tumbled and lay still, arms and legs sprawled, less than six feet from the lead pickup.
Short, accurate machine-gun bursts ripped into the trucks. The passengers in both Toyotas were torn apart where they sat. The man who had opened the door for Muhammad froze as his comrades died horribly all around him. Then Mark 48s caught him cold. More blood splattered the SUV and streaked down its custom candy apple clear-coat paint job as his lifeless body sank into the powdery dirt.
In seconds, the SEALs killed seven of the eight terrorists. Only Muhammad had survived. When the shooting started, he dove prone on the far side of the Suburban and nobody could see him well enough to get shots off. The Mark 48 gunners laid on their triggers, walking their fire back and forth until each man had burned through an entire two-hundred-round belt.
And then, an eerie silence descended on the scene. From his firing platform atop the table, Kyle scanned the SUV and could not see Muhammad. Taking out his security detail would serve little purpose if they couldnât kill him, too. The mission would be a failure; Tucker and Menchaca would go unavenged.
The Americans waited for Muhammad to make a move. The minutes ticked by. The snipers quartered off the SUV to ensure somebody would have a shot no matter which way he moved should he spring to his feet and make a break for it. Whatever happened, they could not allow him to go through that gate. He would be able to get inside the safe house unhindered, and the SEALs did not know if there were weapons in there. They would have to assault the house and hunt for him room to room, and that ran a substantial risk of taking casualties.
The SEALs stayed glued to their sights. Could Muhammad have been hit? Is that why he hadnât moved? The Mark 48s had sent eight hundred rounds downrange. The Suburban looked like bloody Swiss cheese. The Toyotas were riddled with bullet gashes. The convoy was a ghoulish scene. So perhaps their target had been hit. They couldnât be sure.
An hour passed with no movement. Something had to be done to end the impasse, but sweeping the target area with part of the team was deemed too risky. Intel had warned them that Muhammadâs security detail all wore bomb vests. That information did not appear to be accurate, but the SEALs couldnât be sure. Perhaps Muhammad himself wore one, just in case he faced capture, so he could take a few Americans with him as he punched his own ticket to Allah.
There had to be an alternative to risking lives in such a move.
Inspiration struck the SEAL commander. Perhaps they could put one over on Muhammad if he was still alive. The team called in the CH-53 and they would stage a false extraction. A few minutes later, the bird arrived and set down behind the hide site. A third of the team rushed from the house and flowed over the helicopterâs ramp to settle down inside. In seconds, the Super Stallion was back in the air, seemingly heading for home.
Kyle and the other snipers remained in the hide, waiting to see if Muhammad would react. It turned into a battle of patience. The SEALs relaxed, this was their sort of game. Kyle lay on the door, covering down on the nearest approach route between the SUV and the safe houseâs front gate. As they waited, the men bantered back and forth over who might get the shot. The machine gunners squared off against the snipers and challenged them. It was on now, and the friendly competition kept everyone alert and at their best.
An hour later, Muhammadâs head prairie-dogged over the Suburbanâs hood. Just his eyes appeared as he took a quick look around. The SEALs held their fire. He ducked back down. A moment later, he reappeared and studied the hide site. He vanished, thought things over, and concluded that the Americans really had left.
He stood up, right in Kyleâs field of view and sprinted for the gate. Kyle knew the range: three hundred yards, well within the Win
Short, accurate machine-gun bursts ripped into the trucks. The passengers in both Toyotas were torn apart where they sat. The man who had opened the door for Muhammad froze as his comrades died horribly all around him. Then Mark 48s caught him cold. More blood splattered the SUV and streaked down its custom candy apple clear-coat paint job as his lifeless body sank into the powdery dirt.
In seconds, the SEALs killed seven of the eight terrorists. Only Muhammad had survived. When the shooting started, he dove prone on the far side of the Suburban and nobody could see him well enough to get shots off. The Mark 48 gunners laid on their triggers, walking their fire back and forth until each man had burned through an entire two-hundred-round belt.
And then, an eerie silence descended on the scene. From his firing platform atop the table, Kyle scanned the SUV and could not see Muhammad. Taking out his security detail would serve little purpose if they couldnât kill him, too. The mission would be a failure; Tucker and Menchaca would go unavenged.
The Americans waited for Muhammad to make a move. The minutes ticked by. The snipers quartered off the SUV to ensure somebody would have a shot no matter which way he moved should he spring to his feet and make a break for it. Whatever happened, they could not allow him to go through that gate. He would be able to get inside the safe house unhindered, and the SEALs did not know if there were weapons in there. They would have to assault the house and hunt for him room to room, and that ran a substantial risk of taking casualties.
The SEALs stayed glued to their sights. Could Muhammad have been hit? Is that why he hadnât moved? The Mark 48s had sent eight hundred rounds downrange. The Suburban looked like bloody Swiss cheese. The Toyotas were riddled with bullet gashes. The convoy was a ghoulish scene. So perhaps their target had been hit. They couldnât be sure.
An hour passed with no movement. Something had to be done to end the impasse, but sweeping the target area with part of the team was deemed too risky. Intel had warned them that Muhammadâs security detail all wore bomb vests. That information did not appear to be accurate, but the SEALs couldnât be sure. Perhaps Muhammad himself wore one, just in case he faced capture, so he could take a few Americans with him as he punched his own ticket to Allah.
There had to be an alternative to risking lives in such a move.
Inspiration struck the SEAL commander. Perhaps they could put one over on Muhammad if he was still alive. The team called in the CH-53 and they would stage a false extraction. A few minutes later, the bird arrived and set down behind the hide site. A third of the team rushed from the house and flowed over the helicopterâs ramp to settle down inside. In seconds, the Super Stallion was back in the air, seemingly heading for home.
Kyle and the other snipers remained in the hide, waiting to see if Muhammad would react. It turned into a battle of patience. The SEALs relaxed, this was their sort of game. Kyle lay on the door, covering down on the nearest approach route between the SUV and the safe houseâs front gate. As they waited, the men bantered back and forth over who might get the shot. The machine gunners squared off against the snipers and challenged them. It was on now, and the friendly competition kept everyone alert and at their best.
An hour later, Muhammadâs head prairie-dogged over the Suburbanâs hood. Just his eyes appeared as he took a quick look around. The SEALs held their fire. He ducked back down. A moment later, he reappeared and studied the hide site. He vanished, thought things over, and concluded that the Americans really had left.
He stood up, right in Kyleâs field of view and sprinted for the gate. Kyle knew the range: three hundred yards, well within the Win
Similar Books
