by Tom Abrahams
“You okay?” Womack asked.
Shine grunted. “No better than you, boss.”
“I feel you,” said Womack. “I’d rather be in Iran.”
Shine chuckled. “Five words I never thought I’d hear anyone say.”
“You and me both,” Womack said. “You need anything, you let me know.”
Shine nodded and pushed forward, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “You too.”
Womack shook his mind free of the distraction and kept his attention on the path ahead. He checked a compass on his wrist. They were headed in the right direction. Soon enough the sun would be up and they could make better time.
He had no clue how far ahead the ghost might be. He didn’t know if the dart was still in the ghost’s body or if it had ditched it. He sucked in a deep breath of the suffocatingly wet air and stomped through ankle-deep mud.
Twenty minutes later they edged out of the jungle into a wide, circular grassy field. The moon, in its quarter phase, provided little light, but it was enough that the men turned off the MX-99 flashlights. Womack’s body shuddered involuntarily. He’d been in too many places like this.
The open fields provided a respite from the dank, bug-laced humidity of the jungle cover. The air was fresher, cleaner smelling somehow. It was also more deadly. The clearings, rice paddies, and grassy flatlands were infected with mines. He’d seen countless men blown into pieces small enough to chew and swallow. They’d also provided an open, easy target for the Vietcong hiding in the trees surrounding the clearings.
He knew the snipers were gone, but those mines were probably still there, dipped into the soft muck that never quite dried out. It was hard enough to traverse in the daylight without tripping an explosive. At night it was nearly impossible.
Womack used a hand signal to move his men forward. He didn’t need to warn them. They all knew the dangers of an open field. The men formed a single-file line behind him. He’d work the perimeter of the field, choosing to forego the straight shot through uncertain ground.
The men moved deliberately, slowing their pace, and their boots sucked at the thin layer of mud as they moved. Womack flipped on his light and aimed his weapon at the grass, sweeping it back and forth as he chose his path. They’d crossed halfway from the entry point to the exit on the far side of the clearing when Womack held up a fist. His men stopped.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered and looked over his shoulder at the four shaking heads behind him. None of them had heard it. It was a soft moan or a whimper maybe. Something or someone nearby was wounded. Womack held a finger to his lips. Against the breeze rustling through the grasses in front of them and the tropical canopy behind them, he heard it again. It was a whimper.
Womack turned back to his men again. Shine nodded his head and then motioned toward the middle of the clearing. He’d heard it too. Womack turned his ear toward the clearing and listened until the soft cry warbled a third time. It was human. At least it sounded human. His mind drifted back to the black site in Iran and the bleat of the goats in the pen out back. It was similar. He doubted, however, a goat was in the middle of the clearing.
Womack signaled to his team that he was walking toward the cry alone. Shine protested silently, but the boss insisted. Slowly, illuminating the murky ground ahead of each step, he made his way toward the noise. The slop of his boots in the boggy grassland gave away his position. There was nothing he could do about it, so he moved as ploddingly as he could.
When he was within a few meters of the soft cry, he slung the nonlethal weapon over his back and drew his service weapon. With the pistol in one hand, he canvassed the final few steps until he found what looked like a dying man curled into the fetal position, shivering. His face and legs were bloodied. His bare arms were covered in bruises and welts. There was a leech sucking at his neck.
Womack knelt down, keeping enough distance to defend himself or bolt if needed, and reached out with the pistol and poked the man’s foot. He pushed him twice and the man jerked, his head snapping toward Womack before drawing backward in fear. His eyes narrowed against the light. The man drew his hands in front of his face. He whimpered again.
The operator recognized him. He was the man the ghost had carried off into the jungle after getting hit with the tranquilizer darts. He was the man Womack had been sure would have been dead by now.
Womack turned off the light and clipped it back onto his pack. “Hey,” he said, gently touching the man’s trembling shoulder. The man recoiled and tucked his chin to his chest.
Womack wrapped his fingers around the man’s arm and squeezed. “It’s okay. We’re going to help you.”
Having readjusted to the dark, the man’s eyes were crazed. They were darting back and forth, back and forth. His breathing was rapid and shallow, like he was panting.
“Can you understand me?” Womack asked, working to maintain eye contact. “Do you speak English?”
The man nodded and swallowed hard. “Y-y-yes.”
“Can you walk?” asked Womack. “We need to get you out of here. It’s not safe.”
The man shook his head. His eyes fixed on some distant spot in the sky. He shook his head again. Womack followed the man’s gaze over his shoulder. There was nothing there.
Shine called from the fringe of the grassland, “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah. Be there in a sec.”
He reholstered his pistol and helped pull the man to a sitting position. He put his hands on the sides of the man’s face. “Can you walk?”
The man shook his head and motioned toward his foot. Womack fished the light from his pack and shone it on the man’s leg. The pale light revealed a pair of long deep gashes running along the side and back of the man’s leg. His foot was turned unnaturally at the ankle. There was no way he could walk, at least not with any speed.
“What’s your name?”
“J-j-j-jimmy. L-l-linh.”
Womack knew Jimmy Linh was going to be a liability. He’d compromise the mission, slow them down, and possibly put them at a tactical disadvantage if they did find the ghost again. This wounded man, whoever he was, would put them at extreme risk when they could least afford it. No doubt.
Maybe it was best to put him out of his misery, Womack thought. Chances were an infection would kill him anyhow. He’d been lying in a cesspool with open wounds. Ending it now was probably the best course of action. A quick honorable death beat a lingering disintegration soaked with pain any day. That was a universal truth and it was a split-second rationalization for the seasoned operator. They had a mission.
Womack took a deep breath and turned off the light. “All right,” he said. “My name is Nick Womack. I’m going to help you to the edge of the jungle over there. I’ve got four friends waiting for us.”
Linh tried eyeing the others, but they were too far away. He took another ragged breath and looked Womack in the eye. Womack offered a weak smile.
“I’m going to help you up,” Womack said. “You’re going to walk in front of me.”
Linh nodded and reached his arms outward for Womack to pull him to his feet. Instead of facing him, Womack shifted to the side. With one of Linh’s arms draped across his shoulder and his own arm wrapped around Linh’s chest, the operator hoisted the liability to his feet.
“You good for a sec?” Womack asked Linh. “Can you balance yourself while I adjust my rifle?”
Linh nodded and let go of Womack with a wince and wheezing grunt. He was shaky but managed to stand in the muck with most of his weight on his good foot.
Womack took a single step back and silently drew his service weapon. Standing directly behind the unsuspecting Linh, the soldier of fortune quickly raised the weapon to within an inch of the back of Linh’s head. He clicked off the safety, slipped his finger onto the trigger, and—
“I-I-I know w-w-where t-t-to f-f-f-find it,” Linh squeaked.
Womack lowered the weapon. “You what?”
“I c-c-can h-help y-y-y-you find
it.”
Womack holstered the weapon. “The White Ghost?”
Linh nodded.
Womack took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right,” he said. “First things first. We need to get you to the others.”
He again moved to Linh’s side and wrapped his arm around the wounded man while holding his arm over his own shoulder. Slowly they trudged forward. One step at a time. Womack clenched his jaw with every step, not able to light their way back to the edge of the grass and free of the land mine threat.
Linh grunted and whimpered as they slogged in the knee-high grass. Womack glanced over at him and a wave of guilt washed over him. He’d almost killed the guy. He’d nearly put mission ahead of morality.
That last bit, in and of itself, wasn’t a new concept. They’d done that before. They’d seen the good of the whole as a justification for violating at least one commandment. This would have been different though. It would have been a cold-blooded assassination of an innocent man. Womack wanted to put the gun to his own head for having considered it.
They reached the edge of the grass, and both Wilco and Ferg reached out to help Womack with the casualty. They bore the brunt of the man’s weight and helped him to sit against a tree.
“Who is he?” asked Shine, motioning to Linh with his Stoner 63.
“That’s the guy who was with the ghost when we first came across it.”
“The one getting dragged off?”
“Yeah,” said Womack. “That one.”
Ferg looked back at Womack. “This dude’s in bad shape. Broken ankle, concussion, bad cuts, maybe even a punctured lung.”
“What do we do with him?” asked Wolf. “We can’t take him with us.”
Shine leaned into Womack and spoke softly. “Do we put him out of his misery?”
Womack shook his head. “I already thought of that. It’s no good. Plus he says he can help us find the ghost.”
Wolf nudged Womack. “Boss,” he said under his breath, “how do we know that he won’t turn into one of those things? I mean, if it scratched him or bit him?”
Womack rolled his eyes. “He’s not a zombie.”
“Yeah,” said Wolf, “but what if some creature explodes out of his chest and attacks us.”
“He’s not an alien either.”
Shine rubbed the scruff on his chin and moved over to the injured man. Linh’s eyes were squeezed closed. Ferg was burning the leech off his neck. Wilco was fashioning an ankle splint from a branch and palm fronds.
“Hey,” said Shine. “How’d you get away?”
Linh opened his eyes and looked up. “I d-d-don’t know, really,” he said. “I woke up in the middle of the jungle somewhere. The Ma Trang was h-h-h-half on top of me. I thought it was d-d-dead.”
Shine had his weapon casually aimed at Linh’s chest. “Was it?”
Linh shook his head, wincing as Ferg wrapped gauze from his first aid kit around the gaping wounds in his leg. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the dirt and dried blood that caked his face.
Shine pressed. “How do you know?”
“It woke up,” said Linh. “It t-t-tried to grab me. It broke my leg.”
“How’d you get away?” Wolf asked, his eyes darting between Linh and Womack. “Did it let you get away?”
Linh shook his head again. “N-n-no,” he said. “I just got away from it. It couldn’t move much. Like it was w-w-waking up slowly.”
“Who are you?” Womack asked. “You’re not from here.”
“I’m a reporter.”
Womack’s eyes widened. Jimmy Linh. He’d seen the name in the briefing file. “You’re the reporter,” he said. “You’re the reason we’re here in this jucked-up fungle.”
Linh’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Your report,” said Womack. “That’s why we’re here.”
Linh lowered his head. He put his hands over his face and then grabbed his hair, curling his fingers into fists.
Shine squatted onto his heels. “You have no idea where the ghost is, do you?”
Linh slowly released his grip on his hair and dropped his hands to his sides. He shook his head. “No.”
Womack stepped forward. “But you just told me—”
“You were going to shoot me in the back of the head,” said Linh. “I had to say something.”
Wolf shot his boss a look. “That true?”
Womack nodded. “He’s a liability. We can’t take him with us if he can’t guide us.”
Shine popped up on his feet. “I’ll stay with him,” he said. “Right here.”
Womack bristled. “Negative. We need every man. We can’t be down one.”
“You can’t leave him here alone,” said Shine. “And you don’t want to bring him. Sounds like you have no choice, boss.”
Womack bit his lower lip. “Fine,” he said. “You stay here with the reporter. We’ll get the ghost and meet you back here. If we’re not back by sundown, you take him back to the truck. Radio the position. Smith will know where I am unless I’ve emptied all of the Navstar darts.”
“I don’t like this,” said Wolf.
“Nobody asked you,” said Wilco.
“Your mother did—”
“Cut it out,” Womack snapped. “Now isn’t the time.”
Ferg slung his pack onto his back and moved toward Womack. “Boss,” he said, “I’ve got another idea. I think it’ll work.”
— 27 —
Frederick, Maryland
April 24, 1980
Rick Gibson was watching the television in his office. The volume was off, but he already knew the details of the breaking news airing on the network. An attempt to rescue the fifty-two American hostages in Tehran hadn’t worked. Three of eight helicopters failed and the mission was cancelled in the midst of it. During the retreat, one of the helicopters collided with a C-130 transport plane. Eight soldiers died and five more were hurt. It was the latest embarrassment for what Gibson saw as an impotent administration incapable of projecting strength and resolve. It was the same leadership that hedged every time he’d wanted to push the boundaries of modern warfare. Maybe the next president would be different.
Gibson picked up his phone and placed a call. He had questions.
“What?” answered General Anthony Reed.
“I haven’t had an update in several hours,” said Gibson. “What’s the latest?”
“You have got to be kidding me, Major,” said General Reed. “I’ve got a cluster on my hands with eight dead, and you call me for an update on the monster mission?”
“With all due respect, General—”
“Cut the crap, Rick,” said Reed. “Whenever you begin with that, you’re about to be disrespectful. Just spit it out.”
“There’s nothing you can do about the failed hostage rescue,” Gibson suggested. “It’s over. Operation Flame Out is, however, active. I don’t think status updates are too much to ask.”
Reed huffed. “What’s the latest intel you have?”
“I know from your asset Smith the team inserted successfully into North Vietnam. I know they located our subject and then lost it.”
“Fine,” Reed said. “I’ll have Smith get back to you.” The line went dead.
Gibson sat there for a moment with the receiver still in his hand. He blankly stared at the television screen. There was no film of the ill-fated operation yet, so the network relied on one reporter standing outside the north side of the White House and another sitting inside some studio in the Pentagon. A ping from his computer drew his attention away from the television.
“That was fast,” he mumbled and pressed the space bar on the keyboard. The screen flickered and a new message appeared on the display.
EYES ONLY, CLASSIFIED
SOD, USAMRIID OPERATION FLAME OUT
STATUS QUERY RESPONSE
Navstar-embedded identifier indicates target was immobile but is again moving.
Cluster of Navstar-embedded i
dentifiers indicate team is mobile and moving toward target.
No independent verification. No verbal or visual confirmation available.
“That’s it?” Gibson muttered. He was hoping for more. He picked up the phone again and dialed a secure line. “Get me the Air America site outside Hanoi.”
There was a series of clicks before the line connected. An impatient man answered the phone.
“Smith here,” said the spy. “Who’s this?”
“This is Major Gibson. I—”
“I just sent you an update. I don’t have time to talk. We’re dealing in real time here, Major.”
“How close is the team to the target?”
Smith sighed. “It’s hard to know exactly,” he said. “There’s a latency with satellites.”
“Then how reliable is your intel?”
“What I can tell you is that each of the tranquilizer darts has a unique satellite signature,” said Smith. “We can track them individually. We know that your team discharged two of them. One is still in the target. The cluster of unused darts is still with your team.”
“How long is the latency?”
“Ten seconds for the data. Less than a minute to coordinate the data with our mapping.”
“Good,” said Gibson. The delay was shorter than he’d expected. He hadn’t done much studying about global positioning satellites and their reliability. He was encouraged.
“Goodbye, Major.” The line went dead.
Gibson hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. This was the calm before the storm. He could feel it in the bones the way an arthritic senses a drop in barometric pressure.
He trusted the team, who General Reed promised him was among the finest, would bring him the VX-99 Marine. Then the real work would begin again.
Gibson closed his eyes until a knock at his half-open door shook him from his twilight. “Come in,” he called and cleared his throat. He opened his eyes to see Dr. Starling moping toward him. The young doctor’s hands were buried in his lab coat pockets. His feet shuffled more than they stepped forward. The deep frown lines on his face were the only things more prominent than the bags under his eyes. He dropped into the chair opposite Gibson’s desk without pulling his hands from the pockets and without an invitation to sit.
