Saber Down Read online

  Copyright © 2020 — Harrison Kone

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED—No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Deeds Publishing in Athens, GA

  www.deedspublishing.com

  Printed in The United States of America

  Cover design by Mark Babcock.

  ISBN 978-1-950794-32-4

  Books are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information, email [email protected].

  First Edition, 2020

  To Harry, my namesake and grandfather — philosopher, teacher, playwright, Marine — thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: The Terrorist

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Part Two: The Arms Dealer

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Part Three: The Officer

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  Epilogues

  1

  2

  3

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Near Kandahar, Afghanistan

  The Marine Corps Special Operations Officer bounced in the passenger seat as the Humvee sped toward the target village. The Afghani Commando that drove bobbed his head to the music that played from the miniature Bluetooth speaker resting next to the gearshift. The Marine officer, although semi-fluent in several languages, including Pashto and Dari, had difficulty deciphering the message of the fast-paced lyrics, but he smiled and bobbed his head alongside his new friend.

  Captain David Shaw had met Lieutenant Masood al-Sabir six months prior at the start of his deployment, and, save for a few instances, the two men and their teams had raided together nearly the entire duration. The Marine captain glanced into the back seat where Corporal Kyle Reyes and Sergeant Taqi al-Attar conversed. Reyes was explaining to al-Attar the pronunciation of the English word queue.

  “I don’t understand,” al-Attar said in his thick accent. “Why do you not pronounce the u-e-u-e?” Reyes laughed, and Shaw grinned.

  “Breedmal,” al-Sabir started, referring to al-Attar’s rank in their native tongue, “do not try to understand. These English-speakers are strange.” A hearty laugh echoed from his lips as a playful hand shot out toward Shaw’s upper arm. The Humvee veered, and al-Sabir’s hand quickly snapped back to the wheel to straighten the vehicle.

  “You alright there?” Shaw jested. Only slightly embarrassed, al-Sabir laughed but kept both hands on the wheel.

  “Hey Boss, everything good?” came Staff Sergeant John Wyatt’s voice through Shaw’s communication headset. Shaw pressed the push-to-talk device (PTT) fixed to the upper left on his plate carrier to initiate his response.

  “Yeah, the good lieutenant might be drunk,” he joked. Al-Sabir’s eyes, filled with concern, snapped toward Shaw. A declaration like that over the radio could prove fatal to his career, but Shaw simply smiled and winked. The Afghani, despite all the missions alongside American military personnel, had yet to understand their humor, but he laughed when he realized the captain’s intentions. He shook his head back and forth and cracked a smile.

  “You are going to have to look after my children when I am gone,” he said. Shaw’s eyebrows perked up.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because, how do you Americans say?” he paused, searching for the right phrase, “you are going to be the death of me.” Shaw laughed and patted al-Sabir on the shoulder. Al-Sabir wore a satisfied smile as he turned his attention back to the road. He could not put into words the happiness he felt connecting with the Americans. He looked at the endeavor as a critical part of his mission in building a trusting relationship between their forces, not simply on their joint-unit level, but every positive interaction was a stone placed on the foundation of US-Afghani friendship. Al-Sabir intended to do his part in building an Afghanistan where his young children could prosper, and that relied on a healthy relationship with the United States.

  “We’re coming up on the village,” said one of the commandos in the lead Humvee. Al-Sabir cut off the music and hardened his expression as they roared through the village perimeter.

  The unexpected wave rolled over their vehicle pressing each man deep into their padded seats. The concussive blast radiated down the column, disorienting the warriors, if only briefly. A pillar of black smoke spiraled into the air as the lead Humvee smoldered from the IED blast. Bullets thudded into the row of idle vehicles rumbling in the middle of the street. Against the armored vehicles, the rounds popped like the crackle of popcorn, but the Marine Special Operations Team attached to the company of Afghani Commandos kept their cool amid the ambush.

  Nearly twenty years into the Global War on Terror and despite his numerous engagements involving ambushes, the thrill still triggered an adrenaline dump with which Shaw was all too familiar.

  “Where’s it coming from?” Reyes shouted. Al-Attar searched frantically up and down the mountainside to his left in the direction of the incoming rounds. Flat, simple buildings dotted the slope in tight formation.

  “Contact left!” came Master Sergeant Beasley’s report through the comms.

  “Good copy, B,” Shaw replied, keeping his voice calm yet commanding. “Can we get through?”

  “Negative, the lead Humvee is blocking the path. We’ll need to secure the area,” Beasley replied.

  “Alright, Sergeant Wu, I want our guardian angels to light up that slope,” Shaw ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Wu responded. As a United States Air Force Tactical Air Control Party Specialist (TACP), Sergeant Peter Wu, trained and authorized to call in all manner of danger-close aerial support, did as instructed.

  “Alright, boys, you know the drill,” Shaw stated into the radio as he threw open his passenger door. He helped al-Sabir out his side of the vehicle and remained low behind the Humvee’s protection. “Reyes, on me!” he shouted. Reyes, the newest member of their team, quickly slid to his side. Shaw peeked around the front of the vehicle and engaged the muzzle flash from a second-story window just over one-hundred meters away. Reyes, laying his carbine flat against the hood of the Humvee and presenting as little of himself as possible to the enemy, opened fire as well.

  “Grenade!” came the shout to his left. Shaw’s eyes snapped that way and targeted the Soviet-era explosive. How? The enemy wasn’t close enough, were they? The average distance a man could throw a grenade was around twenty to thirty meters. The situation had to be more dire than he anticipated.

  Shaw watched as al-Sabir scooped up the explosive and arched his arm to throw it back. Shaw, immediately recognizing the threat, grabbed Reyes and drove him to
the ground.

  The explosive shockwave lifted the dust off the vehicles and rattled the two Marines as they fell. Disoriented, Shaw remained motionless while his insides recalibrated from the blast. The unnerving sensation demanded a moment’s rest, but he did not have the luxury to wait for his organs to settle. He rose to one knee and checked on his teammate.

  Reyes lay unresponsive, but alive. Shaw tapped into his communication headset, “Adams, I need you at delta!” the Marine captain urged. He glanced upward toward the two commandos who now were nothing more than a heap of blood, guts, and flayed flesh. Al-Sabir’s severed head, his expression contorted in horror, met Shaw’s gaze. He quickly looked away.

  “Copy that, Boss,” came Adams’ response.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” Shaw said to the unconscious Reyes. The chorus of gunfire around him drowned out the shouts of the commandos and Marines who fought against the assault. Shaw glanced around quickly, taking note of their surroundings. Before he could assess further, the deep bellowing of a heavy machine gun cut through the chatter of the small arms fire.

  Shaw recognized the sound immediately. The Soviet-made DShK 1938 fired the 12.7x108mm anti-material cartridge similar to the US .50 Browning Machine Gun round. If hit, the round would cut him in half, and his body armor wouldn’t protect him in the least.

  “I can’t get to you!” came Adams’ reply through Shaw’s headset. Adams was the bravest corpsman Shaw knew, if he couldn’t make it to them, things had to be worse than he originally thought.

  “Wyatt, can you take out that gunner?” Shaw asked his team sniper.

  “On it, Boss,” came the sniper’s reply. Shaw stole a peek over the hood of the Humvee and picked up the bright muzzle flash of the barking machine gun. He ducked quickly as bullets skirted up the side of the vehicle.

  “We’ve got technicals inbound!” came Beasley’s voice through the radio, referencing improvised fighting vehicles outfitted with heavy machine guns, a favorite of al-Qaeda insurgents.

  “York, put that AT4 to use!” Shaw ordered referring to the anti-tank weapon at the Marine’s disposal. Shaw checked on Reyes again, and satisfied his condition was stable, rejoined the fight. Shaw braced his M4A1 carbine against the front corner of the vehicle, took aim, and opened fire. He squeezed off single shots, and, through his EO Tech holographic sight, he quickly engaged the enemy combatants.

  The unmistakable, hollow report of an RPG-7 reached Shaw’s ears, but before he could react, the old Humvee he used as cover ripped apart. The concussive force launched him diagonally away from the vehicle, and he bounced against the hard dirt before rolling to a stop. His insides felt like soup, and his entire body tingled, but he mustered the strength to rise.

  Shaw clumsily raced back toward Reyes, who through his prone position had miraculously escaped death. Staying low, Shaw gripped Reyes’ drag handle fixed to the rear of his plate carrier and pulled him toward the next vehicle. His shoulder erupted in pain as a round shredded through the flesh. Shaw spiraled downward and instinctively grabbed his bloody shoulder. He tried to ignore it for Reyes’ sake.

  Shaw grabbed a handful of sand as he pulled himself forward. His body shrieked with every movement, commanding him to stop, but the warrior fought onward. His long, dark hair, wet with sweat, clung to his face and beard, mixing with the dust, dirt, and blood splattered on his face. The man’s blue eyes, fixed on the next Humvee, beamed in bright contrast to his dusty, bloodied complexion. The vehicle only sat twenty feet away, but the distance appeared as miles.

  Glancing back to the unconscious man he dragged, his mind predicted the coming event. If he didn’t increase his speed, they would most certainly die. There were simply too many hostiles to remain exposed. The rest of his team provided cover fire, but he feared it wouldn’t be enough.

  He gritted his teeth and fought the pain as his lifeblood escaped through the gaping hole in his shoulder. He felt each thump of his heart as the pain pulsed through him. He rose to his feet and took three steps before searing heat ripped upward through his legs and back. He staggered and gaped at the fresh spray of blood on the sand before him. He shouted, not in distress or fear, but in anger and determination. The shout of a man bearing a weight he refused to relinquish; the shout of a man striking fear into death itself, denying the darkness its prize.

  Two more steps.

  One more step.

  A high whine echoed through his ears, and various explosions shook him to the ground as a barrage of missiles detonated around him. The Marine felt hands grip him, pulling him behind the Humvee as the Marine Corps AH-1Z Super Cobras swirled overhead pounding the enemy with an array of cannon fire and rockets. Dirt leapt into the Afghan sky like great, brown geysers as the attack helicopters, like wasps, buzzed around the village.

  “I got them!” a Marine shouted as he and an Afghan commando dragged the two wounded men further behind the Humvee.

  “Shaw!” another shouted as he slid to the wounded Marine’s side. He immediately ripped into his individual first aid kit (IFAK) and began patching the man’s stomach.

  “Wyatt,” Shaw groaned. He coughed and blood spewed from his lips and splattered his face.

  “You’re going to be alright,” Wyatt insisted as he packed the stomach wound with the clotting agent. Shaw’s eyes popped open as the pain from Wyatt’s work crashed over him.

  “Reyes?” he weakly managed to say between coughs. Wyatt glanced up at another teammate working on the wounded Reyes. He received a thumbs-up.

  “In better shape than you,” he joked, but Shaw felt the gravity in his tone. “He’ll be alright,” Wyatt added. Shaw smiled lazily, and his eyes closed slowly. “Stay with me!” Wyatt shouted. Another Marine, York, hurried to Wyatt’s side to tourniquet Shaw’s legs.

  “How is he?” he asked anxiously as he wrapped a tourniquet high on Shaw’s thigh. Wyatt offered him a grave look before turning his attention back to his wounded compatriot. York cursed as he ripped another tourniquet from his own kit just before Shaw fell into darkness.

  Part One

  The Terrorist

  1

  Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, North Carolina

  Shaw awoke and snapped upright, covered in sweat. He groaned as his injuries protested his movements. He panted, and his chest heaved. The Marine felt every tingle of pain from a myriad of wounds on his body. He must be on pain meds, because the pain was subtle and his mind hazy. His bright eyes, weak and tired, scanned the room. He was in a hospital. The television in the corner sat dark and silent, and a variety of monitors occasionally flashed and hummed in guttural tones. He exhaled as he slowly settled himself back into the bed. The last thing he remembered …

  The Marine touched his stomach as the dread set in. He tore the sheets off his body and ignored the pain in his shoulder. He almost cried when he wiggled his toes.

  “Thank God,” he said as he fought against the rimming of fresh tears. He inhaled slowly and shuttered as a wave of chills passed over his body. He did his best to cover himself again with the sheet, but he missed his left foot. He pressed his lips tightly together to suppress his emotions. He should be paralyzed. He covered his face with a hand and then dragged it down his dark beard before gazing out the window to behold the green trees and brilliant sky.

  He wasn’t in Afghanistan.

  A knock at the door drew his attention. A nurse, barely in her twenties, entered offering a warm smile. He returned her smile with a half-hearted grin. He needed to know where he was.

  “How are you?” she asked sweetly. She wore her brown hair pulled tightly into a neat bun, and her eyes glowed with kindness.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “The Naval Hospital Camp Lejeune,” she responded as she made her way to gaze at the monitors. Shaw relaxed when he heard her answer. How long had he been out? He rested his head back on the pillow. “I’m May,” she said, “and I’ve been your nurse.” Shaw offered her a better smile than before.

  “David Shaw
,” he greeted. She activated the bed controls and raised him to a reclining position before she assessed him.

  “I know, Captain,” she answered. She noted his long dark hair and grizzled beard. He wasn’t an ordinary Marine, if there was such a thing as an ordinary Marine.

  MARSOC Raiders weren’t held to the same grooming standards as other Marines. As an element of United States Special Operations Command (SOCOM), the Marine Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC) served as the special operations component of the Marine Corps, and those serving within the elite organization were some of the best the Marines had to offer.

  Shaw’s brow was sharp and permanent creases lined his forehead. He was quite attractive, and he reminded May of a frontiersman, rugged and capable. He spoke with a slight southern accent but only barely noticeable, and he held an aura of respect and intelligence she found delightful, even though a bit intimidating. “You were pretty banged up. Shot six times,” she said. Shaw almost laughed. “You spent a few weeks at Landstuhl for surgery and post op, and now you’re here for recovery. Everything looks good though,” she added. “We’ll need to change your bandages soon.”

  “Hello, Captain,” greeted a man from the opening door. Shaw glanced up at the older man as he entered. He was tall, at least six inches taller than Shaw’s sturdy six-foot frame, and thin with hands worn from combat and a face no different. His short silver hair, neatly combed, seemed to shimmer in the florescent light.

  “General Weber,” Shaw greeted. He tried to make himself more presentable by sitting up, but the general waved his hand in disregard. The officer fiddled with his cover as he moved to Shaw’s side. Most might consider it unusual for the commander of MARSOC, a major general, to visit one of his team commanders, a captain, but Shaw held a special place in Weber’s heart. Not only had he wished for the man to become his son-in-law, a dream he and his wife still held onto despite the failed relationship between their daughter, Caroline, and Shaw that ended the year prior, but Weber had personally recruited Shaw into Detachment One, MARSOC’s predecessor, in the early 2000’s. He had never regretted it.