Wrong Way Street

By Joshua Merrick

In the aftermath of this country's darkest hour, the attacks on the World Trade Center Twin Towers, DIA specialists stumble across a vital intelligence transmission that could lead to one of the masterminds behind the attacks. A team of ARMY Rangers is sent behind foreign lines to find and extract this mysterious man, but before they can reach the landing site their C-130 transport is targeted by a roving team with surface to air missiles - a team placed by CIA assets to protect the Rangers' target. With his chute damaged and the mission compromised, Lt. Jason Callaway (known as JC to his friends), faces the biggest challenge of his military career: to bring in one his nation's greatest enemies, one of her own turned traitor. After JC overcomes impossible odds to escape the intelligence assets who try to turn him for their own purposes, he finds himself court-martialed and the rest of his team imprisoned. The organization behind it all target JC's wife in an attempt to bring him in again. A failed midnight attack leads to JC being injured and on the run while his wife Karen, is hospitalized for GSW to the chest. With time running out, and his wife's life on the line, JC brings the fight to them, employing all his skill and training (and all the favors he can call in) to find the men who want him dead. When other means prove ineffective, JC's unknown enemies turn one of their best agents loose after him, a woman named Lori who has never failed. With rogue agents and intelligence turf wars, bitter secrets and desperate men with too many names; the only chance for success will come down to what one man is willing to do for the people (and country) that he loves. This whirlwind adventure is a must read for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Merrick
• Release date: May 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476039107

Joshua Merrick

The author lives in the Western States where he continues to write. When not occupied in his work or one of his many hobbies, he enjoys spending time with his growing family among the tree-covered foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

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Wrong Way Street

by Joshua Merrick

Copyright 2011 Joshua Merrick Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-1-4327-8353-2

This book is available in print at many online retailers.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your persona; enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Meet the author https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JMerrickbooks

Author’s notes:

The names and incidents in this novel are not a representation of fact – rather expressions of the author’s imagination. Any similarities in the text to actual people or events are coincidental. The characters and their experiences in this novel however are real. I have known and worked with many of them – I have shared their successes as well as their sorrows.

It is my hope that this book be a reminder of the valor of those who serve; a caution to those who would lead them; and an homage to those we’ve left behind.

In the end, pride is a danger to even the most honorable of intentions. And sometimes reason finds no purpose. It ever has been and always will be love that motivates mankind in our greatest accomplishments.

Special thanks to Joe, Mike, Amy, Sis and others for your critiques and insights. A special thanks to my wife who has put up with the late nights and long hours getting this project ready for print. Your support has been my strength – and I am nothing without you.

There are times in life when we all feel as if we were going the wrong way down on a one way street. It isn’t necessarily that we are traveling in the wrong direction, sometimes we are merely on the wrong path. This book is dedicated to those who are struggling to find their direction. Life is indeed a one way street, but each life and each path is unique. May you find your path – and may you travel it well.

Wrong Way Street

Prologue

(day 1, 22:14, undisclosed location, somewhere over Lebanon)

The darkness inside the MC130E’s bay was uncomfortable, a feeling that the constant noise and vibration did nothing to lessen. It was a feeling that he had become all too familiar with during the last five years as an Army Ranger. A feeling nearly equal to the pounding rush of blood in anticipation of the jump that would start this mission - and the smoke and destruction that would end it. This was perhaps the most important mission yet that Jason had taken part in during his short but promising career.

The information had come early that morning, a series of intercepted texts over a mobile phone on one of the feds’ hot lists that detailed the time and location of a meeting set up by Osama bin Laden’s military advisor, Yassaud Sharuff A’Danni. Since the attack on the Twin Towers, the CIA and the Pentagon had activated all their resources in attempts to find bin Laden and his allies.

For many years A’Danni had been under investigation, he was known to be associated with fundamentalist Muslim groups fighting against the infidel West. His studies in Cambridge had given him influence with several political and military figures – through which he trained and outfitted his organizations. And now he had promised to meet with the leaders of a notably active Syrian terror cell.

The intercept had come just as the deliberations with the United Nations had determined that the US Army did not have authority to penetrate ‘neutral’ countries airspace while carrying out missions against suspected terrorists. Any unsanctioned activities would jeopardize further UN support of continuing US war efforts. Having been alerted of this disparity, the pilots and crew aboard the MC130E were wary of probing radar from anti aircraft and other ‘unfriendlies’.

Somehow, Jason could never get used to the idea that less than an eighth of an inch of aluminum airfoil separated him from the cold night air and a drop of hundreds of feet, or the incoming fire of anti aircraft and 20mm cannons. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the mission brief they had covered just before takeoff. The mission detailed for a twelve man strike team to be air dropped into Lebanon, behind a line of hills five miles from the training camp where the terrorists were to meet. They would then approach the compound on foot, overcome and eliminate any guard forces and capture Yassaud Sharuff A’Danni and the Syrian terror cell leaders (ALIVE!! And NO fuck ups! As Captain Rogers had said it). When the mission was complete, they would radio in for a heli pickup and transport back to the airstrip for a mission debriefing. Jason shifted against the airplane’s side, thinking of the unknown guards; ‘Just how good are they, and how many are there.’

Damn it! he swore silently, Close your eyes and relax, we’re still twenty minutes out.

* * *

(day 1, 22:46, Pentagon, E level, General Bradshaw’s office)

Inside his Pentagon office, General Bradshaw spoke angrily into his phone.

Yes we have a team going out there already! Did you think we wouldn’t act on something this important? And another thing – I’d like to know who told you about this mission, we haven’t even known about this for 24 hours and you call and demand me to put a stop to it! This is our mission. You stay out of it . . . Look! The Pentagon is concerned with only one thing, and that is finding those responsible for the attacks on this country . . . Those are our boys over there and we sure as hell aren’t going to bow out to a bunch of spooks who couldn’t even tell us what we were up against at the beginning of this damned war! . . . Oh hell, call it whatever you want: preemptive action, military sanction – it’s all the same over here. We’re taking heat from Congress on one side and the White House on the other with the whole goddamned media fanning the flames; we’re not aggressive enough, we’re too aggressive, we’re not moving on fast enough, we’re not securing our positions well enough, we’re trusting the locals too much, we don’t trust them enough . . . now we finally have a chance to make something positive happen and you’re telling me, ordering me to back down! No I will not! You can go to hell, sir! Take it up with the president, he is the Commander in Chief, and he is the only one who can give me an order like that . . . Oh really? Mm hmm, and I’m supposed to just take your word on that. You’re damned right I will! I’ll call him right now! Goodbye! He slammed the phone down on the receiver and yelled for his secretary to dial the president’s oval office number.

Threaten me with executive action for interfering with a CIA operation, this thing was ours from the beginning. That cocksure son of a bitch. He quieted and began to explain the reason for his call as the president answered, and quickly paled as he heard the president’s response.

General Bradshaw, I’m glad you called. I wanted to speak to you personally, I just haven’t had the time. You see, It’s about this team you’re sending out over Lebanon – wait, this is a secure line we’re on right?

Yes, Mr. President.

Good. Now, about this mission; you know that our military forces have no authority to penetrate Lebanon’s airspace, I would have thought that that alone would be enough to discourage this whole affair.

I understand, Mr. President, but if you would let me explain the importance of this mission.

Now please, let me finish, General. You know that the CIA has had teams of sleepers placed inside several terrorist groups for many years now, and it is in part due to their efforts that we have been able to respond as quickly and effectively as we have to this whole situation over there. In consideration of the intelligence they have given us and the fact that they have assets inside this particular group, this operation falls under the CIA’s active op parameters. Now, what I need for you to do is to call that team of yours back in and have them stand down. Don’t misunderstand me, I admire your efforts, and I’m impressed with your response time on this– it’s just that we cannot afford any negative political fallout right now. The kind of attention that would be drawn by taking the wrong kind of action could really hurt us with our allies, and you know that we aren’t on the top of everyone’s favorite nation list.

I understand, Mr. President, and I wish I could just make a phone call and get them back – but it’s not that simple.

And why is that, General Bradshaw?

Our team is operating under strict radio silence until the mission is complete – there is no way we can call them back, sir, in fact they are probably only minutes away from the location right now.

Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that - you see, the CIA teams are already in a defensive position and they have instructions not to let anyone get within that zone to interfere with this meeting. If you can’t call them back then I’m afraid that you’re going to have to take a loss on your team, our CIA ops groups are very good, even for spooks.

Mr. President, at least hold them off for a few hours and let me send out a team to bring them back in, we can’t . . .

I’m sorry, General, I can’t allow that. You see, our CIA people aren’t officially ‘there’, and the UN has decided that you aren’t supposed to be there – technically Lebanon is not one of our enemies. We can’t have anyone making accusations about us invading neighboring countries and taking advantage of their neutrality - it would compromise too many things. Again, I’m sorry, I know this is going to be a heavy loss - Director Simmons tells me they were some of your best men.

Yes, Mr. President.

Well, General, I'm sorry this had to fall out like it has, but I believe there is nothing else that can be done. Now, I have a lot of pressing business to attend to, and I’m sure you do as well. Keep up the good work.

Stunned, General Bradshaw dropped the phone and stared at the wall as he thought about the president’s words. He picked up the phone again and shot out orders to contact the plane by any means possible and bring the men back. Repeated attempts to call the team by radio and satellite communications all failed. He was left with no other option than to call Director Simmons at Langley and relay to him the message, including approximate times and quadrants where the team would be approaching.

It’s a damn shame, General, but I’ll get on the net and put the word out. We’ve got a few mobile SAM teams out there and we might be able to bring them down easy before they reach the target area; and who knows, a few of them might even make it back in, they’re all rated expert in survival – it comes with the territory. We’ll do what we can.

The phone was silent once more as General Bradshaw turned in his chair to look out the window.

The whole team, every one of them. he said to himself in the quiet of his office. Some of our best men. God, what is this war going to cost us when it’s all over?

* * *

(day 1, 23:27, Lebanon airspace, 10 minutes from the drop zone)

Suddenly, a loud electronic scream broke out from the cockpit and among the cursing of the pilots and navigator, Jason understood the words radar locked and incoming. They had been coming in low, only two hundred feet over the hills, but now the pilot pulled back on the stick and raced for altitude to gain the needed space to maneuver. The 130E was just a made over Hercules C130 transport for covert ops, but somewhere in the process of that make over the Combat Talon had gained agility and speed that where incongruous with its rounded bulk. The enemy radar crew had been caught by surprise and didn’t have time to set up their SAM, but the .30 cal truck mounted cannon was ready to fire. And that gunner was good.

There are no seats in the bay of the 130E ‘tactical’ cargo plane, only a flat bench attached to each side wall almost as an afterthought. This left the team grabbing for handholds, of which there were plenty in the form of mounting brackets and tie down rings. That was probably a good thing as it kept their minds off the pilot’s mad flight to avoid the cannon fire and get out of range in as few pieces as possible.

As it turned out, the pilot was able to keep the damage taken to a minimum as he raced for the cover of nearby hills. The plane wore a few strafing holes through the left wing and the rear cargo area, and some minor damage to the tail section – nothing that would bring them down or keep them from reaching the drop zone.

Miraculously, only three men were hit. The captain took some shrapnel in the upper right thigh, but that wouldn’t keep him from jumping - you’d have to break both of his legs and an arm to keep him from completing this mission. Sgt. Bradley’s shoulder was shattered from a .30 cal slug – Pratt, their medic, was already stripping his pack and shirt to dress the wound as he lay gasping on the floor. Bradley was out this go around. The third incident went unnoticed until the drop. Lt. Jason Callaway’s parachute had been torn as one of the bullets ripped through the side of his jump pack - a fact he wouldn’t discover until his chute opened and his rate of decent became alarmingly fast.

As the plane neared the drop zone and the ready lights came on, Captain Rogers yelled out final instructions over the headsets to the team and led them to the door.

This is a low altitude drop. We’re comin’ in fast an’ hard, an’ I don’t want to wait on any of you pusses once I hit the ground!

Yes sir! was the shouted reply from all.

A’right! Two minutes to drop!

In silence, each man checked to see that his fellow Ranger’s gear was securely in place. As always just before a mission, JC cleared his mind until he felt nothing but the rush of the cold dry wind in the blackened doorway and the muted roar of the plane as it clawed through the sky.

The jump light changed from red to green and JC barely heard Captain Roger’s voice shouting, Go! Go! Go! as he stepped forward. Almost mechanically, just he had done in training and missions so many times before, he checked his line, cleared the doorway, and stepped into the blackness. He counted an interminable ten seconds and then pulled the rip cord to open his chute…

Something was wrong. Impossible as it seemed in that rushing, silent blackness, JC could feel that he was coming down too fast – he had already passed a dim shape in the darkness that he knew to be Dominguez, his lead man. Looking up, he could see his unopened chute trailing through the moon bright sky, and then he knew fear. A cold, gut wrenching fear that told him of the certainty of his death. He fought to keep control of his senses, struggling to not give in to the fear that was growing within him. His frantic thoughts shot back to the months spent in jump training, and how the instructors told of men who had taken the 200 foot bounce when their chutes failed to open. In the rapidly passing seconds, Jason tried everything he could think of - he hauled on the chute lines first one way then another, he pleaded, and he swore. Finally he closed his eyes and cried into the night sky, Not like this! Please God, not like this! Clutching his arms around his chest, he fell silent as the ground rushed up to meet him.

At the instant his heels hit the ground, JC threw his body backwards, trying to roll away from the impact. He came to lying on his back in the sand - his breath came in painful gasps. Unable to stand, Jason couldn’t even tell which way was up he was so disoriented from shock. His legs were numb from the force of the landing, his knees and ankles throbbing with sharp bursts of pain that felt like flame encircling his joints.

Callaway! Lieutenant! Are you OK?

He struggled to free himself of the parachute chords and fought for breath. He was alive!

I’m alive, he gasped I’m alright. Get me off the fucking ground. The medic pushed him firmly back onto the tangled chords and began to check his vitals, then his bones for fracture. Captain Rogers was looking over the chute and muttering under his breath.

I’ll give you two guesses as to what he’s saying, joked Pratt and the second one don’t count. Okay, let’s have a look at that ankle, it feels like you may have a green fracture. He pointed to Jason’s right ankle and started to untie the boot laces.

Leave it alone, Pratt! I’m fine! Reaching into his jump pack, Jason pulled out the old K-BAR fighting knife that had been his father’s in Nam, and a roll of black tape that he used to strap the knife to his ankle outside the boot as a brace. He smiled at Pratt.

Just for luck. he said. Rolling to his knees, he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and a curse.

Hey Pratt, you got any infantry candy in your bag? He ripped open several of the packets Pratt handed him and chewed down six Tylenol, grimacing as he washed them down with a mouthful of water.

A’right! Mount up you lazy shits! yelled Captain Rogers We got five klicks to go an I wanna get there b’fore those camel fuckin’ rag heads run off. Let’s move! Dominguez - point! Statton, Haskins - lead off! As the men he called started out, Captain Rogers came quietly to Callaway’s side and asked in something nearing a stage whisper, Are you gonna make it alright, JC? ‘Cause I aint gonna carry your sorry ass if you cain't.

Yes sir, Captain. came the reply.

Good. You just remember that, an if you start whinin’, I’ll personally shoot your other foot an leave ya right the fuck there ‘til the mission’s over, an if I remember we might come back an pick ya up. Dumb shit go an get your chute shot all to hell an then go an jump like ya was fuckin' Rambo . . . His words trailed off as he turned and left, and Jason just smiled. Captain Rogers was a hard man to scare – that jump must have shaken him a little. Every man on the team knew that Rogers would carry any one of them if he had to – and he had on previous missions.

JC started out and took his place next to Jones. That ankle was definitely sore, and probably sprained if not worse. He looked around at the medic, who was watching him closely, turned, clenched his teeth, and set himself for the hardest five klicks of his life.

They didn’t walk, at least not how most people would walk. The actual military term is ‘ruck’, which translates to pure torture over the entire body. Shuffling ahead as quickly and quietly