The Ranger Objective Read online

  The Ranger Objective

  A David Rivers Short Story

  Jason Kasper

  Regiment Publishing, LLC

  Copyright © 2016, 2018 by Regiment Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, brands, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For information contact:

  [email protected]

  Jason-Kasper.com

  Contents

  Also by Jason Kasper

  Introduction

  The Ranger Objective

  Next in Series

  Greatest Enemy: Chapter 1

  Greatest Enemy: Chapter 2

  The David Rivers Series Continues

  About the Author

  Also by Jason Kasper

  ALSO BY JASON KASPER

  The David Rivers Series

  Prequel: The Ranger Objective (free)

  1: Greatest Enemy

  2: Offer of Revenge

  3: Dark Redemption

  4: Vengeance Calling

  5: The Suicide Cartel

  Visit Jason-Kasper.com for purchasing information.

  Introduction

  From the author, Jason Kasper

  Thanks for checking out my work!

  I spent 15 years in the Army, beginning as a Ranger private in 2001 and ending as a Green Beret team commander in 2016. During that time I graduated West Point and went on a half dozen deployments to Afghanistan, Iraq, and Africa.

  I was lucky to work alongside stellar teammates who could give the most daring thriller protagonists a run for their money, and gained plenty of fiction inspiration from combat. Eventually I left the Army to spend more time with my wife and daughter, and in the process turned a decade-long closet writing habit into my second career.

  The rest is history, and I’ve been at it ever since!

  Turn the page to begin The Ranger Objective, the David Rivers prequel short story. Continue reading for an introduction to Greatest Enemy, the first full-length David Rivers novel. Both thrillers begin an Army Ranger’s descent into the mercenary depths of an international crime syndicate.

  The adrenaline-pumping series follows Afghanistan and Iraq war vet David Rivers on a journey of vengeance that takes him to new battlegrounds in the US, Africa, South America, and Asia…and toward his ultimate confrontation with the most ruthless enemy he’s ever faced.

  Fans of Vince Flynn, David Baldacci, and Lee Child won’t want to miss these explosive thrillers.

  Thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoy The Ranger Objective and the introduction to Greatest Enemy.

  Jason Kasper

  Jason-Kasper.com

  To all the vets that brought their battles home.

  The Ranger Objective

  September 11, 2002

  Shigal Valley

  Kunar Province, Afghanistan

  The machinegun grip felt cool and reassuring in my hand as I maneuvered the barrel from my rocky vantage point.

  While the valley floor far below me swarmed with emerald treetops, the windswept Afghan mountainsides rising from either side of it comprised the most unforgiving terrain I could imagine. Impossibly steep hills were terraced with primitive clusters of buildings that appeared to be carved out of the mountain, and the remaining rock faces were sliced by thin plateaus teeming with crops.

  My machinegun sights stopped at a small cluster of mud buildings with flat roofs, their surfaces an identical shade of tan to the stony hillsides around them. How could people occupy such a rugged and alien landscape? Yet I caught glimpses of colorful clothing slipping between buildings as people went about their chores, and the sound of bleating goats and barking dogs reached me between erratic bursts of mountain wind.

  There was not a scrap of visible human progress that exceeded the Stone Age. Nestled just across the border from the tribal region of northwest Pakistan, these people truly existed in a forgotten corner of the earth. The greatest infusion of technology in this entire valley was automatic weapons and rockets made in distant lands—some belonging to us, and some to the enemy.

  Glancing down the hill to my left, I saw the Ranger squad filing down a rocky cliff face toward the buildings. The soldiers appeared as small tan figures maneuvering into position with an assortment of dark weapons. It was a moving sight: Rangers sweeping up the valley wearing American flags on the first anniversary of the September 11 attacks.

  Just one year earlier, I’d been nearing the end of Basic Training, a journey that had—

  “All right, Slick.” I heard Remy’s Alabamian drawl beside me. “Pop off that gun.”

  He slid a can of dip back into the shoulder pocket of his desert fatigues, spitting the first long stream of wintergreen tobacco juice onto the ground beside him.

  “Listen, Remy,” I began, fondly stroking the grip, “me and this machinegun were made for each other. Sometimes you just know. How else could it feel so…so right?”

  “Well, when I get killed you can carry that sumbitch all day. Till then, you’re still my AG. Pop off.”

  I pushed myself left and he slid his lanky frame behind the machinegun, settling into place with a practiced repetition. One hand was against the buttstock, cheek resting on knuckles as he rocked the massive weapon forward on its bipod and scanned for movement below.

  Of course he looked natural, I thought. Remy had been in the unit for two years, and, at legal drinking age, was practically a senior citizen among our group of privates.

  I settled onto the rock surface beside him with considerably less finesse, adjusting the heavy belt of machinegun ammo stretching from my rucksack to the gun. Then I picked up my assault rifle and joined Remy in scanning the village, though that was secondary in my job as the AG.

  The assistant gunner.

  The new guy.

  Carry the ammo, and let Remy do the shooting.

  Sure, I was supposed to spot targets for him as well, but an experienced gunner like Remy didn’t need my help any more than a pro quarterback needed a water boy.

  Scanning through my rifle optic, I asked, “So where are all these barrel-chested Islamic fighters we’re supposed to be schwacking right now?” I swept my sights across the distant slits of shadow beneath roof overhangs. If someone was going to contest the arrival of a Ranger squad searching for weapon caches, I thought, that’s where they’d emerge.

  Hearing no immediate response from Remy, I added, “Shigal Valley is supposed to be so badass, I thought we’d be knee-deep in Taliban bodies by now.”

  Finally Remy replied, “First mission of the trip. They can’t all be winners, Slick. Have some patience.”

  “Easy for you to say. I was stuck in the asbestos-deathtrap barracks at Airborne School last year while you were parachuting into Afghanistan, racking up confirmed kills and delivering American justice at six hundred rounds per minute. How many bad guys did you tag that first night?”

  He shook his head slightly behind the machinegun sights. “Slick, you probably know better than I do after making me tell you the story so many damn times.”

  “I didn’t ‘make’ you, Remy. You were obligated to tell me once for every three times you asked to see a picture of my girlfriend. It’s called a barter system.”

  “Well,” he offered, “you won’t need to hear about the last deployment for much longer. You’re gonna have your own stories soon enough.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, until my first couple days on patro
l have been dry hole after dry hole.”

  “What do you expect, Slick? This entire valley’s got a bunch of Rangers up its ass right now. With machineguns, rockets, attack helicopters—”

  “Helicopters are refueling,” I corrected him. “So why isn’t anyone shooting at us yet?”

  He released a mighty sigh. “When I was as cherry as you are, I used to pray to the god of war too. But remember, this shit ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fun. We’re on a Ranger patrol in Afghanistan on the first anniversary of 9/11.” Smiling, I reached back and patted a pouch holding my rolled American flag. “This couldn’t be any more patriotic if we wrapped ourselves in our flags.”

  Remy paused for a long time after that.

  Then he said, “Know why every Ranger carries an American flag, Slick? It ain’t patriotism. If you get killed, that’s what we cover your body with till the MEDEVAC comes.”

  Our radios crackled to life before I could reply.

  “Gun Six,” the squad leader transmitted, “we’re preparing to make entry on the outbuildings.”

  Remy didn’t move, eyes fixed behind the machinegun. “Tell ’em we got nuthin’ and we’re ready.”

  I looked up from my rifle optic and touched my radio without keying the button to transmit. Then I said in Remy’s Southern accent, “We got nuthin’ and we’re ready.”

  “Shit ain’t funny!” Remy scolded.

  “How does that not get old?” I asked no one in particular, then keyed my radio to transmit, “Gun Six copies, no movement to report. Standing by for visual.”

  The Ranger squad below had vanished from view behind a cluster of trees. I gave a final scan of the objective, half expecting to see Afghan men fleeing or preparing to ambush any approaching American soldiers.

  But the village was now deathly still.

  A Ranger point man stepped out from the tree line, leading his fire team toward the outbuildings while the other half of the squad remained stationary to cover their movement.

  “Gebhart’s in the open,” I said to Remy.

  “I see him. Shifting right. Make sure that—”

  I heard the blast of a sniper rifle, and Gebhart fell in place before the shot’s echo swept over the hills.

  The response from the Ranger squad was immediate as they returned fire, the chattering bursts from their automatic weapons spilling across the valley. Clouds of red fog blossomed around Gebhart’s body as smoke grenades provided concealment for his recovery. Someone in the squad fired a rocket that streaked upward, slicing through the sky before exploding on the hill to our right.

  “Pack up!” Remy shouted. I unsnapped the links binding my ammo belt to the machinegun as the squad leader’s voice came over the radio.

  “Gun Six, get on top of that ridge to your right. You’re going to see a dark patch of woods on the hilltop. Burn it the fuck down, that’s where the sniper is hiding—”

  Remy was already pushing himself upright, lifting the machinegun and running toward the high ground by the time I slipped my arms through my rucksack straps. Struggling to my feet like an upended turtle against the anvil of machinegun ammo now anchored to my back, I almost left my assault rifle behind before snatching it as an afterthought.

  Turning amid the reverberating howl of the firefight between the Ranger squad and an enemy sniper, I caught sight of Remy’s gangly figure hauling the machinegun uphill. I raced after him, fighting for breath in the thin mountain air, the inside of my mouth coated with a film of sand.

  The surreally high-pitched chirp of Ranger grenade launchers punched through the air, countered by the resulting crash of their high explosive rounds beyond the ridge I now approached.

  Remy’s voice over my radio: “—shift fire left, Gun Six on high ground—”

  The low crump of another impacting grenade round echoed against the cacophony of automatic weapons, interspersed with the jangle of the exposed ammo belt slapping against my rucksack. I could feel the long, snaking chain of machinegun ammo shifting on my back, disrupting my forward momentum as Remy’s form disappeared over the crest.

  He was on his own. I couldn’t keep up, and yet I couldn’t possibly move any faster.

  I reached the bottom of the slope and launched myself into a frantic uphill scramble. An ornate stone formation guarded the crest of the hill, and I desperately fought against gravity to reach it.

  As I battled up the sandy, rock-strewn hillside, I heard the squad leader’s voice on my radio: “—confirm shift fire, lay waste up there, Remy—”

  Pulling myself atop the ridge at last, I saw sloping terrain dotted with scrub brush and low trees. A long stretch of exposed rock gave way to a darkly forested patch of woods: the sniper’s hiding spot, exactly as the squad leader had described.

  And it was being decimated by the Ranger squad.

  Brown clouds rose between shadowy pine trees as the puffs of impacting bullets and grenade rounds felled boughs, which crashed to the earth as Ranger counterfire chopped the forest apart.

  Yet the sound of another sniper shot sliced through the din.

  “—fuck over here now, David!”

  Remy’s voice jarred me out of my daze of disbelief, and I followed the sound to find him already in the prone position, gun pointing at the woods from a shallow depression in the dirt.

  Racing to his left, I spun and fell backwards, letting my rucksack absorb the impact. I writhed out of the straps, then rolled onto my belly and yanked the ammo belt free.

  Remy seamlessly held his firing position as I struggled to manipulate the dull gray metal links to connect my ammo belt with the short string of rounds still hanging from the machinegun. My hands were slippery with sweat, the bullet casings sliding out of place beneath my fingertips.

  “Come on, Slick!”

  Finally I managed to hook an empty C-shaped link around the first bullet casing in Remy’s ammo belt, feeling the snap that connected my rucksack full of ammo to the gun.

  I shouted, “We’re linked!”

  Those two words had barely left my mouth before Remy thumbed the safety off his machinegun and opened fire.

  The sky around us thudded with the rapid booming cadence of the machinegun roaring to life. It chomped through the belt of ammo that I now pulled from my rucksack in increments, the massive gun ravenous for the hundreds of linked bullets waiting to be launched into a forest that hid an unseen sniper.

  Beneath the frenetic pace of machinegun bursts was the thin clatter of brass and links piling up on the rock surface below as the mountain air became choked by gunpowder.

  The humming cackle of machinegun fire was soothing, reassuring in its calibrated familiarity, bringing order to chaos. Remy’s gun was the most casualty-producing weapon in an entire Ranger platoon, much less the single squad below, and I felt myself grinning as he brought it into the fight, raking a stream of fire-orange tracer rounds across the swath of dark woods.

  Another sniper shot rang out.

  “Gun Six,” the squad leader transmitted breathlessly, “be advised, we’re still taking effective sniper fire.”

  I looked to Remy for guidance on my response and instead saw him break his grip on the machinegun to key his own radio.

  “Roger, we can try and maneuver closer.”

  “Negative, stay in place. We recovered Gebhart, he’s gonna make it. Apaches are inbound for airstrike before the MEDEVAC chopper lands. ETA less than ten mikes.”

  “Copy, Gun Six remaining in place.” I felt a rush of elation upon hearing that Gebhart hadn’t been killed, but after releasing his radio, Remy spat to the side and hissed “Fuck” before resuming his grip on the buttstock without firing.

  “What?” I picked up my assault rifle and scanned the darkly wooded hilltop for movement.

  “Nuthin’. We’ll just have to get that sniper another day.”

  “What do you mean, another day? Apaches are about to turn those woods into a dumpster fire.” I looked a
round the hilltop. “He’s got nowhere to go except toward Rangers or on a death fall down the mountain.”

  “He knows that. Bet you a paycheck there’s a way out on the other side of this hill.”

  “What are you, the Taliban Whisperer? How can you know?”

  Remy spat again, and when he spoke next he sounded disgusted. “We’re fighting human beings now, not hunting white-tailed deer. This sniper’s no amateur, Slick. He didn’t hit us until our birds were off-station. He knows our tactics as well as we do. Soon as he hears rotor blades headed his way, he’s gone.”

  “We’ve got two more days on this patrol,” I panted in disbelief, still trying to catch my breath. “If he gets away he’s going to shoot another Ranger before we leave the valley.” Looking to Remy, I concluded, “Unless you want to see one of our boys covered by his own American flag, we need to kill this sniper while he’s still in front of us.”

  “’Course we do. The catch is gettin’ that done without being the next casualties. That’s why he’s got us dead to rights.”

  “We can relocate around the hill, find his escape route. When he runs, we drill him. Mission complete.”

  Remy sounded composed now, resigning himself to the situation. “Negative, Slick. We’re staying put until those Apaches get here and light up the hilltop. We take this machinegun near the woods, that sniper will hear us coming and smoke us both. You’re crawfishin’ between a possible Ranger casualty in the next two days versus two guaranteed casualties right now: you and me.”