Read an Excerpt
A Reluctant Assassin
By C.E. Wilcox
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 C. E. Wilcox
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-5780-0
Chapter One
There are six of us shrouded in the pitch-black, practically claustrophobic darkness of a Marine Corps CH-53S Sea Dragon helicopter heading to a drop zone close to the Afghanistan-Pakistan border for deployment. We are each on a special solo scout/sniper assignment, assignments the Pentagon in Washington DC projects to have less than a 10 percent survival rate. For this night, this moment in time, we have prepared extensively to jump into the cold, black night air of Afghanistan, parachuting into what appears to be a dark bottomless pit, as nothing illuminated on the ground gives us a clue as to our location or even the elevation of our helicopter.
I only knew the other five by their code names, having learned them as we trained together during the past four months in the deserts of central California. Individual assignments assured that we were deployed separately. To maintain utmost secrecy, no discussion of our missions had been allowed—not among ourselves, not with our immediate supervisors, and definitely not with anyone outside the military. We did know that all of our missions were a response to 9/11, which made their successful completion seem that much more important.
The Sea Dragon S—S for stealth—was required to fly at some twelve thousand feet for this mission, which was unusual for the aircraft. The standard CH-53 is primarily a troop transport and support helicopter. The Sea Dragon CH-53S is a top-secret stealth, or silent-operating, helicopter. The stealth technology, originally developed during the Vietnam War to silently insert and retrieve special operations personnel from behind enemy lines, results in a maximum achievable ceiling of approximately twelve to fourteen thousand feet. The high altitude we were using provided the silent insertion necessary for our mission. Our enemies, the Taliban and al-Qaeda, were equipped with advanced technology for detecting any lower-level insertion into what they considered their space, whether land or air.
When a CH-53S Sea Dragon navigator identifies a drop zone, a small red light comes on in the troop compartment of the helicopter. When this light pops on, all six of us will have approximately one minute to exit through the back ramp. As we prepare to jump, the Sea Dragon starts a dead drop: the engines are cut back to idle, and the aircraft free-falls for two thousand feet. The reason for this descent is to reduce any engine sound the enemy might hear. Once we parachute out the back, the helicopter continues to descend with its engines idling for at least another forty to fifty miles from the drop zone. This greatly reduces the possibility of al-Qaeda or the Taliban detecting deployment.
I, Sergeant Oscar Wylton, a six-foot-two, 196-pound Marine, was assigned position number four in the lineup to exit the rear door.
My fifty-plus pounds of combat gear included two gallons of water. The water was strapped to my body by bladder-type tanks; this would eliminate sloshing as I moved about. My assignment required me to be on the ground for at least two weeks, and my research of the drop zone and target area had revealed not a single source of water. My water supply had to be used sparingly. The Pentagon had planned for us to be picked up precisely two weeks from the initial drop, at the same location, at the same time—the water had to last through that duration.
I checked my chute and all my gear—everything was set and ready to go. Everything except my nerves, which were a little frazzled. This was my tenth mission—the previous nine all in dangerous territories—yet there was no way my mind could relax and not race with thoughts of injury, capture, or death. Each one of us undoubtedly dealt with the same emotions.
After several hours of flight, the light finally blinked on.
The night air at ten thousand feet proved to be cool with low humidity. The drop zone could not be seen in the moonless night, as my descent allowed only a view of the mountain peaks silhouetted against the black sky. Having no idea how close to the ground I was, I checked the only method available: a small Doppler device attached to my parachute harness that required my continuous attention in order to determine my position relative to the ground. Dropping at a pretty steady rate, I knew to pull up on the chute as the ground approached, causing my descent to slow. At two hundred feet, I pulled the cords attached to the chute to reduce my descent. This still did not prevent a hard landing, as the ground proved much closer than two hundred feet, more likely one hundred.
Shit, a helluva way to start the mission.
Bouncing and rolling for about thirty feet, my aching body finally came to rest on the hard sandy surface. My right leg and my right elbow had been skinned. Fortunately, my Marine Corps-issued cammies (camouflaged utility uniform) demonstrated more resilience than my tender skin. With the wind blowing at about twelve to fifteen knots, I knew I had to collapse the chute. If not, it could quickly fill with the blowing wind and drag my tender ass across half of Afghanistan, probably ending up in some poor unsuspecting sheepherder's outhouse—assuming they had outhouses.
Once I collapsed my parachute, it had to be disposed of. Burning it would produce a flame that could be seen for miles, so I proceeded to dig a hole. Ever try digging a hole in concrete with a knife? When we practiced this mission in the California desert, the surface consisted mostly of loose sand, so burying the chute hadn't been a big deal. Laboring for two hours with my KA-BAR (a military knife comparable to a hunting knife), I finally produced a hole deep enough to bury the parachute. Covering and smoothing the surface over with some weeds and brush that lay nearby, I concealed the burial site of my dead parachute; in this case, there would be no grave marker.
I glanced at my watch, finding it to be about one thirty bravo time or about three thirty in the morning local time. Bravo time is a single worldwide military time zone used so all operations are in the same timeframe. I had to get my ass in gear, needing to travel at least six miles before sunup, while allowing myself time to establish a hide. A hide is a totally camouflaged position that provides a Marine with sufficient concealment so that a person standing within two feet cannot know of the Marine's presence in any way. Establishing a proper hide for the day was critical to the success of my mission, as travels could only be at night to avoid any possible detection.
Although it was hotter than a witch's tit, being encased head to foot in infrared avoidance clothing reduced the heat generated by my body. This necessary garment, a special covering somewhat like pantyhose, provided the technology to avoid detection by an infrared scope at night; however, it hadn't been fully tested, and this mission would be its first combat use.
I checked to be sure that all of my gear, weapons, water, and provisions remained in my possession following my little encounter with the ground. Everything seemed intact and ready to roll. With fifty-plus pounds of weight being humped across the plain, maintaining the average walking pace established for the mission would prove to be difficult. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, the need to cover at least six miles before sunup required a blistering pace.
The GPS system, which included a topographical map screen, required checking to determine my position. Before boarding the helicopter for the flight, the GPS had been calibrated for this mission. The GPS screen indicated my current position, the mission destination, and the distance I had to cover each night before developing my hide for the day. The total distance to the target was calculated to be approximately thirty miles, meaning that I must cover a minimum of six miles each day in order to accomplish the mission and return to the drop/pickup zone with little time to spare.
I had confidence in being able to hump the twenty-nine miles to the critical point. The critical point, a location approximately a quarter mile from my final hide, was where I would take out my target. That last quarter mile would take at least a full day to complete. My final day's movement to the critical point could only be made at night and had to be accomplished on a belly-crawl, using my fingers and toes to move myself slowly across the ground. During the day, a ghillie suit would provide my hide. A ghillie suit is special camouflage clothing developed by a Scottish hunter prior to the First World War. The British successfully adapted the suit during the First World War and subsequent wars for use by their trained snipers. The United States started to use the suit during the Second World War. Yet, despite the ghillie suit, I would have to remain alert and move sparingly and only as necessary.
Even though anti-infrared stockings covered my body, the Taliban or al-Qaeda still had night vision equipment. Such equipment could spot any movement within their protected area. The protected area extended radially outward approximately two thousand yards from their base camp. To be within my firing range, which was a 99.9 percent probability of a hit on the target, I had to be inside a radius of twelve hundred yards of the base camp. That fell well within the night vision capabilities of my adversaries. My movement inside the final five hundred yards to my final hide position had to be painfully slow so as not to be detected. The final hide position, from which the fatal shot would be fired, had been carefully selected through research and topographical maps.
The hard ground had a loose, sandy covering. My location was on a plain with a low growth of shrubs, grass, and the occasional dwarf tree. Mountain ranges completely surrounded the plain. The twelve- to fifteen-knot winds quickly blew the loose soil over any tracks I might have left. I took a sip of water and looked at my GPS to ensure my heading was in the right direction. Carefully checking the GPS topographical setting to determine if any drop-offs or cliffs existed, I further assured myself that the chosen direction would take me to the correct location. My eyes had adjusted to the almost-total darkness, but I could only see about ten to fifteen feet ahead of me. I set off at the pace I knew I had to maintain to reach my first night's objective.
Not even thirty steps into the hike, sweat began to pour down my face and my back. At this point, my extensive and strenuous conditioning really paid off. At the California desert training camp, Gunnery Sergeant Mike Turner pushed us every day to maximize our conditioning. We were up at five in the morning doing push-ups, squats, jumping jacks, and an assortment of other physical tortures designed to condition our bodies for this mission. Gunnery Turner, himself in exceptional condition, made sure we were in excellent physical condition as well.
In addition to the morning physical training (PT), we took long hikes every day with full packs, including scoped rifles and Glock P38 (pistol) sidearms, all fully loaded, to further harden our bodies. The forced marches, as we referred to them, covered twenty miles per day, ten out and ten back. The temperature, always in the triple digit range and often exceeding 110 degrees, prepared us for the heat of the deserts in Afghanistan, but not the oppressive humidity.
To add to our daily physical preparedness, we spent numerous hours on the rifle and pistol range sharpening our skills as expert marksmen. Being equipped with the latest and best sniper rifles and scopes provided a potential edge against our adversaries. This equipment, developed by the Marine Corps Scout/Sniper School located in Camp Pendleton, California, included the M-14 with a 10x scope, technologically the most advanced rifle and scope available anywhere.
We trained and trained with our weapons until we could consistently hit a man's head at fifteen hundred yards. We had to hit the target every time, regardless of weather conditions, such as wind, rain, extreme heat, and extreme humidity, and were trained to look for telltale signs, such as the movement of grass or heat waves rising from the ground, any or all of which could distort the target image or the path of the projectile. The knowledge greatly improved our marksmanship. The rigorous training required our movement to Camp Pendleton in southern California, Camp Lejeune in South Carolina, and various other camps throughout the United States. All of this was to perfect our marksmanship with both the M-14 and with the Glock P38, as well as expose us to various climate extremes.
Not being the best recruit in boot camp or infantry training, I still ended up as one of the Marines selected for the scout/sniper program. Captain James Broody, who headed the school at Quantico, Virginia, personally selected each candidate. The initial selection could only be through volunteer placement. Next, Captain Jim, as we came to know him, put each candidate through a two-hour interview that covered every aspect of his or her life. The questioning focused on why one wanted to become a scout/sniper. After Captain Jim completed his interrogation, his staff would continue the interview process. The interview with the staff involved subterfuge, such as a candidate being misled to believe the interview was just a social gathering of fellow Marines in order to get the candidate's guard down. Captain Jim wanted the braggarts and "I-want-to-be-a-killer" types weeded out.
The final part of the candidate selection included a psychological evaluation. Scout/snipers need to have exceptional abilities, among them being able to lie in a single spot with limited movement for days at a time. They would have to defecate and piss in their pants and lay in the waste for days. One leading question concerned marriage or potential of marriage. Captain Jim preferred unmarried candidates—no one who had already been married, and those who were "about to be married" went to the bottom of the candidate list. He possessed skepticism of any candidate who carried pictures of his or her current "honey." But the most significant factor in the selection included the candidate's ability to look into the eyes of the victim and put a bullet into the body of that individual. The scout/sniper could not view his occupation as one of a vendetta or as an opportunity to get even. He or she mentally had to eliminate any personal feeling about the target; the job was to eliminate the designated target and move onto the next, period.
Not the best marksman in my boot camp platoon at Parris Island, South Carolina, my scores consistently ranked me somewhere from the middle to the bottom half of the shooters in the platoon. Psychologically, I'm very stable and tested high on IQ tests; while not a genius, I still placed in the top 10 percent of the candidates. I followed orders as given and maintained my equipment and uniforms in top condition. All things considered, I was a good fit for the scout/sniper program.
I volunteered for the program and fulfilled all the basic requirements, which resulted in my selection to the program. Next, I spent eight weeks training at Quantico, Virginia, and graduated in the middle of my class. After graduation, I had been assigned to the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, India Company, Third Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment. The first year of that assignment I spent snooping and pooping around the pine forests of Camp Lejeune. At times, my team would sneak up on unsuspecting grunts and put an imaginary round into them.
But I had no time to reminisce; the schedule had to be maintained. My topographical map indicated a small ridge of one hundred fifty feet that I had to scale before arriving at a plateau where my first day's hide would be. Arriving at the bottom of the ridge, pretty much on schedule, the climb up started in earnest and with the knowledge that it would significantly slow my pace. With the weight of my gear, the climb proved to be more difficult than anticipated. I began huffing, puffing, and sweating while attempting to maintain the pace. This proved to be unrealistic. Figuring the pace could be improved on the downside of the ridge, I slowed to a more manageable level.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Reluctant Assassin by C.E. Wilcox Copyright © 2010 by C. E. Wilcox. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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