by JC Ryan
“It’s a sticky situation,” Carson said. “It wasn’t an officially authorized mission, so we can’t really put any pressure on them to do anything for us. When and if they identify the bodies and demand an explanation why armed Americans were in that area with explosives, we’ll have to disavow knowing anything about it.”
“I want my man’s body back,” Brandt growled.
“We’ll do our best, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Why not?”
“Well, eventually, the Afghans did send in police, backed up by their army, to go and search the place. But the locals gathered en masse and started chanting and throwing rocks at them. If the army or the cops had shot back, people could’ve been killed, and it would have caused a civil uprising. They wouldn’t do that, so they left.”
“Who left, the army?”
“Yes. And then the police, because they had no backup. The police reported that the locals collected all the rubbish they could find and all the gasoline they could get and... I’m sorry to tell you this, they poured the gas all over the site and set it on fire.
“My COS said it was a statement, something about burning infidels who’d attacked them.”
“A statement? What kind of statement is that?” Brandt was steaming. “The damn towelheads only give lip service to their religion. Infidels? That’s bullshit.”
“I’m only relaying what my COS said, Brandt. Don’t shoot the messenger. He is of the opinion it was a symbolic gesture. You know – infidels now and for all eternity burning in hell.”
“I’ll show them what burning in hell means!” Brandt shouted.
“Cool your jets, Brandt. This is already an international incident. We don’t need to pour any more fuel on the flames, so to speak. Let me give you the rest of what we know.”
Brandt had thought there was nothing more. Now he stopped sputtering and swearing to listen. “Go on, then.”
“The Afghan forces found remnants of what they thought were eight bodies. There was no time to collect DNA, take many photos, or gather proper forensic evidence before the locals overwhelmed them and drove them off the site. I’m afraid, now the site has been burned, that’s all we’ll ever know.
“I’m sorry. I know you valued your man.”
Brandt was too heartsick to answer. Valued my man. I loved that boy. He clicked the End key and set the phone down. He’d never had a mission go so badly, though he’d lost men before. At least they’d always had a body to bury, or a reliable witness who saw what happened, some closure – they’d never left a man behind, dead or alive. He’d never cried over a loss before, but now he gave in to the grief and let the tears come.
After ten minutes of stunned inaction, Brandt pulled himself together. If nothing else, the others had to be informed. He called Rick Longland in to help him plan what to tell the others and how to commemorate the best agent CRC had ever had. Rex Dalton might have been prickly and difficult, but something about him inspired great loyalty among his teammates, and a paternal feeling in Brandt. He deserved a memorial, at the very least.
Longland was there in minutes, and he saw the devastation in Brandt’s face. “Dalton?” he asked.
Brandt nodded. “It appears he and the team he took with him may have been ambushed.” He repeated what Carson had told him.
“What makes them think it’s our men, and not the drug lords Dalton was supposed to dispose of?” Longland asked. “Isn’t there any hope?”
“Right number of bodies, according to the operational plan Rex submitted before he and the others headed out. Rex is dead. He’d never leave me hanging like this if he weren’t dead or worse.”
“What’s worse?” Longland asked.
“Do you need to ask? Worse would be if he were in the hands of the terrorists. Remember, the Taliban were supposedly at that meeting. I pray if the team was ambushed that they were killed rather than captured.”
“John, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“What are we going to tell the others, Rick?”
Together they decided that there was no point in waiting to inform the camp about the tragedy. There would be time to have a memorial when the team Rex had operated with most often were back from their mission in Syria, but the rest should be told immediately. They’d all be together at the mess hall for dinner, and that would be as good a time as any.
Brandt prepared a few remarks, and then he abandoned them when the time came. For the sake of the entire team, he had to be as strong as he ever was in these situations. As soon as it appeared that most of the men were finished with their meal and about to go, Brandt stood up. Everyone went quiet and every eye turned toward him.
“Men, I have some unhappy news. Rex Dalton, whom most of you know, has been killed in action in Afghanistan. He was a brave man, a great agent, and an excellent soldier. We will all miss him. He wouldn’t want you to grieve. Dalton was a man of few words, but those words spoke of his devotion to this country and the missions we take on. The incident was such that there is no body to recover.
“You all know that shit happens, and in our line of work some of us get killed. Nonetheless, Dalton, like you, signed up for this. He knew the risks and never hesitated to take them. None of us is invincible. We bleed and die like any other human. Rex has paid the ultimate price, and I can tell you I know without a doubt he paid it willingly for the safety and betterment of our country.”
He turned and left abruptly and with the certain knowledge that Rex had not willingly given his life. Not in that sense. He’d willingly gone into danger, he’d willingly gone to the battlefield to fight, but he’d never willingly gone to be betrayed. If he’d failed, it wasn’t because he hadn’t given it his best shot, he’d failed because of treachery.
Brandt returned to his office, determined to make a start on getting to the bottom of the disaster, but once he was there, he felt so desolate that he locked his door and gave in to the tears again. This time the tears were for his country.
This was the first time he’d lost someone because of betrayal, and that hurt more than any other loss in the past. Partly because he felt this time he had failed. He’d failed to spot the discrepancies in time to save his man. He still didn’t know who to blame, but he vowed to find out. The only way to redeem himself was to seek out every last one of the betrayers, root out the poison that was consuming his country, and kill them. On behalf of Rex and of the US.
Chapter Nineteen
Koh-e Shir Darwaza, Kabul, Afghanistan June 23, 3:45 a.m.
THE SUN ROSE early here at this time of year – around 4:45. By daylight, Rex wanted to be far away from the scene of the latest body he’d hidden among the rocks. Digger had returned to the spot where he’d knocked Rex off his feet and saved him from being shot. Rex followed without saying anything. He’d figured it out. Digger was going back there to pick up the trail of the bombers and continue following it.
Arriving at the spot, Digger had his nose almost on the ground circling the area, and less than a minute later he sat down and looked into the darkness. He glanced back at Rex as if waiting for a command.
Rex said, “Go for it, mate.” That was the closest to what he thought Trevor would have said, sans the Aussie accent, of course.
Digger understood and started following the trail again.
Rex was tired, and he knew Digger would be in no better shape. He was hungry and thirsty and the same would go for Digger. If nothing else, he was going to have to find water soon, not only for himself, but for Digger. He trudged wearily along, making only a cursory attempt to stay in cover whenever he could. He’d been following for about twenty minutes when he noticed Digger had crouched low and was creeping up on something.
Rex stopped and watched the incident unfold. Digger began backing up, still in his crawling mode. Rex hadn’t seen him do that before. The oddity of it put his senses on alert, and he looked around for somewhere to hide. Digger backed up a few yards, and then stood and headed back, straight to Rex.
He took Rex’s hand in his mouth and growled softly, then led him in a direction perpendicular to the one they’d been travelling and further up the low hills.
“What is it?” Rex asked.
Digger didn’t answer.
When they’d gone about a quarter-mile, Digger turned back in the original direction. He went about fifteen yards, and then went into his crouch again. Rex followed but decided there was a reason for the crouch. He lowered his own body to the ground and followed Digger’s lead. They’d gone a few more yards when Rex heard voices.
He stopped, and Digger stopped, as well. Now Rex could make out voices and broken sentences. They were passing a pair of Taliban soldiers, but the conversation, as nearly as Rex could make out, was about the tangos looking forward to being relieved so they could get something to eat. Rex carefully turned his head as far as it would go in either direction, then soundlessly turned his body to get the rest of the 360-degree view.
If Digger hadn’t been there, Rex might have walked straight into another ambush. He was slipping, or maybe it was because of his concussion. The dog had better instincts than he did right now, so for the time being, he’d concede the alpha position. But as soon as they were out of danger, he was going to get it back, come hell or high water. He’d been in charge of his own missions for years. He wasn’t about to let a damn dog give him orders.
Still, he grudgingly accepted Digger’s intelligence. He’d thought Digger’s performance he’d seen in the past was all because of Trevor’s handling skills, and Digger was just a well-trained dog. Now it appeared Digger was scary-smart, and capable of operating and making correct judgement calls on his own.
If they could just sort out who was the leader and who was the follower, Digger could be a great asset.
A peculiar thought crossed his mind – I wonder if he thinks I’m an asset, or if he’s taking care of me because he thinks I’m not able to do it for myself?
Nah, he decided. He was just thinking like that because of a concussion. The dog couldn’t possibly be that smart.
Rex briefly considered shooting the two Taliban. Two less vermin to inhabit the earth. He could take them. It would be a calculated risk. He thought about it hard and decided the two remaining bombers were more important than a random couple of Taliban. Maybe he could come back and take care of them later. Maybe he could wipe out a whole nest of the vipers.
When Digger resumed standing, Rex got up as well. That had been a close call! But now they were making better progress, once again in the direction Digger seemed to want to go.
Rex strode along confidently, until Digger stopped and alerted to something on the ground. When Rex caught up to look at it, it was nothing but an old rag, wrapped around some rancid-smelling meat.
“Leave it,” Rex said. Thinking if it’s unfit for human consumption, it must be unfit for canine consumption, as well.
Digger sat down and looked at him with that accusatory expression again, then back at the meat and back at him. To Rex’s surprise, after a minute or so, Digger hadn’t pushed the issue. He got up and started off on the trail again.
He hurried after the dog. They’d been walking for hours and miles, and it finally occurred to him that what he’d been ignoring for most of that time, his hunger and thirst, were probably bothering the dog, too. “I’m sorry, buddy. As soon as we can locate some water, I’ve got something we can eat. But choking it down without water will just make things worse. Let’s just stop and rest.”
Digger ignored him. Rex figured either the dog didn’t understand English after all, or he had his own ideas of when to rest and when to keep going. “Digger, stop.”
Digger stopped but didn’t turn around to look at him. Rex shrugged. So, they were still battling for alpha.
Okay, fine, but I need a rest, and I can’t let him out of my sight.
Rex walked up to Digger and said, “Sit.” Every dog knows that one, don’t they? To his relief and gratification, Digger sat. Rex said, “Guard”, set his watch for a fifteen-minute timer, sat down with his back against a rock and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be enough, and he didn’t know whether Digger needed to sleep, too, but it would at least be a bit of a rest.
When the timer went off, Rex opened his eyes. Refreshed a little, he looked where he’d last seen Digger and felt a jolt of alarm when he wasn’t there. But when he scrambled to his feet with the dog’s name on his lips, Digger rose from a few yards off and came to him.
“Where’d you go, buddy?” he asked. Digger had nothing to say on the matter, so Rex just said, “Let’s go.”
Digger put his nose to the ground and cast about for the trail again, then set off in the same direction as before.
As he trudged along, Rex’s thoughts began to wander. It was a dangerous thing to allow to happen, because it was well after sunup, and Rex was still in the night-friendly dress he’d been wearing for over twelve hours now. He’d stick out like the proverbial sore thumb in the desert of the low hills they were traversing. So would Digger. Still, his fatigue and the aftereffects of shock and grief, not to mention the probable concussion, were taking their toll.
He was remembering the grueling training CRC had put him through before sending him out on any missions. It had been a while since he’d had to draw on the endurance he’d developed, or the mind-over-matter skills that took over when his body protested it couldn’t go any further. He just had to reach for that part of his mind that said, “Oh yes, you can.”
He was at that point now. Only the thoughts of his lost family and more recent losses of his friends kept him going. But he wondered if the dog had the same skills.
In a belated rush of concern, he called Digger to come back to his side, but the dog ignored him and kept going.
I guess that answers that question.
***
IT WAS SHORTLY after 6:00 a.m. when Digger stopped and assumed his alert position, crouched with all four feet under him, ready to spring up and attack if so ordered. He looked quickly over his shoulder and then swiveled his head back to look at something in the near distance.
Rex cautiously caught up to him in a running crouch, and unthinkingly put his hand on Digger’s back. A ripple of the muscles beneath his hand was the only response Digger made. He was staring at a farmhouse, about five-hundred yards away by Rex’s reckoning.
Now it was his turn to make some decisions. The occupants of the farmhouse, for he could see by the smoke coming from the chimney that it was occupied, could be innocents. Or they could be Taliban. It was more than a fifty-fifty chance they were Taliban, because the group dominated this area. It was full daylight, and as Rex had thought of several times before since sunup, he was in full battle dress. They couldn’t just walk up and knock on the door. They were likely to be greeted with a barrage of automatic weapon fire. On the other hand, this was where Digger led him, and he had never lied before about bad guys, to the best of Rex’s knowledge. When he picked up the trail of one or more of them, that's where he had always led him and Trevor. So, those people in the house might be Taliban, but at the very least, one of them was also a bomb maker.
He preferred to stay low and watch the place to observe any clues for the number of occupants. They could hide and sneak to within maybe twenty yards of the house unseen; forty for sure. The vegetation was bigger at this altitude, the desert of the deforested regions giving way to scrubby forest of recent growth, with infrequent old trees too twisted by the fierce winds of the region to be of use to the timber trade that had taken ninety percent of the forests native to Afghanistan. It was plenty of camouflage, if only he was wearing the right kind of clothing to blend in. Digger, black as he was, could probably get even closer, since he was both faster and smaller.
Rex didn’t dare take the risk until he had a better idea of how many were there, and whether there were outpost guards. He assumed there were none on this side of the house, or Digger would have detected them. But what about the sides he couldn’t see?
H
e considered the odds, and the likely sequence of events. He’d been hungry and thirsty an hour before, and the dog was undoubtedly suffering from at least the lack of water. Both dogs and humans could go a long time without food, but water was a different story. Maybe it would be better to attend to those needs before he took on an unknown number of probable Taliban.
Rex took out a monocular as his night-vision goggles were now of no use and hadn’t been for nearly two hours. He extended it to its full length and put it to his eye, scouting the area for anything that gave him an idea about either guards or the presence of water outside the house.
Beyond and to the left of the house and what appeared to be a few yards lower on the hillside, Rex finally spotted a patch where the trees and shrubs seemed a little greener than the surrounding area. It could mean water, either a spring or stream. It could also mean the terminus of one of the thousands of cave and tunnel systems, first dug for irrigation centuries before. In the case of a spring or stream, the water would be welcome and represent less risk.
If it meant a cave or tunnel was nearby, that could be a greater risk, as the Taliban forces had been using those for years. It could be guarded, though he hadn’t spotted any guards. It could mean another tunnel continued until it reached the house, which might be a mixed blessing. But risk or no risk, they needed water, and the need was becoming urgent.
“Let’s go, boy,” he said to Digger. He set the example of caution by staying low himself, shielding his progress behind rocks and shrubs from the view of the house. Digger followed his lead, creeping in his best form. It took nearly an hour to make their way to the patch of green, but the reward was worth the effort. When they got close, Rex went down and told Digger to scout.
Digger returned a few minutes later and took Rex’s hand in his mouth and started pulling him gently. Rex, just smiled, “You and I will work it out buddy, one of these days I will be speaking dog and you English.”
