by Vince Milam
We assigned Luke a patrol of the wider perimeter, to protect us from local warriors.
“They will not hurt you,” he said, pointing in my direction. A definitive statement, filled with surety.
“Why is that?”
“They killed you.”
“I’m not dead, Luke.”
“You carry special power. They will not try you again.”
Good to know. So we assigned Luke the job covering Catch and Bo against arrow and spear attacks. We would stop a mile below Babe’s usual anchor spot and work through nighttime jungle. Approach JI’s camp, wait for first light. Night-vision binoculars would assess and discern. But sufficient daylight was required for a full-on assault against such odds. Too many moving objects—peripheral vision a survival tactic.
We didn’t discuss rules of engagement. A hot-fire situation. Thirty of them. Plus possible Spetsnaz. Engage with ferocity and speed and extreme termination.
I pulled my laptop and phone, synched with the geosynchronous big bird in the sky. Checked messages a final time. One from Mom. Be careful.
Always am. Love you, I replied.
And one other message. From the Clubhouse.
She lives.
It was inconceivable Jules knew of Abbie’s condition. But she’d crawled onto her spider web, sent signals. Interpreted returned vibrations, innuendo, and whispers. Discerned Abbie lived. Amazing, but washed with doubt. No one was that good. Still, still. Jules had tapped into the Kiunga tendrils of intrigue before.
A heartening message nonetheless. She lives. I shared the information with Bo and Catch and reemphasized our known resistance. Over thirty JI terrorists, each armed with fully automatic weapons. The Russians—an unknown. A possibility, real enough. But there was nothing unknown about JI’s killing intent. And they knew we headed their way. Word sent not long after our Kiunga arrival. We wouldn’t catch them asleep.
Mental grit rasped across the gung-ho. The enemy’s description, their strength, delivered guilt. I’d dragged my friends into this. Asked for their help. They accompanied me without hesitation or fear or anything less than full commitment. Against long odds. Because I asked.
“I’ll take the lead,” Bo said. “Approach, light it up, draw fire. Position close enough to your friend.” He referenced Abbie. “Eliminate close-proximity threats. Cover you, Tarzan.”
He meant me. Tricky business. If Bo began his assault too far from Abbie, he couldn’t cover my approach and rescue. Too close and he risked hot lead hitting her and me. A fine, fine line and one few on this earth could pull off. Bo, one of them.
Catch and I nodded, knowing.
“I’ll focus on rescue,” I said. “Catch on tee-oh-oh.” Targets of opportunity. Again, tight nods.
“Alamo?” Catch asked.
Delta strategies, tactics, and goals hinged on speed, ferocity, movement. Static time was reserved for the minute or less it took for Abbie’s release. But things could go sideways, fast. And a worst-case scenario meant battle from a joined protective position. Our Alamo.
I pointed at the deck toward an ochre circle, a small hilltop, near the back of JI’s camp.
“There. The back side joins a small stream. Three sides overlook the camp.”
A final collection of comments and suggestions, and done. We knew the drill. Move fast, drive forward, hit what you aim at. Deliver sufficient ferocity, send them scattering. Then escape. Dispersed, the enemy would continue fighting, chasing. But their sense of collected defense would be shattered, rendering them less dangerous.
Dusk, then darkness. A half-moon—sufficient for navigating the twists and turns of our Fly River tributary. Bats dipped and turned across the deck, chasing insects. Animal calls from the enveloping jungle—some docile, others strident, panicked. The temperature became more bearable. We ate MREs from the weapons container and took watch shifts. Tried catching a few Zs, stretched out on the hard deck. Thank God Catch pulled the midnight shift.
He’d always owned the innate ability to see things the rest of us missed or couldn’t discern. A third eye, catching the unexpected and unknown. A hand on my ankle, a soft “they’re coming.” He repeated the action with Bo and Luke.
I visited the wheelhouse and read Babe the riot act, again. Told him of possible fire, friendly and otherwise. And to keep the boat in the middle of the small river. We assembled at the back deck, hunkered below the Sally’s sides.
“A metallic glint and bow wake,” Catch said, voice low. We scanned our watery trail. This stretch of river held turns and twists with short, straight sections between. The moonlight allowed for a view of each small section before the next turn. We waited, watched, weapons set for full auto. If a hostile boat loaded with armed men approached, this wasn’t a time for single shots.
Two turns, then three. Nothing. On the fourth turn, just prior to losing sight of our short back trail, we saw it. A pushed ripple on the water’s surface. Pushed by the bow of a boat, the front tip exposed for a split second as it turned the corner and we turned out of sight.
“They’ll goose it on one of these straight stretches,” I said. “Come roaring around the turn and run up our tail.”
“And they aren’t delivering the mail, my brothers,” Bo said. “Aim true and sure before they get close. Luke, stay low.”
Luke stared back, noncommittal.
I occupied one back-of-the-boat corner, Bo the other. Weapons shouldered, aimed downriver. The Sally’s sides were three inches thick. Decent protection. Catch, as always, took a position behind us, near the wheelhouse. Luke squatted opposite him, shotgun at the ready.
Two more tight turns. Catch heard it first. “They’re coming!”
Above the low rumble of our boat’s engine, the discernable howl of large twin outboards at full throttle carried through the thick jungle air. We were seventy yards down a short, straight stretch when they side-skidded around the corner. Rapid blinks of light covered their boat. Automatic gunfire, muzzle flashes, fired our way.
The attackers’ first bullets slammed into the protective sides and splintered wood with resounding thunks.
“Light ’em up!” I called. We did. Three full-automatic weapons spoke back. Every fifth round in our magazines a tracer, leaving a bright trail downriver. Their magazines held a similar configuration, and the river surface reflected ribbons of hot light. Bullets thwacked the Sally, chunks of wood flew, the battle noise deafening.
We made the next turn, disappeared from their line of fire. Babe screamed every curse word in his repertoire. Bo and I reloaded.
“Status?” I asked, loud and tight. Was anyone hit, wounded—were weapons functioning properly with sufficient ammo on hand?
“Good,” Bo said. Catch repeated the same.
Babe continued screeching. But we stayed the course, plowed ahead, the Sally intact.
“They got the juice,” Bo said. A flat statement, no fear.
They had us outgunned. At least five and as many as seven men had fired our way.
“Hit the outboards,” I said, preparing my aim for the next imminent firefight.
“Sound policy, goober boy. Sound.”
The tops—the working engines—of their twin outboards sat high at the stern. Hit those and their fast riverboat became driftwood. Plus, the enemy stood between us and those outboards, offering the opportunity for taking a few of them out in the process.
“Shoot the outboards!” I called to Catch.
“Screw that noise.”
No time for argument. They roared around the bend and deadly twinkles of light illuminated their vessel. Bullets whined, slapped, bee-buzzed past my head. Bo and I cut loose, focused on the outboard engines. The engines’ protective cowlings—clearly reinforced—deflected our bullets, and they closed the gap, utilizing superior speed and firepower. We were in deep shit.
It flew between Bo and me, six feet off the deck, trailing fire and smoke. A rocket, fired from one of the M136 rocket launchers. Catch. The weapon’s low-frequenc
y concussive boom—so different than the sharp retort of fired bullets—followed the rocket’s passing. The weapon’s firing blast sent a compressed air wave washing over us.
Designed to destroy armored vehicles, the rocket struck the speeding attack vessel amidships. And blew it out of the water. Man, Catch could shoot. Any weapon, anytime. Bits and pieces of aluminum boat, engines, and men scattered across the river, the fireball lighting the sky. The explosive blast echoed off the jungle walls. Screw that noise, indeed, my brother.
Another tight turn and the scene disappeared from sight. The Sally rumbled; Babe continued screaming invective. All else stood quiet on the jungle river.
“Status check,” I said, and pulled a small flashlight. A slight handshake accompanied the tool’s appearance. A close call. Too close, and the adrenaline meter remained pegged.
I worked Bo first. The rush, the intensity of the moment, could mask injury.
“Splinters in your face,” I said, and checked to assess more serious injuries. The flashlight illuminated torso, arms, legs. No blood other than the small rivulets that streamed down his cheek.
Catch next—unharmed. Luke the same. I entered the wheelhouse and checked Babe.
“Ya bastids shot my Sally!” He shook with fear and rage. “No one said anything about shooting! My poor Sally!”
Other than the usual scars and infections and skin rashes, he appeared unharmed. He must have ducked low inside the wheelhouse.
“Shut up, Babe. Drive.”
I left the wheelhouse and Bo said, “Let’s do you, my Georgia peach.”
A furrow above my left ear. A bullet crease, the skin broken, blood oozed. I hadn’t felt a thing.
“Russians?” Bo asked.
“Had to be. And more will make an appearance at JI’s gold camp. Guaranteed.”
Catch produced a medical kit and did the doctoring. Bo’s face would bear scars. As would my scalp. Totems. More damn totems. And we continued upriver.
Chapter 37
Dappled moonlight lit our way. The jungle’s upper canopy glowed, reflecting rays. Incremental darkness edged toward ground level. Sounds surrounded, nocturnal scuttles and calls and cries. The enemy waited—assembled, well armed, prepared. How prepared, a question answered soon enough.
We had tied off a mile below the usual landing where the gold camps unloaded and Babe plied his wares for the adjacent small village. The enemy expected us, and our incursion point wouldn’t be the front door. Small advantages, presented and taken.
Babe remained silent as we geared up. His way of a final goodbye or simple relief at our exit from his Sally.
“Do not leave,” I said. “We’ll return before noon. Be here.”
“Fine, mate. Fine.” His voice held a touch of melancholy. Perhaps he assumed us dead men.
Bootlaces tightened, gear given a final check. Web vests donned, extra ammo stored, and grenades attached. Radio earpieces and whisper microphones, courtesy of the Company, enabled and checked. War paint applied, black and olive green. No words, quick hugs, final fist bumps, and over the side. Battle.
Luke led, and halted twice the first mile. Pointed his shotgun at the same type of spindly tree both times. Don’t touch. Sufficient light allowed for a profile of clustered needles along their small trunks as we passed. His third halt froze in midstep. He stared at the ground, head shifting left at a slow pace. Tracking ground movement. A snake. Type unknown, but dangerous enough to halt Luke Mugumwup in his tracks. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, nodded, and moved on.
We skirted the village at the gold camps’ landing and headed northwest. Avoided gold camp–cut trails, followed ridgelines, kept below the tops. No profiles silhouetted, no regular pathways trodden. And we moved fast, silent, breath measured, senses keyed. Four miles later I caught up with Luke, placed a hand on his shoulder. Jemaah Islamiyah’s camp lay a quarter mile ahead. Delta would take over from this point forward. Luke nodded, understood. We had entered the battle zone, and he gripped my arm, squeezed an affirmation. A communiqué from time immemorial, warrior to warrior.
We approached a rise, a hummock, at the south of their camp. Stealth and caution the moment’s order. Engaging the enemy in predawn blackness—angry, desperate shots fired every direction—left Abbie more vulnerable. A sure target, and surer death. At the rise’s crest, we flattened, three paces apart. Luke followed suit, stayed behind us. Moonlight faded as a low, wet cloud passed overhead and dumped a hard shower, soaking us. It drifted away and moonlight returned. We used night-vision binoculars to scan our battle area.
Goal one—locate Abbie. The central cluster of tents and tarps hadn’t changed. Wooden supply crates collected about as chairs and tables. The large tarp suspended over the cooking area protected a still-smoldering fire. Other tarps were strung between trees, hammocks beneath them. Three men strolled, passed each other, worked a set area. Then I spotted her.
Curled, tiny and balled, within a cage. The three armed men guarded, patrolled her area. The cage, built from jungle branches, was three feet tall, five long. An animal’s cage. Two of the men halted together, a match flared. They shared a smoke. Abbie showed no movement, huddled and exposed to the elements. Bastards.
Half a dozen men occupied hammocks. The tents held more, the number unknown. But the count remained insufficient, lacking. JI had deployed, spread out. Established a defense. Waited. And they were terrorists, not trained warriors. They’d fire their new AK-47s on full auto, spraying lead. A high-risk battle situation when the objective was hostage rescue.
North, across the camp, our Alamo rose. A substantial hill. No movement, no men spotted on the rise. The small stream running along its back side turned south to our right and bordered the cluster of tents and tarps. Its small ravine was a natural ambush spot for the enemy, or an attack position for us.
A lazy meandering noise on our immediate right, undergrowth brushed against. A small animal. We let it move away, undisturbed. Overhead, roosted birds began their predawn call. A breeze lifted tarps, collected rainwater cascaded. And Catch’s voice transmitted through the earpiece.
“West. Fifty yards. Depression.”
I scanned the area, binoculars tuned, sought the enemy. And spotted them. A slight depression, at the west side of the camp. On our left. A dozen men. JI lay in wait, ambush ready.
A bad mental resonance, the picture still unclear. My gut said those tents didn’t hold the rest of them. But we had a plan and odds improved. Hand signals and radio whispers confirmed our strategy. The pitch-black moment prior to dawn arrived, passed. Through the tall tree canopy, vague light washed the remaining stars.
Catch would crawl west along our current hill. Position above the small depression holding the dozen JI fighters. When Bo started the attack, Catch would clean house. And seek other targets, both JI and Spetsnaz operators. The Russians’ probable situational tactic—occupy an extended perimeter. Ensure the objective achieved. Our deaths.
Bo and I would backtrack, drop below our position, and ease down the small streambed alongside the camp. A quick recon, and if no enemy fighters occupied our path, Bo would go in first. With silent stealth, eliminate immediate threats. Position to both draw fire and cover my rescue. While Catch covered our backs on the killing floor.
I crawled to Luke and whispered commands. Told him to patrol the base of our rise once the battle started. Protect Catch, watch for tribesmen. And be careful. Don’t approach the camp, don’t join the firefight. He blinked once, his sole acknowledgment.
Bo and I crawled, then rose and moved fast toward the streambed. A large insect, collected the last ten minutes, crawled up my neck. I pinched it and the hard exoskeleton popped. Another low cloud threatened rain. We stalked, silent. The camp remained still. The three guards meandered, a physical sign indicating lack of concern. They hadn’t met Bo yet.
We slowed along the streambed. All clear, not a sign of the enemy positioned. Shallow water gurgled and I radio-whispered my concern—the rest
of JI wasn’t accounted for. Felt it in my bones. They didn’t pack into tents. Not their style. A risk identified, passed to my teammates.
Silent caution covered our movement until we were even with the camp. Bo peeked over the streambed edge, turned, and hand-signaled intent. The three guards and Abbie, twenty yards away. Past them, the tents and tarps. He’d take out the guards and move toward the heart of JI’s camp. Position in their midst. Smack dab in the middle of them. Only a Bo Dickerson would consider such an insane tactic.
I locked eyes, returned a tight nod. The light of new dawn increased. He eased over the top of the streambed lip. It began.
I crawled up, attempted viewing his progress. Impossible. He’d disappeared, performed his magic. Bo hunted, unseen. A small ball of clothing, dark and motionless, lay inside the cage. I prayed she was still alive. And controlled the hot fury at her appearance and treatment. Death and raging righteousness would descend on these bastards in the next few minutes. And I’d deal my fair share of retribution, without hesitation, without remorse. They’d asked for it. They’d asked for Case Lee.
Chapter 38
He used a knife. Eyes squinted, I saw no sign, no movement. Until one of the guards collapsed, silent, Bo’s quick shape above him. The second guard met the same fate. The third managed a muffled yelp prior to death. Too late. Bo attacked.
He dashed toward the center of the tents and tarps, headed for the scattered collection of wooden crates. The tinny metallic release of grenade safety levers announced his arrival. There was enough daylight to capture the small objects floating through the air as he ran. Bo Dickerson tossed two grenades into separate tents while streaking toward vulnerable protection.
Grenade explosions rang the start bell. Bo fired short bursts at the men scrambling from hammocks. Tight, precise staccato fire from Catch began. He swept the depression, cleaning house. I scrambled and raced toward Abbie.
