Free Black Flag: A Taskforce Story by Brad Taylor

as if he’d lost his mind, then decided to ignore his ridiculous comment about the treasure. I said, “Why on earth would I want a rumrunner?”
    “Because that’s what all pirates drink.”

Read on for an exclusive extended excerpt of Brad Taylor’s
    THE POLARIS PROTOCOL
    A PIKE LOGAN THRILLER
    Available January 14, 2014, wherever books and e-books are sold

1
    December 2011
    Sergeant Ronald Blackmar never heard the round before it hit, but registered the whine of a ricochet right next to his head and felt the sliver of rock slice into his cheek. He slammed lower behind the outcropping and felt his face, seeing blood on his assault gloves. His platoon leader, First Lieutenant Blake Alberty, threw himself into the prone and said with black humor, “You get our asses out of here, and I’ll get you another Purple Heart.”
    Blackmar said, “I’ve got nothing else to work with. The eighty-ones won’t reach and the Apaches are dry.”
    Another stream of incoming machine-gun rounds raked their position, and Alberty returned fire, saying, “We’re in trouble. And I’m not going to be the next COP Keating.”
    Both from the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division, they were part of a string of combat outposts in the Kunar province of Afghanistan. Ostensibly designed to prevent the infiltration of Taliban fighters from the nearby border of Pakistan, in reality they were a giant bull’s-eye for anyone wanting a scalp. Attacked at the COP on a daily basis, they still followed orders, continuing their patrols to the nearby villages in an effort to get the locals on the government’s side.
    The mountains of the Kunar province were extreme and afforded the Taliban an edge simply by putting the Americans on equal terms.
    Everything was done on foot, and the mountains negated artillery, leaving the troops reliant on helicopter gunship support. The same thing COP Keating had relied on when it was overrun two years before.
    The incoming fire grew in strength, and Alberty began receiving reports of casualties. They were on their own and about to be overrun. A trophy for the Taliban. Blackmar heard the platoon’s designated marksmen firing, their rifles’ individual cracks distinctive among the rattle of automatic fire, and felt impotent.
    As the forward observer, the purpose of his entire career had been to provide steel on target for the infantry he supported. He was the man they turned to when they wanted American firepower, and now he had nothing to provide, his radio silent.
    Alberty shouted, “They’re flanking, they’re flanking! We need the gunships.”
    Blackmar was about to reply when his radio squawked. “Kilo Seven-Nine, this is Texas Thirteen. You have targets?”
    He said, “Yes, yes. What’s your ordnance?”
    “Five-hundred-pound GBU.”
    GBU? A fast mover with JDAMs?
    He said, “What’s your heading?”
    The pilot said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m a BUFF. Way above you.”
    Blackmar heard the words and couldn’t believe it. He’d called in everything from eighty-one-millimeter mortars to F-15 strike aircraft, but he’d never called fire from a B-52 Stratofortress. Not that it mattered, as the five-hundred-pound JDAM was guided by GPS.
    He lased the Taliban position for range, shacked up his coordinates, and sent the fire request. The pilot reported bombs out, asking for a splash. He kept his eyes on the enemy, waiting. Nothing happened.
    Alberty screamed, “You hit the village, you hit the village! Shift, shift!”
    The village? That damn thing is seven hundred meters away.
    He checked his location and lased again, now plotting the impact danger close as the enemy advanced. He repeated the call with the new coordinates and waited for the splash.
    Alberty shouted again, “You’re pounding the fucking village! Get the rounds on target, damn it!”
    Blackmar frantically checked his map and his range, shouting back, “I’m right! I’m on target. The bombs aren’t tracking.”
    The volume of enemy