Around 6:30 PM.
The setting sun, yellow sand, and desert merged into one, the entire world bathed in an orange-yellow hue.
Two Chinook helicopters responsible for troop transport, escorted by two heavily armed Apache gunships, formed a formation as they departed Bagram Air Base.
More than 40 personnel were split between the two Chinooks, making the space inside quite roomy.
Everyone involved in the operation was in good spirits—there was not the slightest hint of the tension or anxiety typical of the moments before a mission. Instead, they chatted and joked happily among themselves.
The rest of SEAL Team 10 had also arrived, including the rookie, Sean.
As reserve members, they needed to accompany the quick reaction force to Jabad Airfield, ready to deploy as replacements at any moment.
While the seasoned veterans joked and told dirty stories, Sean sat at the open rear hatch, legs dangling outside the helicopter.
He admired the distant orange sun, sinking step by step beneath the horizon where sky and earth met in a seamless panorama.
He felt carefree and alive.
The only regret was the barren land beneath his feet—a sparse, infertile desert.
Green was scarce as far as the eye could see.
Most of the surrounding mountains were extremely steep, dotted with cliffs and precipices tens to hundreds of meters high.
Without pre-planned routes, moving straight ahead would soon be blocked by sheer cliffs after just a few kilometers.
If one descended into the cliff bases, all signals would be completely cut off.
From the sunset to the fall of night.
Before he knew it, the time had slipped close to 8 PM. The helicopters had gradually descended from 1,000 meters to less than 100 meters above the ground.
A broadcast echoed inside the cabin:
"Commander, approaching the landing zone. Landing in one minute."
Murphy patted Long Zhan, who sat beside him, then nudged Marcus, who was resting with his eyes closed across from him. Raising a finger, he shouted, "One-minute countdown."
Upon the command, Long Zhan, Marcus, Deetz, and Matt moved in unison.
They checked their tactical backpacks' straps, ensuring everything was tightly fastened, confirmed their primary weapons were slung properly, then put on their windproof goggles.
Finally, they took out thick, rigid rappelling gloves and wore them over their tactical gloves.
"Thirty seconds remaining,"
the cabin broadcast announced again.
The five men stood, preparing the safety ropes, lining up at the rear of the cabin.
"Rope deployment. First operator on the rope."
Matt, leading, leaned halfway out of the hatch, gripping the rope—thick as a baby's arm—that slanted outside the doorway.
When the GO command came, he lifted his feet off the cabin floor and began descending the rope, hands gripping tightly and releasing just enough to control his slide.
Gravity pulled him downward along the rope.
The descent speed depended mainly on the friction between gloves and the rough rope.
Since Long Zhan and the others carried heavy loads, friction was even greater.
Without these specialized rappelling gloves, hands would likely get injured during the descent.
"First operator landed safely. Second on the rope."
"Sean, you want to go now? You're only second," Marcus teased loudly from inside the cabin before departing.
"Have fun, you old bastard," Sean replied with a grin, flipping him off. The cabin erupted in laughter.
One minute later:
"Zulu 06, Bruno 64 mission complete, commencing return to base."
The Chinooks that had delivered the team ascended again, heading back to Jabad Airfield, leaving the special reconnaissance squad on the ground.
As the helicopters faded into darkness, Long Zhan removed his goggles and rappelling gloves.
He switched to night vision goggles and checked his weapons and ammo, readying for combat.
Preparing for the next leg.
"Apollo 2-2, this is Sparta O-1, radio check," Deetz, the team's comms officer, prioritized verifying the radio system.
He used the L3 Harris MBMMR, a multi-band, multi-mission software-defined radio system designed specifically for special operations.
It was more than just a radio.
As the world's first deployed military software-defined radio system, it was more powerful than traditional radios.
It provided long-range voice communications and could transmit images and data, all with a mere 20-watt transmission power.
Deetz's call was answered quickly.
"Sparta O-1, this is Apollo 2-2. Maintain comms. Good luck on the mission."
The AC-130 gunship, acting as the communications relay station, responded and then switched to Jabad's forward operations center.
"Sparta O-1, copy that. Out."
After confirming contact with the operations center, Deetz switched to the team channel and conducted an internal comms check.
With comms confirmed, the squad followed GPS to the first waypoint—
Budweiser.
The terrain was already bleak, and under the pitch-black night, strange animal cries echoed from somewhere nearby.
Moving through this deserted desert and mountains, the feeling was particularly eerie.
Not quite terrifying.
Nor was it peaceful or refreshing.
The operational briefing by the major had clearly stated the trek from the landing zone to the destination would take three to four hours.
But this initial intel was wildly inaccurate.
It took more than two hours just to reach the first waypoint, Budweiser.
There were still three waypoints to go, meaning only a quarter of the route was done so far.
The entire journey would take at least eight or nine hours.
Marcus mercilessly mocked the command for using their asses to lead their brains.
Long Zhan guessed the reason for the mistake based on his combat experience.
The command had calculated the route distance using daytime marching speed, without accounting for the reduced visibility at night.
A classic case of careless negligence.
Fortunately, they had set out early enough, leaving the recon squad ample time to travel.
Even doubling the estimated time, they could still reach the objective before dawn.