Ghost Warrior - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

2005

Forward Operating Base Cobra
Afghanistan – 0100 Hours Local Time

The air inside the briefing room was stale, thick with the scent of sweat, coffee, and gun oil. The walls were bare save for a large satellite map pinned to a plywood board, covered in red markers, tactical notes, and satellite imagery.  Seated around the long table were six men—Echo Team, DEVGRU, Tier 1 operators who had spent years in the shadows, hunting the worst of the worst.

At the head of the table, Commander Greg Harlan, their operational commander, call sign “Hardman”, stood with his arms crossed. Hard, weathered, no bullshit. A lifer in the SEAL teams, Harlan had run ops from Mogadishu to Fallujah and carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt.

To his left, Case Officer Nick Rossi, the CIA liaison for the mission, a civilian in a tactical button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Rossi was agency through and through—sharp, cold-eyed, and built for dirty work. If a war had a backroom, he had a seat at the table.  On the right side of the table, Master Chief Anthony "Tony" DeLuca leaned back, arms folded, chewing on a toothpick like he had all the time in the world. Beside him, Senior Chief Tucker Chitto Nash, silent, dark eyes locked on the map.

The rest of Echo Team—Petty Officers Mike “Bear” Kowalski, Gabe "Tex" Salazar, and Chris "Doc" Peters—sat tense but focused, each one an apex predator in human form.

At the far end of the room, Ghost, their Belgian Malinois, sat alert at Tony’s feet, ears perked, head turning slightly at every noise outside the tent.

Rossi cleared his throat and flipped the laptop screen open, the glow casting shadows on their faces. A grainy satellite image of a compound appeared.

"Alright, listen up," Rossi said, voice crisp, no wasted words. "Target is Mohibullah Zafar—senior Taliban bomb-maker. This guy has been IED’ing the hell out of our convoys for the last year. He’s responsible for at least six Coalition KIA, four of our own, and a bus full of Afghan schoolkids. We finally have eyes on him."

He tapped the screen, zooming in on a walled compound in the middle of the mountains.

_"This is his safehouse, located here—" Rossi dragged his finger over the ridgeline. "—approximately ten klicks southeast of Garmser. Remote, well-defended, and situated in a basin with three access points. One road in, two goat trails out. He’s holed up here with about a dozen fighters, all well-trained, all packing heat."

Tony exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah, great. Another freaking fortress."

"It’s worse," Rossi continued. He clicked again, pulling up a thermal scan. "ISR shows him moving at night, never staying put too long. But he’s here. We have a small window before he ghosts out again."

Harlan grunted.
"We know what he’s cooking?"

"Homemade explosives, pressure plate IEDs, vehicle-borne IEDs. And we know he’s training others," Rossi said. "This isn’t just a kill op, it’s a disruption op. We take him out, we send a message."

Silence settled over the room.

Tucker leaned forward, studying the compound’s layout.
"What’s the terrain like?"

"Mountainous. Rocky. Steep ascents and loose shale. Worst of it is here—" Rossi pointed at the northwest ridgeline. "—you’ll have an exposed approach for the last klick before you can set up a hide."

"And exfil?" Kowalski asked.

"Same way in. Helo drop ten miles out, foot patrol to the objective, execute, then move to rally point Whiskey for extract. No room for error—if this goes loud, they’ll have reinforcements flooding in within fifteen minutes."

A beat.

Tony cracked his neck. "So, we move quiet."

Harlan nodded. "Sniper engagement. Nash, you’re the trigger. We’ll set you up at high ground, get you a firing lane. The rest of the team covers your six and preps for a contingency. You get one shot. Make it count."

Tucker exhaled slowly, nodding once. No hesitation. No nerves. This was his world.

"Rifle loadout?" he asked.

"Your call, Senior Chief," Harlan said. "But I’d take the suppressed Mk13 Mod 5. Wind conditions are stable, range is within your lane."

"Works for me."

"What about comms?" Tex asked.

"ISR overhead for the first hour. Then we go dark. SATCOM only. You get compromised, you have two choices—fight your way out or disappear."

Rossi leaned in, voice serious. "We good?"

Tucker locked eyes with Tony.

Tony grinned. "Yeah, we’re good."

The briefing room emptied in silence, the weight of the mission pressing down as Echo Team stepped into the cool Afghan night.

No words were needed.  Their footsteps were measured, boots crunching softly over the hard-packed dirt as they moved across the compound toward the gear-up area. A low buzz of generators filled the air, accompanied by the occasional muffled chatter of distant security personnel.

The mount-up room was a reinforced structure—steel, sandbags, and dust. The door creaked open, and they stepped into the dimly lit interior.  The room was lined with individual gear cages, each one labeled with a nameplate—a controlled chaos of weapons, ammo crates, and specialized kit.

Tucker moved to his locker, fingers brushing over the cold steel before he unlatched it. Inside, his ruck was already packed to standard loadout, his Mk13 Mod 5 sniper rifle in its secured case, clean, deadly, ready.  He reached for the rifle first, lifting it free with a careful, practiced grip. The weight was familiar, balanced, an extension of himself.

One last check.  He pulled the bolt back, inspected the chamber. Clear. Smooth. No grit.  The suppressor was already attached, secured tight but precise.  His scope was dialed to neutral, reticle set for adjustment in the field.  Satisfied, he set the rifle down and slung his ruck onto his shoulders, adjusting the straps until the weight sat just right.

Across from him, Tony pulled his pack from the cage, adjusting his plate carrier before clipping his night vision goggles into place on his helmet.

“You locked in, Tushka?”

Tucker nodded once. “Good to go.”

Around them, the rest of Echo Team prepped their gear.

Tex grabbed extra mags, checking each one before sliding them into his vest.
Kowalski adjusted his comms gear, running a quick test with the shortwave.
Doc slung his medical pack, ensuring he had enough combat gauze, tourniquets, and field dressings.
Gabe “Tex’ Salazar clipped his suppressor onto his HK416, giving it a final rotation before securing it.

A pause.

Then, like always, they checked each other over.

Tucker felt Tony’s hand slap the side of his pack, giving it a quick shake.

“Tight. No loose straps. You’re good.”

Tucker did the same, checking Tony’s rig, making sure his kit was squared away.

One by one, they ran through their final gear inspections—tightening straps, adjusting weight distribution, ensuring everything was exactly where it needed to be.

Silent. Focused. Nothing left to say.

Tony was the first to step toward the exit.

“Let’s roll.”

They filed out, stepping into the waiting night.

The MH-47G Chinook sat in the open, its twin rotors already spinning, kicking up waves of dust and grit, turning the night into a swirling haze.

The crew chief stood at the ramp, waving them forward.

No hesitation. No wasted movement.

Tucker jogged toward the bird, keeping low against the wind blast, his rifle secure across his chest.

Ghost, the Belgian Malinois, loped up the ramp first, ears flattened against the rotor wash.

Tony followed, then Tex, then Kowalski, Doc, and finally Tucker.

The team dropped onto the web seating, strapping in.

The loadmaster pulled the ramp up, sealing them inside.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the internal comms.

“Wheels up in thirty seconds.”

The rotors thundered, vibrating through the deck as the Chinook lifted, its massive frame tilting forward into the blackness.

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