he had to do something.

  In the end, he compromised and fired a short burst over their heads. If they were their own men, they'd return fire with blanks. If they were real insurgents, the bullets would impact on his cupola, and he'd know.

  The men dressed as insurgents stopped when his bullets punched the air over their heads. Several went down on one knee, brought their assault rifles up to their shoulders, and a storm of lead flattened against the side of the cupola.

  It was enough to convince him he’d made the right guess. He shifted his aim and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Second Lieutenant Lopez was puzzled. They weren't supposed to be using live rounds, and yet the bullets that punched into the side of the building, and the meaty sounds of lead striking flesh, were enough to convince him something was wrong. He swung around to Jones. "Sergeant, something is wrong. They're not supposed to be using live ammunition. We need to get out of here and back into the vehicles. I'll call in, and get them to cease fire.”

  Dan Jones nodded and waited while Lopez led them out through the door, straight into a hurricane of gunfire. Jones glanced at his crew, Bellows, the driver and Corporal Taylor, the communications man. Another second tour vet, with a past he was trying to live down. Always checking and double-checking everything, as if scared he was about to repeat a mistake he’d made before he joined the unit.

  “They’re shooting at our men. Lock and load, live rounds, we’re going out shooting."

  They burst through the door in a wedge formation, Jones in the center, and one man either side. Lopez was wounded, and two more of his men were down. Jones turned to Taylor and Bellows. "Get the casualties into the jeeps. We're getting out here. Move it."

  He raced over to Lopez. "Lt, how bad is it?"

  The Lieutenant was clutching his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding, and he looked at Jones. "Bad enough. Take charge of the platoon, and get them out of here."

  "I'm on it, Lt. Hang in there."

  He rounded up the survivors, and they retreated to the jeeps, returning fire at an enemy they'd barely seen. All they could do was fire at the muzzle flashes, and by expending ammunition at a furious rate; they managed to extricate themselves. They drove away with half the men either dead or injured. He'd radioed ahead, and when they drove through the gates, medics were waiting for them with gurneys and orderlies to carry them into the base hospital. Major McNally, the intelligence officer, called Sergeant Jones over.

  "You're the most senior rank to survive that debacle, what happened?"

  "What happened was the biggest fuck up I've ever known in this man's army. Those pretend Taliban were real Taliban. I don't know what happened to our guys, but they weren't there. Just Talibs, and they weren’t firing blanks."

  The Major grimaced. "It wasn't supposed to happen, Sergeant. All I can conclude is the enemy attacked that village hours before the exercise and killed our men. When you went in, they saw American soldiers and started shooting."

  "You're probably right, but it gets worse. To make it more realistic, you put a sign up at the entrance to the village, a sign that said Balagor. They're not stupid, and if they haven't worked it out yet, they soon will, and they’ll know what we're planning. An attack on the village of Balagor to kill everyone at that meeting."

  He nodded. "I doubt that, Sergeant, but I’ll try to find out."

  "Maybe. Was there anything else, Sir?"

  "No, dismissed."

  Dan walked away and joined the rest of his men. Eddie was sitting with his back against the rear wheel, his head in his hands. Al Taylor and Winston Bellows were nearby, smoking and chatting, but he went to Eddie first. "That was a bad one."

  "No shit. That was the biggest screw up I've ever seen. I thought intelligence was supposed to have some intelligence. What happened to the idea of communications? Why didn't anyone call it in?"

  He shrugged. "I just don't know the answer to that one."

  "Someone ought to be shot for getting those men killed.”

  Jones nodded. "You're right, and it's even worse than you think. They’ll hold their meeting elsewhere, and if they make an agreement, we can expect renewed attacks to come thick and fast. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Eddie was thinking hard. "Sarge, if they're still going to hold this meeting, there must be away to find out where."

  "I doubt it. It took them weeks, months of planning to work this one out, and intelligence will’ve been listening to cellphone intercepts, radio traffic, email communications, you name it. If they're going to meet in the next twenty-four hours, there’s no time to find the location."

  "The enemy would have the same problem," Eddie said. He went on to explain what he meant, and the more he talked, the more Dan Jones looked interested.

  "We're going back to find that Intel Major. Tell him what you just told me."

  They had to drag him out of the mess, where he was drowning his sorrows after the debacle. He met them in the lobby of the officers’ mess, and he didn't look happy. He'd been drinking, and his words were slurred. "What is it, man? After tonight's disaster, I don't want to listen to ideas for any more disasters."

  "You want to hear this," Jones said, "Go ahead, Eddie."

  "Well, Major, it's like this. The intelligence took you weeks to assemble. If the enemy is to hold another meeting, they'll have the same problems of logistics and communications, and it’ll take time. Which means they'll be making cellphone calls, radio transmissions, and they'll be moving around the countryside to get people together. What we need is for your electronic warfare people to carry out an intensive analysis of signals over the past few hours, and the next few hours. In the meantime, we could go back into that area and find a prisoner. Any one of them, Taliban or Isis, is bound to know what they planned. It has to be soon. These people would have come from all over, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria; you name it. And they'll be itching to get back before we get onto them."

  He nodded slowly. "It’s possible, just possible. But who would be crazy enough to go back in after what happened?"

  Eddie looked at Dan, who replied, "I’m up for it, Major.”

  “You, Sergeant.”

  “Me and my crew. They killed good men tonight, and we all want payback. Besides, if we don’t stop them, we’ll have extremist lunatics pouring into the country from all over the world. We’d be in even deeper shit than we are already."

  He paused, thinking. “How would you play it? What’s the plan?”

  “We’d go back in there, pick up a prisoner, and wring the whereabouts of the new meeting place out of him."

  “Just like that?”

 

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