Free SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV by Eric Meyer Page B

is for my friends’, or maybe something religious. The Muslims always seemed to find it easy to summon up a religious justification for killing. And the man died, thrown back by two heavy caliber bullets. Nolan looked up and stared across the air base. Bravo Platoon had arrived, and Vince Merano lay prone on the ground, clutching his sniper rifle. He looked up and waved to Nolan, who returned the gesture.
    I’m alive, Jesus Christ. Bravo looks after its own, that’s for sure.
    He checked around his immediate surroundings, but the only enemies in sight were all dead. Some had escaped. The attack had involved large numbers of insurgents, and the body count wasn’t high enough to account for them all. It would be good to think they’d killed the Taliban commanders, but he knew those guys would have stayed at the back when the bullets were flying. The higher their rank, the louder they shouted, and the further back they stayed. He remembered Saddam Hussein, exhorting his troops to fight and die, in the ‘Mother of all Battles’, and Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, Colonel Gaddafi, the dictator of Libya. His long harangues were famous, sending his minions out to do battle. Until the bullets started flying, and then he ran like the yellow rat he was.
    He started to walk back through the wrecked fence and toward Captain Mariko Noguchi. As he strolled along, he reflected that but for her intervention, he’d be dead. It felt strange. One moment he’d been preaching about the need for training and combat experience, the next, a rookie officer saved his life.
    Weird!

    * * *

    He’d have given anything to avoid the ceremony. Politicians turned his stomach, especially these people.
    “Chief Petty Officer Nolan, we are in your debt. My advisors tell me that without your heroic efforts, the insurgents could have come close to killing me.”
    Nolan looked at the man stood in front of him. Fifty-five years old, spare and lean, with a sparse gray beard, wearing the trademark Karakul hat and the long, traditional Afghan ceremonial cloak, the Chapan. Hamid Karzai, 12th President of Afghanistan, darling of the George W Bush administration, despised by the fundamentalist Muslims, and mortal enemy of the Taliban. Next to him was the Pakistani politician the Foreign Minister, Chutani Muhammad. He was plump, almost obese, a short man with a round face, supporting at least three chins, and a potbelly thinly disguised by his expensively cut coat. Both men had hugged him, which made Nolan cringe, and Karzai insisted on saying a few words of thanks. He looked the Seal in the eye.
    “I assure you, Chief Petty Officer, we will remember your service to this country, and I will make it my business to ensure you receive the appropriate recognition for your bravery under fire. This is not the first time my life has been protected by the United States Navy Seals. I am indebted to all of you brave men.”
    There didn’t seem to be any reply needed, so Nolan nodded at both men and eased back before they put him in another politician’s half nelson. Colonel Weathers and Lieutenant Boswell came to his rescue and led him away. For some reason, the meeting had been held in a large office in the building beneath the control tower. Probably it was easier to defend from the attacks mounted on a regular basis by Karzai’s Afghan electorate who didn’t seem so happy with what their votes had brought them. Bravo Platoon was waiting outside, and they gave him an ironic cheer as he came out.
    “They’re proud of you,” Colonel Weathers beamed.
    “Not really. They know I’ll owe them a few beers next time we wind up in a bar,” Nolan corrected him.
    “To celebrate your victory, killing those insurgents?”
    “To celebrate staying alive. That’s what it’s all about.”
    He nodded to the Platoon. “I’ll catch you guys in the bar later.”
    “Yeah, don’t forget your billfold, Chief. We’ll see if we can lighten it some for you.”
    The