by Ken Jolly
Jonah Blackheart, Monster Hunter
The Dire Wolves
By Ken Jolly
Published by: BearCat Publishing © Aug 2015
No portion of this work may be reproduced except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act without the prior written permission of the Publisher. All rights reserved.
The Publisher and the author make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of this work.
ISBN-13: 978-1512269765
ISBN-10: 151226976X
The sharp rolling sound of the rifle startled us. Horace looked up and Hazel suddenly sat up.
"Got it," Sam gloated."
"What?"
"A rabbit on top of the rise, tough shot. I've been watching it for at least fifteen minutes waiting to get a good shot.”
He rose to his feet switching the gun’s safety on and propped it against the tree trunk Sam walked around the snow covered tree roots, waved at the other hunters for attention so they wouldn't shoot and broke a trail through the deep snow.
He fell in over waist deep in the unmarred drifts.
Robert called after him, “Kind of a lot of trouble for a scrawny piece of meat!"
Sam yelled back. "At least I'm not going hungry tonight!" and bent over to pull the rabbit off the hill.
Just as he was extracting the body from the bush where it had entangled, he stopped in mid action at the deep-throated sound of a snarl.
Sam raised his head to see a huge silver gray wolf separate from a nearby drift. It had been almost invisible in the snow until it moved. It lunged forward, head down and spread its front legs as it readied to spring.
Introduction
Jonah threw the newspaper into the trashcan with an unprintable, but relief-venting curse.
Normally, Jonah was easy going even if people did find his scars scary. He frightened children and women seeing Jonah crossed to walk on the other side of the street. He could easily be mistaken for one of the monsters he hunted.
As scary as Jonah was, Jake was as handsome except for his shocking red hair, which he usually kept hidden under a baseball cap. They were an odd pair.
Jake looked up from his gun cleaning and focused his interest on the noise and his fuming friend. “What?” Jake queried sarcastically.
“I hate being the focus of media attention. You would think they would find something else more interesting or at least get distracted.” seethed Jonah.
“Is it the same old thing?”
Jonah sighed. Indeed, it was more of the same thing. The interview was meant as a debriefing and the media blew it way out of portion and made them sound like, heroes.
How Jonah hated that word. It implied they were super-human! Nothing could be further from the truth. What they did was terrifying, agonizingly painful, and nearly impossible. “Heroes” he thought, how absurd.
“Yesterday, this guy asked me how you become a monster hunter and if we had any openings!” Jonah said. You could see Jonah was offended by such a ludicrous inquiry and threw his hands in the air with disgust.
Jake resigned sat back in his chair and eyed him carefully; “Here comes the lecture.” He thought to himself.
“I’m afraid I upset him when I told him his first qualification would be having the ability to be scared shitless and still keep on fighting!” he roared, undaunted by Jakes eye-rolls. “He actually seemed to think that being ex-military and a fighter pilot would be enough credentials.” Jonah’s distain was palpable.
Jake just nodded in sympathy. No matter what he said, he knew the story would unfold. It takes an extraordinary person to perform their jobs.
Jonah rubbed his scars and his voice trails off subject, “I used to be reasonably good looking before Afghanistan. Now people look the other way and shield their children.”
Jake interrupted, “Well, what did you tell him?”
A fire came into Jonah’s eyes, “You have to be a pariah! A gun nut!” Jonah was of the opinion that polite society considered gun ownership more of a crime and less of an attribute. This country’s moral climate is askew. “I spend hours loading my own ammunition, not because I have so much free time, but because my life depends on every live round.” A twinkle of satisfaction appeared in his eyes at the image of a pile of brass shining in the tumbler. He valued it like gold, but it was a lot more useful.
“Then I asked him if he was a good shot.” Jonah stated with a look of disgust. “He said he could hit the broad side of a barn.” Jonah snorted, “I told him the next time we are in the heat of battle and we come upon a dangerously aggressive barn, we would give him a call.” Jonah had been pacing for emphasis and plopped back in his chair after his tirade.
Jake coughed politely and inquired, “Well, are you?”
“Am I what?” Jonah asked puzzled.
“A good shot!”
Jonah glared back but with smirking delight said, “I’m better than you!”
Jake held up his fingers mimicking a pistol with one hand under the other. “I’m better than you. You just got lucky last time!”
Jonah pantomimed injury and grinned.
“Tomorrow, at the range, I want a re-match!” Jake challenged.
Jonah motioned dismissingly at Jake. With the tirade over, he admitted only to himself that Jake was technically better. However, Jonah was lucky and sometimes lucky is just what you need. Further, as luck would have it, he had two real friends in Jake and Two Fish. They were willing to stand in the portal of hell with him and they had done so many times!
It was like walking into the portal of hell that day in Laurel, Alaska, he remembered. A cold front shuttered through his veins upon recall the day the wolves found them. Even two tours of duty in Afghanistan paled in his recollection.
Oddly, it was the same with monster hunting. It kind of found them. Fortunately, they had aptitude for it. However, monster hunting was expensive and precious little revenue came from bounties. That was why he joined “Blackwater Ops” after he discharged from the Army. Yet even with all the money he stashed away, it still didn’t pay the bills.
However, Jake became their financier having inherited a fortune from his Father. Instead of staying stateside counting money and running the family empire, Jake preferred playing soldier. His willing bankroll allowed this enterprise to come together.
So chamber a round and strap in—hang on for the ride as we execute some high gee turns and show you how we got to where we are now.
Jonah
Everything would have been different, if I had followed my original calling. Would it have been for the best? There is no way to tell. Would I have been happier, more fulfilled? No one can say.
For me, my defining moment was serendipitous. I was in culinary school when my Uncle Bob paid us a visit between deployments. He was a tough old cob with an endless collection of wildly exciting and dubious stories. My father always kept an eye on him like a mongoose on a cobra.
Bob was a year younger than my father but looked a decade older. It was this fact that convinced me his stories were true. Each wrinkle on his face told the story of fear, guts, and glory on a gargantuan scale. Each wrinkle was a scar earned on battlegrounds, combat zones, front lines, and in every theatre of war dreamed up by arrogant demigods and hawk-like Politicians. When a war of words and ideologies turns caustic, when fanatical religious jihadist dismisses all human rights but their own, or when deep cover operatives are too eager to launch their new destructive technologies on the world, the result was always the same, casualties.
There are two kinds of casualties, the dead, and the walking dead. The dead arrive home in flag draped caskets. A big ceremony is held at the church and the graveside. Family members morn, cry and hug each other
and eventually return to getting on with life. The walking dead are not exactly honored. The medals they may or may not receive are poor compensation for the scars they wear inside, the horrors of war that replay in their conscious and unconscious minds, haunting their days and their nights.
Uncle Bob was a Sergeant in Special Forces, and of the stories that were not classified, his tales were as strange as the lands, men, and wars themselves. In the short time he visited, I inherited his wanderlust. This was contagious stuff! Stories of his travels stirred my imagination and ignited my passion in a way that culinary success could never deliver. Much to my father’s disappointment, I left culinary school and enlisted in the U.S. Army.
Bleak would describe my parents’ mood the day I left for boot camp. Texas had always been our home and I had never strayed from her borders. My father was a second-generation restaurateur and had every reason to believe I would follow his example. In spite of his misgivings, his fear, and disappointment, he also gave me my wings.
Uncle Bob left me with some sage advice that has saved me on more than one occasion. Over beers and tall tales, he would dispense valuable information.
“If you are not cheating, fighting dirty, then you are not fighting hard enough! Do you think the American Revolutionaries adhered to strict rules of engagement? No, they fought gorilla-style and upset the tidy rows of British soldiers. There’s nothing wrong with fighting dirty, just be sure you are on the winning side!”
These were the problems we faced in Afghanistan, aka “The Sandbox.” How can you expect to win a war against irrational, unreasonable fanatics? We were not winning in a country the size of Texas. We could not subdue it any better than when the Russians had tried. To win we needed weapons of mass destruction and a Commander in Chief with a black heart. I was sometimes thankful it had not come to this.
However, the closest you can come to that scenario is where I met Jake. We had both signed on with “Blackwater.” It was a steamroller, perpetual motion machine with more “Intel-info” and a higher security clearance than the president, and with the kind of financial banking that could make a drug lord pee himself.
Essentially, it was a private military contractor operating as “Security Contractors” in war zones and offered high wages. Their principle business was providing private security protection for the wealthy in dangerous and compromised localities. For huge fees, we protected the people that could afford us.
Curious, we still debate on whether I saved Jake’s life or he saved mine. It depends on how drunk we are and who is telling the story.
Another subject open for debate is the prime difference between the two of us. Jake is serious about knives. He makes a good argument but knives scare me. If your problem has gotten close enough to use a knife, it means either you have not used situational awareness, or you have run out of bullets. I have seen too many serious knife wounds; messy knife wounds eviscerate.
Rashid
The week my troubles started, we were providing security for Rashid-Bal-Alkmaar. Entertainment such as drinking and whoring is forbidden in his Muslim religion. While away from home, he had been making up for lost time.
Once, while in a drunken stupor, his voice slurring he confided that his two devout brothers would never approve of his behavior but they were in Saudi and he was here, then he swilled another drink from his bottle and laughed.
Rashid had dragged us into this god-forsaken bar/brothel. This place was bad and stunk even by Afghan standards.
The bar running on the left side of the room was made of teak. In a land without trees, the bar alone was worth a King’s ransom. The drifting clouds of incense stirred by slow moving ceiling fans and the clamor of unfamiliar musical instruments helped to diminish our senses and increased my uneasiness.
Rashid is the client. I could only roll my eyes when he took two of the local girls to one of the back rooms. Things like this only lead to trouble.
We had spent a long hot day watching his back while he attended business meetings and deals. He had insisted we make this stop and would not pay attention to my advice or protests. Finally, I shut up and we followed him.
Jake staked a claim at a round table in the far corner of the room and settled with his back against the wall. I had to smile. It was just like him to sit having a clear view of the room. Jake, looked nervous and if I could see it, he was nervous. Normally he is good at hiding it.
Our buddies, Gramps and Tom, shared our unease. They did not look happy either. Gramps was fidgeting which is unusual for him.
Gramps is our newbie. He probably has more actual combat experience then all of us combined but, as the new comer and his age, we called him Gramps to irritate him. Did I forget to mention he has no sense of humor?
Tom on the other hand is steady and reliable if not imaginative. He did as ordered and you always knew what to expect from him. Usually he is very outgoing. I could tell something serious was bothering him because he was so quiet.
We all have our own hair-raising combat stories. Sometimes off duty, over drinks, stories flowed and if you only believed half of our tales, we had all been in a lot of action. I always remind them it didn’t happen unless they have pictures.
Scanning the room, I slid into the chair next to Jake. Jake pulled one of his throwing knives from his vest and stuck it in the table point first where it vibrated like a tuning fork. This was another sign of his nervousness. He looked over at me. “Jonah, do you have a knife yet?”
I frowned, "You know my feelings about knives. Why would I want a knife?” This has been a good-natured long running argument between us.
“Bad place." I grunted as I un-slung and propped, my M4 against the wall but within reach.
Jake, frowned, and above the tambourine and bells, which passed for music, he shouted, "I don't like it. You notice a lot of people leaving?"
I looked. The bar seemed to have thinned out. Flippantly I suggested, “Maybe it’s past their bedtime?
The place did seem to be less populated. This rang my internal alarm bells. People had faded into the woodwork. Locals always know in advance when to get off the streets. "Jake, Grab the squad, I’ll get Rashid!”
I was fumbling re-slinging my carbine when all hell broke loose. An invisible fist lifted me and I was on my ass. It took more than a moment to focus. The wall to the left of us had fallen in a cloud of dust and debris. A partial section of the roof collapsed with it as well. It might have been an act of god but I wasn’t that naive. We were in deep shit. The wall had fallen with a thunderclap that could only be a homemade fuel air explosion from an IED and enveloped us in a cloud of choking dust not to mention smoke from small burning fires.
It knocked Gramps, off his chair. One second he was there then when the shock wave hit he fell back into the rising dust cloud. Visibility fell to zero. My ears were ringing from the concussion of the explosion. I was choking on the smoke. I flattened on the floor hoping to find breathable air,
Somewhere close, the sounds of automatic small arms fire can barely be heard. I must be partially deaf. I knew they had to be close because they sound muted.
Combat affords no mistakes. It was too late to spend are trapped. I brightened; maybe if I lived through this I could blame Rashid.
We had parked our APC (Armored Personal Carrier) in the alley on the other side of that fallen wall. Brief glimpses through the smoke swirls gave evidence all that remained of it now is crumpled tin. Our boss was going to be really pissed. He cared more about his bottom line than his people.
Every exit is blocked with natives yelling and storming into the room. I saw small flashes as they triggered their guns.
Visibility fell to inches; however, it was enough to see rebels pouring in from both sides of what remained of the room. They sprayed the room with AK-47 fire. That was the good news. Pray and spray never beats well-aimed shots. With visibility as bad as it was they were more likely to hit each other.
Our carbines are virtually useless at these
visibilities and distances, besides I had no idea where mine had fallen.
The rebels without AKs were the nearest. They flashed shiny knives while screaming epithets. This is enough to freeze blood. Knives, used by people that know how, are scary dangerous. No matter what happens, you are going to be cut and it’s not going to be pretty.
A person with a knife will open you up like a pig and drop your guts on the floor in a pool of your own blood.
Humans are fragile and bleed out fast. All a bullet does is drill neat, small holes in you and unless you are unlucky enough and hit in a vital area such as brain, heart, lung, or spine you will most likely live.
I knew members of our squad were returning fire, as our M4s shooting a 5.56 round sounds different from the rebels 7.62. I suspect we were shooting just to be shooting. Under the dust cloud, I couldn't see much.
I was already on the floor so I stayed there not wanting to be hit by friendly or combatant fire. I crawled behind the bar for cover. It was definitely easier to breathe close to the floor.
I heard glass breaking. This had to be the big mirror behind the bar. Since I was behind the bar, I didn't appreciate this turn of events. Slivers of silvered glass rained down around me.
Jake and Gramps had disappeared and Tom was face down on the table. I didn’t need to look twice at the blood pooling from what was obvious a fatal wound. Anyhow, if I didn’t make it out, it didn't make any difference. The heat of a fight is no time to mourn.
I pulled my sidearm. In Texas, we refer to them as Hog Legs. It was an STI .45 semi-auto pistol. It was the only non-department gear that I carry. It's seen me through many tough scrapes, and has always been a lucky charm.
A rebel in an oversize white robe came stumbling around the bar, so I double tapped. He fell almost on top of me. I doubt he knew what hit him.
The sound of my firing brought more attention from out of the smoke. Another Rebel charged screaming so I dropped him next to the last one. That was two down out of no telling how many in the confusion.
