by S L Shelton
When I was within fifty meters of the bottom, I saw movement in the streambed. Four figures were crouched in the water, using hand signals to communicate. They were almost directly below the position on the ridge where I had left the map, compass, and knife.
Two of the men moved out of the water, onto the bank while the third, and forth covered their exit. Once on the bank, they shed their packs and covered them before taking up position to cover the other two as they did the same.
The movement seemed lopsided for some reason. As they moved up the hill, they swept west and up. They left the eastern approach uncovered. That seemed wrong, sending a stab of doubt through my decision to make a move. I had just about overcome it when a piercing squeal in my ear alerted me that my other voice was about to communicate something to me.
Sniper, it said simply, and the squeal began to recede.
I froze and looked east, straining my eyes to detect anything that would have been out of place amongst the trees and woodland creatures. About forty meters away and to my right, I saw a faint glow of blue: the night display of a sniper scope.
Five-man team, I thought to myself. The sniper has right cover.
Nick had only given me three tracker tags. I had mistakenly assumed there would be three targets for me to tag. I should have known he wouldn’t give away anything, even by accident. I sat motionless, trying to decide what to do.
What do I know about a tactical team? I asked myself.
Heavily armed, heavily trained—Duh!—earbud communications, throat or boom mic, I thought as I quietly moved closer to the sniper’s position, using my toe to feel for large roots, moss, larger stones, anything to keep my feet from making noise as I placed them on the ground.
Silence. I am silence. I am quiet as a shadow.
I was about fifteen meters behind the sniper. There was no more moss to walk on so I stopped, squatting slowly to the ground. Unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing night vision. He was using his scope to see through the dark veil of night…so his biological night vision would be useless. He was laying prone, rifle on a bipod. If he was a righty—as I assumed he was since that’s how he oriented his rifle—his tactical earbud would probably be in his left ear, giving me even more immunity as I approached since I was on that side.
I waited. Debating. Engage? Don’t engage?
Nick had specifically told me not to engage unless engaged. Okay. Don’t engage, I thought. What then?
Several minutes passed after the team moved up the bank. If they were keeping the same slow, quiet pace, they would be discovering my discarded items soon. So I waited, stooped behind a tree, standing on a thick patch of moss. From where I was, I heard a click in the vicinity of the sniper. Then he spoke, quietly.
“Arrow, Owl. Clear on this end.”
There was a pause then “Negative, Arrow. There’s nothing moving on the ridge but you.”
Wow! Lots of information in that little snippet of communication.
First: they had found my discarded items and realized I was no longer with them. As far as they were concerned, I might have a three-hour lead on them.
Second, and more interesting: “Arrow” was the call sign for Lieutenant Marsh, who I had met in the Czech Republic while trying to free Barb from the Serbs. So this might be a SEAL team.
SEALs! Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t engage, I kept reminding myself as if repeating the mantra would somehow protect me from contact with the hyper-trained super killers.
I watched a moment longer and saw Owl clicking his mic button twice in confirmation of something. He silently rose and started to walk slowly east, sweeping his rifle side-to-side, scanning the landscape with his scope.
After watching and listening for a few minutes, until I was certain he was far enough downstream, I quickly, though quietly, made for their packs on the opposite bank. Upon opening them, I found lots of goodies—it was like Christmas at Rambo’s house. Weapons, ammo (not blanks as Nick had promised), maps, plastic explosives, knives, food, dry socks…
Now why didn’t I get dry socks? I wondered as I recalled the elite ops credo that if you rely on a piece of equipment, it is worthless unless you have a backup: Two is one. One is none.
I swiftly went through all the packs, placing two of the tracking tabs on the explosives and one on the triggers. In one pack, my hand hovered briefly over a lovely knife. The temptation to take a souvenir was strong, but I bypassed it and instead continued to search the bags. It would be too much of a jab to add insult to the trick I had already pulled on them. The last thing I wanted was pissed off SEALs coming after me.
Once I was done, I paused, lingering over the packs for few beats longer.
Still, I thought. I might earn a little goodwill from the rest of the instructors if I spread the humiliation around a bit. My escape from containment had been a blow to many egos. By bruising a few others outside of the CIA family, and giving my instructors something to laugh about, I might find my way back into their good graces.
Temptation overtook me, and I went back to the other pack, taking the knife before tucking it into my waistband.
After a few more moments, I began to feel I had delayed my departure long enough. My eyes and senses stretched out again. There was still no indication they were on the way back, but I started feeling exposed. After I closed the packs and replaced the netting the tactical team had draped over them, I started back the way I had come: through the water, up the hill, and then east toward the Farm.
It was nearly two hours later after I had finished congratulating myself on once again, spoiling Nick’s plan for me, when I heard movement on the opposite ridge behind me. I froze and listened. Aside from the sound of my heart, I heard crunching, frantic footfalls. They were coming fast and no more than six hundred meters behind me. I immediately realized they were still on the opposite ridge, which meant they had to go down and then come back up if they wanted to intercept me.
Can you see me? I wondered as I dropped down to my knee.
I hastily recalled the map squares between my current location and the training facility. I had a couple of ridges to cross as well before I had a straight shot to camp. In the meantime, I had to assume the sniper, Owl, had already seen me through his scope—maybe, maybe not. But if he had, and this had been a real operation, I might very well already have a bullet in my skull or between my shoulder blades.
The chill that flowed down my back sent me to my feet and scrambling down the hill to the next valley. As soon as the other ridge was out of sight, I turned east and began to run at full speed.
With that move, there were now two valleys and a hill between us. I continued to run along the floor of the shallow valley until I reached a saddle between the next ridges. I crossed again at that low point. After continuing to move up to the top of that next ridge, I stopped, pausing to listen.
The tactical team’s footfalls were a good ways behind me. As best as I could tell, they were still moving along the top of the ridge two hills over.
Maybe the sniper hadn’t spotted me after all.
I turned and continued to run toward the training facility. I estimated that they were about eight hundred meters to my rear and a good three hundred meters to the north, still running along the first ridge. It would be next to impossible for them to catch up to me before I reached the camp unless I tripped and hurt myself.
Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip, I thought to myself as branches and brush slapped my face.
I picked up my pace. After running for almost an hour, I calculated that I was within spitting distance of the camp. Only a moment later, I broke over one last hill and spotted the glowing security lights at the compound.
Almost there. Don’t trip, don’t trip.
The sun was starting to come up—the first pink and orange stripes started to grow in the eastern sky, the sight of which gave me a second wind. And I really needed that second wind; my breath labored and my lungs burned from the long-distance sprint.
As I reached the perimeter fence surrounding the main compound, I turned right and ran away from the main entrance and up through the woods behind the gym to avoid a delay at the gate with check in.
On the way to the gym the day before, I had noticed a fallen tree had come to rest against another near the fence there. I aimed for that general location as I strained to hold my pace. My lungs were burning, and my legs ached, starting to fail me. I felt like I was carrying sandbags in my shoes, merely flinging them forward with each step.
When I reached the fallen tree, I climbed the old pine that was leaning there at an angle, using both my feet and hands to reach the top of the makeshift ramp. Once at the top, I paused.
“Jesus, that’s a long way down,” I muttered. The only plus was that the ground sloped away from the fence a good bit, so I might be able to roll—but then again, that made the drop off several feet greater. I had nearly talked myself out of the jump when a sound, deep in the woods behind me, brought my head around. I still couldn’t see them, but I could hear them crashing down the last slope, making no effort to remain stealthy any longer.
I launched myself over the fence. The fall was significant, and I landed sideways, tucking into a roll as soon as my feet touched. Even with the roll, the impact knocked the wind out of me and I was gasping for breath as I righted myself to run again.
Then the alarms sounded.
Sirens and bells went off all over the compound, filling the air with enough racket to wake the dead. As I aimed myself toward the barracks, armed guards swarmed the area from both sides. I pressed myself against the back wall of a barracks, waiting for an opening to run. When students began to fill the yard, awakened by the rude alarms, I saw a small window of opportunity and dashed for the mess hall.
I sprinted, looking over my shoulder once to see if I had been spotted. Just as I reached the side door to the mess hall, one of the armed guards turned and saw me.
Shit!
Once inside, I quickly took off my dirty fatigue top, wiped my face and arms, and tossed it into a trashcan. As I strolled into the eating area in my favorite Melvin’s T-shirt and fatigue bottoms, I fell in line behind a couple of early risers, waiting for the coffee machine. Some of the students were making their way to the windows to see what was causing the alarms to go off—I just poured a Styrofoam cup of coffee, casually walked over to my usual eating spot, and sat at the table, trying to get my breathing under control without looking like that’s what I was doing.
A moment later, several guards stormed into the mess hall with automatic weapons. They scanned the scene and then proceeded directly to me, leveling their rifles at my head.
“On the ground. Now!” one of them yelled.
Baynebridge uniforms, I noted.
I didn’t move, instead pasting a “Who? Me?” look on my face. Waiting. Sipping my coffee.
The guard was getting ready to speak again when a SEAL kicked a side door open. The guards swept their rifles in that direction.
By this time, the dorms had emptied and everyone started to crowd into the mess hall. Some members of the SEAL team stomped toward me. One of them, a rather large fellow, was ignoring the commands of the guards to drop their weapons and get on the ground as he pushed tables and chairs aside to get to me.
He came to halt directly in front of me. Glaring—hate in his eyes.
The guards were screeching at him. “Get on the floor! Now! Get down!”
But it seemed the big guy was completely oblivious to their loud requests.
Several instructors pushed past the students lining the doorway.
“Stand down,” Ray bellowed with a serious command quality. They hesitated for a moment longer. “I said, security, stand down…now!”
They lowered their weapons and began to leave the room, fuming over the fact that their authority had been ignored. A couple of them seemed sincerely disappointed they didn’t get to shoot someone.
The big guy was still standing in front of me, his breath ragged and labored from the long run. He extended his hand. Judging by the sneer on his face, it wasn’t an offer to shake hands—it was palm up. He wanted something.
“Ah,” I muttered as I reached into my waistband and withdrew the knife I had stolen. I handed it to him cautiously, trying to suppress a grin.
A whoop of laughter broke out among the instructors as the big guy snatched the knife from my hand before turning to rejoin his teammates.
“Don’t you want these back as well?” I asked when he was about five steps away.
He turned in time to see me dropping four guide rods and springs that I had stripped from the handguns in their packs. The other members of his team rushed forward to restrain the big SEAL as he lurched back toward me. He stomped at me with his boot, but I pushed myself away in my chair as quickly as I could, sliding backward a couple of feet and out of range.
I smiled as I stood slowly. “I only borrowed them,” I said with a smirk.
The instructors’ laughter increased in volume and intensity, which was definitely not helping to defuse the situation.
Nick ran into the room, smiling, inserting himself between the SEALs and me. “Calm down, Mac. He gave them back,” he said, patting the big man on the shoulder. Then leaned closer into him and said, “Not in front of the class, man.”
“Mac!” I said, remembering Nick telling the Delta Force guys that the big Serb I had fought on the plane was “as big as Mac.” Devgru!
That seemed to pacify the big guy for the moment. Another man from the SEAL team came forward. It took me a second to recognize him through the camouflaged face paint, but it was Lt. Marsh. He smiled and shook hands with Nick.
“How are you Nick?” he asked, pumping Nick’s hand firmly.
“Good, Steve. Why don’t you grab some chow and find a rack. I know my boy kept you guys awake all night,” he replied.
Lt. Marsh looked at me and a beam of recognition flashed across his face. “Monkey Wrench!” he said, grinning. He reached out to shake my hand. “Son of a bitch. If I had known it was you, I would have taken it a little more seriously.”
I smiled and grasped his hand. “I don’t think I could have run any faster. You would have had me if you had tried any harder.”
He laughed. “Well, you seem all healed up and in the game. Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I replied and plopped back down into my chair, exhausted. As I reached for my coffee, Nick looked down at me. “Debriefing, fifteen minutes. And don’t get comfortable. You get your hand-to-hand training this morning.”
I rolled my eyes and focused on my coffee. After he was gone, I walked to the chow line and piled eggs, bacon, and a biscuit on my plate. I grabbed three packages of jelly to go with it. I was overlooking my typical embargo on bread—I needed something to absorb all the acid boiling in my gut.
Eric and Dylan immediately joined me, flanking me on either side as I sat at my usual spot.
“What was that? Where were you all night?” Eric asked.
“Playing hide-and-seek in the woods,” I replied between forkfuls of egg.
“Who were they? I heard you say ‘Lieutenant,’” Dylan chimed in.
“He is a SEAL I met a while back. I’m assuming the rest of them are SEALs as well,” I replied with my mouth full of biscuit, looking over my shoulder at the SEAL team as they made their way through the chow line.
“Shit!” Eric exclaimed. “You had to evade SEALs?”
“No,” I said, my mouth still full of biscuit as I rose from the table to take my empty plate away. “I had to find them, tag them, and then evade them.”
Eric’s mouth dropped open and was still there gaping as I stood to leave.
“Analysts and techs won’t have to do that, will we?” I heard Eric nervously ask someone as I left.
I didn’t wait to hear the answer before I was out of the mess hall and headed toward the HQ building.
Headquarters was an old farmhouse, which also s
eemed to house some of the instructional team. The debrief was short and filled with much snickering from the instructors. I had to assume that this was an unusual situation because I very much doubted any normal student would see them acting this candidly.
“You started dropping tracer tags as soon as you hit the landing zone. What clued you in to their presence?” Ray asked, trying to draw some seriousness into the meeting while still attempting to suppress a smile. My ploy had worked; I had gained some goodwill.
“This is a CIA training camp,” I replied straight-faced, doing my best to remain deadpan. “As far as I’m concerned, my underwear is bugged.”
Penny Rhodes turned her head to mask a chuckle.
“Did you know where the SEALs were before you left the ridge?” Marcus asked with a frown. He was the more serious of the instructors.
“No,” I replied firmly. “But I knew where they would be. That’s all I needed to get around behind them.”
“You went to the edge of the northern border of the base to drop your tracer tags on the ground. That gave you an outer boundary they couldn’t approach from,” Marcus continued with almost a reprimanding quality. “What if you had been dropped in the middle of the wilderness? How would you have isolated their approach then?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d have to identify a terrain feature that would do the same job.”
“What if you were in the desert?” Marcus asked, but he didn’t wait for me to answer. “You didn’t use operational tactics to locate your targets. You used a false parameter that wouldn’t exist in the real world.”
“I used what was available to me,” I replied, trying to suppress a bit of fresh agitation.
“Take it easy, Marcus,” Penny said. “He’s the only candidate to ever find the insurgents and tag them without getting captured. He did what he was asked to do.”
Marcus shook his head. “He didn’t learn anything, though, and neither did we.”
