Black Site by Dalton Fury Read Free Book Online Page A

yards from where she sat.
    Pam’s earpiece was silent for several seconds. Then a tinny voice came through from the next room.
    “Great job, Pammy. An hour ago we were the shit, now we’re in the shit.”
    “It’s just stupid, Myron.” Myron was one of the Reaper’s two sensor operators. “Is she flying like her wings are iced?”
    A pause. “Negative.”
    “Exactly. My four boys are blind down there facing every Taliban and AQ fighter in the region. They need us.” The emotion in her voice revealed more than just frustration over the order. She was genuinely concerned about the men. This was her third flight over the element with the call sign Hunter 29. She hated leaving them alone in enemy territory.
    Myron’s voice chided her over the mike. “You’re not their mother. They’re Delta—they can handle it till another crew gets overhead.”
    “I hope so.” She watched the GPS coordinates change on her navigation monitor. As her bird crossed back over the mountainous border between Pakistan and Afghanistan she said aloud, “Good luck, Hunter 29. You’re on your own.”

 
    SEVEN
    First light dawned at five thirty. Racer, Musket, Rock, and Jet lay spread out over ten meters of tall snow-covered brush on a ridgeline overlooking a small gorge. Below them a dry stream bed narrowed to the south, but widened to the north as it snaked around a bend away to the east. A lower hill rose in front of them, and ended a hundred meters to the north to form the southern bank of the stream bed’s curve.
    Just on the other side of the little hill, intel suggested, the sprawling enemy complex lay camouflaged on the floor of a larger canyon.
    One hundred sixty meters away from Hunter 29’s layup point.
    “This sucks,” barked Raynor. Vapor from his breath turned to wisps in the frigid morning air.
    All four men rested while they surveilled the area through their night vision goggles. As they did so some dug into First Strike Rations, a pared-down Meal, Ready to Eat for ops when even MREs were too bulky. Raynor sucked energy gel from a foil pouch, squeezed the calories and caffeine and sugar into his lean body, washed it down with water infused with small amounts of salt to aid in hydration.
    Rocky replied to Raynor’s comment with one of his own. “It’s dead down there.”
    Jet asked, “If the Reaper comes back during daylight and clears to the next waypoint, are we going forward?”
    Raynor shook his head though the men could not see one another in the brush. “I doubt it.”
    “So we just hang out here all dang day,” Rocky said, and followed the comment with an audible spit.
    Raynor hesitated. Then said, “I don’t like this place as an ROD. What do you think, Musket?”
    The oldest of the team at thirty-eight, Mike Overstreet was also the ranking NCO of the troop. He had nearly twice the time in Delta as his major. His voice was low and gravelly. “Could be better. These bushes aren’t much cover.”
    “Yeah,” agreed Racer. “Did you see a better spot anywhere behind us?”
    “Not that we can get to before sunup.”
    Kolt nodded. “What about those trees on the crest ahead. That would be a better ROD.”
    Overstreet did not respond.
    “Musket?”
    “You askin’ me or tellin’ me, boss?”
    “Asking.”
    Racer heard the man shrug. “It’s a better spot than here. But Eagle 01 said to sit tight.”
    “Yeah, he did, but that is a safer spot up ahead. We don’t need a UAV to tell us that this ravine is clear. We can cross, summit to that little saddle on the hill, and lay up there. If we should happen to get an overlook position—well, I’m not going to cry about it.”
    Musket had been silent but now he spoke. “What’s Eagle 01 going to say about that?”
    “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” said Raynor.
    Rocky’s and Jet’s chuckles permeated the hide.
    For another thirty minutes they lay there, searching the nothingness of the gorge as it slowly filled