by S L Shelton
“Enter your AUTH code,” I said to Howard.
“No,” he said defiantly still cradling the sore spot under his arm. “Those are the JSOC and Langley channels.
I was half tempted to beat the code out of him, but I heard John’s voice again.
“Monkey Wrench, be advised, if you have contact with Spartan, inform him that mission is scrubbed,” John said as a smug grin slipped onto Howard’s face. “I say again. If you DON’T have COM with Spartan, the Op is still hot and someone needs to get him a replacement SATCOM. Confirm.”
BANG! I could tell there would be hell to pay for that broadcast.
“Momma. Confirmed. Sending message now,” I replied.
I quickly scribbled a message and handed it to Gopher to send out in Morse code.
He tapped it out and sat listening. After a few seconds, he turned and looked at me with a big smile. “Nothing,” he relayed with a sly grin. “He must have burned out the transmitter.”
Howard ran over to the radio and picked up the scribbled message that Gopher had sent.
It read: Momma informs, if no reply from Spartan, mission still on. Else, scrubbed.
Howard shook his head. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”
“Yes. I passed on a command message from CIA headquarters,” I replied as straight-faced as I could.
“No, you jackass. You just committed one of us to go out there to repair a satellite unit,” he said, anger and fear on his face.
I smiled. “I know. A PSC 5 with a squad radio relay connection… He should probably have a couple of extra component cards as well, just in case the video feeds failed.”
Howard was dumbfounded. “I’m not going,” he blurted incredulously.
“You don’t have to,” I replied smugly as I grabbed my camouflaged jacket and left the room.
September 1996—Spotsylvania, Virginia
SCOTT WOLFE began thrashing with his feet, kicking the man between his legs as soon as the knife sliced his hand, forcing his attacker to release his grip. He dropped to the ground but quickly realized that whatever had stung his neck had also stopped his legs from working.
Up! screamed a voice into Scott’s ear.
“I can’t!” Scott yelled, collapsing into darkness.
He suddenly felt as though he was above himself, looking down on his limp form. He watched as his own body got up and began to run again. The man who had grabbed him spun around, momentarily confused by the action before pursuing the boy.
Scott ran to the end of the driveway and turned right, running down the hill in the center of River Road. The disorienting feeling of being out of his body terrified him. He concentrated on trying to will himself back into his body, but each time he tried, darkness would start to close on him and his legs began to fail again. After a few more attempts at rejoining his body, he gained an uneasy truce between the darkness and feeling his own body, balancing himself at the edge.
He looked back and saw his father running down the hill to the entrance of the driveway. Scott willed his small legs to go faster, and they obeyed. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he turned right again, down a short Jeep trail that ended at the river. He heard the foot falls of the man chasing him, heard his breath, and turned quickly onto a footpath, forcing the man to change direction too quickly. The man’s fingers just grazed Scott’s shirt collar before his forward momentum sent him sliding on the loose dirt.
Scott ran down the long path that traced the edge of the river. Brush and vines slapped him in the face as he pushed ever faster along the water’s edge. He looked back and saw his father running behind him. The look of terror on his face sent Scott’s heart beating loudly in his ears. He ran faster.
He reached a clearing and looked up, suddenly startled by a monster. It sat in front of him like a giant black beast, sleeping in the seated position. It took a moment for him to realize it was a wall of rock, situated just to the side of the pathway he had been following.
Climb, the voice in his ear said.
Scott put his hand on the rock, but his palm screamed in pain. He jerked it back and looked at the dark fluid running down his hand and wrist, dripping to the ground.
Climb! the voice in his ear screamed again.
Scott ignored the pain and began pulling himself up the cold, dark stone giant. One painful step after another, he rose above the ground, hooking his small fingers onto the rough granite. He looked below him and saw his father following.
“Go,” his father whispered raggedly. “Don’t wait for me.”
Scott continued to climb until he reached a ledge, halfway up. He pushed himself against the rock wall, his back to the cold stone. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and his chest was heaving as it never had before. He saw his father’s hand reach up over the edge of the rock.
His fear initially kept him from reaching out, but he overcame it and leaned forward, placing his hand on his father’s wrist. He wasn’t able to close his small fingers all the way around, so he leaned further forward and grabbed him with his injured hand as well.
“You have to take care of your mom and Caroline,” his father said.
“No!” Scott cried. “I can’t hear you. Come up! We’ll be safe.”
“Scott,” his father pleaded. “Don’t let them know how special you are. Hide it. Be smart, don’t let them see what you can do,”
“I need you to show me!” Scott cried.
His father's eyes suddenly shot wide open, and Scott heard him grunt in pain.
“Take care of your sister,” he said and then began to fall.
Scott clamped down tight on his father’s wrist, but the man’s weight began dragging him over the ledge. He reached back with his damaged hand and grabbed a rough flake of rock. The pain from his wound screamed up his arm, but he refused to let go.
“Let me go, Scott,” his father said quietly, a smile washing across his face.
“Hang on,” Scott said, his resolve melting against the reality of his weakness. “Please hang on.”
Scott felt his fingers slipping from the rock.
Let go, the voice in his ear said softly.
“No,” Scott repeated. I have to hang on. I have to. My hands have to be strong. I can’t let go.
“Scott,” his father said, his eyes beginning to droop. “I love you.”
Then he reached up and began prying Scott’s fingers from his wrist. There was a sudden tug from below. Scott lost his grip on the rock and was pulled over the edge, still holding onto his father.
ten
Monday, September 6th
12:01 a.m.—H-1 Airbase, Western Iraq
Gopher caught up with me as I reached the Delta tent.
“I need one of your bikes,” I said, referring to the dirt bikes they had lined up in their motor pool. “And night vision.”
“I’m going with you,” Gopher replied. “Nick said D4. That’s Delta Reserve squad…meaning me.”
“Okay,” I said glibly. “What else will I need?”
“Body armor, for a start,” he said with a crooked grin. “And a ride to the border.”
“Can you set that up while I’m grabbing the replacement units?” I asked. “We've only got a couple of hours before they move on the warheads, and I need to get them back up and running before then or it's scrubbed anyway.”
“You got it,” he said with a broad smile. “Nick was right about you—you’ve got balls.”
“Let’s see if I can hold on to ‘em,” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran for the Delta COM chest.
He ran off in the direction of the motor pool where the Delta backup team was dressed and ready to go. I saw him and one of the other guys rolling two motorcycles to the helipad.
By the time I had the parts case packed and was heading there myself, a ramp was rolled up to the door of a Black Hawk.
I arrived just in time to help them strap the two motorcycles in.
“They’ll drop us about a mile from the border,” Goph
er said as two men came up to the door and tossed in body armor and night vision for me, matching what they already had on. “Any closer and Syrian Civil Defense might pick us up.”
“Got it,” I replied as I sat in one of the jump seats between Gopher and another team member.
I pulled off my shoulder holster and slipped the armor over my head as the helicopter lifted off. Once I had my weapon back on, I looked at Gopher.
“Have you ever ridden one of these in the dark?” I asked as I tucked the tactical earpiece into my ear.
“All the time,” he replied. “And back home, we did it without night vision.”
“You are a better man than I,” I replied. “I’ll follow you.”
He nodded and laughed. “You are a crazy son-of-a-bitch.”
“Don’t let that get around,” I said, chuckling. “I’ve got them all fooled.”
The chopper ride was five minutes to the border. It saved us more than twenty minutes rather than riding the whole way. The drop to the ground from the back of the Black Hawk was my first experience with night riding. It was disorienting with the limited depth perception from the night vision and no shadows to help judge my height—the force behind the landing was unexpected as my wheels hit the ground, but I swiftly recovered and we were on our way.
About two minutes into our journey, we came to a huge ditch in the ground—the border. I followed Gopher down at an angle and then sped up to get momentum, crossing to the other side.
“Welcome to Syria,” he said into my earpiece.
“I’m glad they didn’t roll out the welcome mat.”
“It’s early still. Rebels run this part of the border,” he replied cynically.
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
We followed the path that Charlie team had taken. Our hope was that we would come across the missing COM box and extraction markers. If I was correct about Nick frying their squad box to get the Morse code message to us, they were down to only one. It would be nice to have at least one backup. They had lost two of three already.
The terrain was rough, but I got a glimpse of the tire tracks the Charlie team had left behind and corrected our course to follow them. After following them for about twenty-five minutes, we started looking for signs of where they had broken down.
“We’re coming up on Charlie’s crash site,” I said into my mic.
“Keep talking. When we get close enough to it, Alpha and Bravo should be able to pick up our transmission,” Gopher replied.
“If we find it, do you think you can secure it to your bike?” I asked.
“If we find it,” he replied.
The radios that we had were the smaller personal units and acted only as a short-range intercom system without a squad radio to boost the signal. Hopefully, we would get some communication from one of the other teams as we got closer to the one Charlie team had lost. Without the satellite uplink, however, it would still be just the teams talking with each other—there would be no command channel connection until I repaired the satellite unit.
I heard static pop across my receiver in short bursts.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench,” I said.
More static, but I thought I heard a voice that time.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench,” I said again.
“M———y——ench—Spar———loca———ver,” came Nick’s voice in broken static.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench, I’m not getting you,” I said as I sped up to close the distance more quickly.
“Monkey Wrench, this is Spartan. What is your location? Over.”
“Spartan. Almost to the Charlie crash site,” I replied.
“You impulsive prick,” he exploded.
It was clear he knew we didn’t have command channel oversight, or he would never have said that over the air.
“I’m bringing your spare parts,” I replied. “Be nice.”
“I made it clear I wanted D4 to deliver,” he said.
“To be fair, Spartan, we needed a tech to install the new board, and Cowboy was most definitely not up to the task,” Gopher said into his mic.
“We’re getting close to the missing squad box,” I said to Gopher. “The signal is really clear now.”
“I think I see it,” he said.
There was a moment’s silence on the radio as we sped toward the strengthening signal. I saw a square shape sticking out of the sand near the edge of the drop off Charlie had been surprised by.
“I see it,” I said.
I rolled up to it and quickly hopped off the bike. The case was in good shape as were its contents, but it was too large to affix to the back of the motorcycle.
“Spartan, we can take the markers or the squad radio,” Gopher said.
“Take the markers,” Nick’s said with a little sheepish resentment, which made me wonder what might have gone wrong. “We lost ours in the firefight.”
“Okay. We’ll talk with you again in about twenty-five minutes,” I replied rapidly before he could order Gopher to go on without me and send me home.
“Spartan, out.”
“Monkey Wrench, this is Apollo. I dropped my lighter back there. If you see it, can you pick it up?”
Gopher looked at me and smiled, shaking his head.
“We’ll get it on the way back, Apollo,” I said.
“Roger,” he moaned with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
His transmission was already static-filled. We wouldn’t have radio contact with the team again until we got closer to their remaining squad box and the rally point.
“Was he serious?” I asked.
“You never know with him,” Gopher replied with amusement.
After about fifteen minutes on the road, I saw a flash of light in the distance. It was probably very dim in actuality, but with the night vision, it seemed to light up the night as we got closer. When we were within two hundred yards, I recognized the source.
“That’s one of the team vehicles,” I said.
“Yeah…looks like Spartan exaggerated on that ‘hundred percent combat effective’ SITREP,” Gopher replied.
“We should steer clear,” I said.
Gopher nodded and turned north to go around the site. We had just gone over a rise when we saw headlights bouncing up and down on the other side of the wrecked vehicle.
“Shut off your engine and lay the bike down,” Gopher said into my earpiece.
I did as he ordered and pulled up short, laying the bike down on its side next to his.
He unslung his rifle and lay on the ground facing the wreck.
“If we’re lucky, they’ll snoop around then keep heading east,” he said.
“And if we aren’t lucky?” I asked.
“Then they’ll follow the other tracks to the rally point,” he replied.
We watched them fuss around the wreckage for several minutes. Suddenly, we could hear one of them yelling. A group congregated in one area and there was some heated discussion we could even hear from our far-off position.
Gopher looked through his scope.
“Shit,” he said. “They found one of their dead buddies, and now they’re pissed.”
“I’ll lead them away,” I said. “Take the parts to Nick.”
“Negative,” he said sternly. “You have to do the repair. I’ll lead them away.”
Though it pained me to use anyone else as a decoy so I could get away, after thinking about for a second, I realized he was right. When I got up, he tried to hand me his rifle.
“No. I can’t ride and shoot one of those things,” I said. “I’ve got my Glock. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Then take this,” he said, pulling a grenade from his tactical vest.
I shrugged, accepted the gift, and watched as he mounted his motorcycle before starting it up.
“As soon as they’re over that hill, you go and don’t look back. I’ll meet you at the E-club when you get back to H-1,” he said, referring to the beer-filled shack back on bas
e the men had dubbed the Enlisted Men’s Club.
“Keep your head down,” I said as he sped off.
When he was fifty feet away from me, he turned on his headlights so the rebels could see him. They immediately remounted their ratty-looking pickup truck and began to pursue him.
I watched as they violently bounced over the rugged terrain, weaving back and forth to avoid obstacles that appeared in their headlights before disappearing over the hill. As soon as their headlights dropped out of sight, I started my bike and took off for the rally point, feeling as if I had abandoned Gopher—but as far as I could tell, there was no other choice.
In the background, I heard small arms fire. It took all my will to keep from turning around and going back.
After a few minutes, a brightness began to fill my view of the terrain in front of me. It took me a couple of seconds to realize I was casting a shadow on the ground in front of me. I turned my head and was blinded by headlights, bouncing over the rough ground behind. They were still a good distance away, but the night vision made it feel as if they were on my fender.
Do they have night vision? I wondered.
No, came the reply from my other voice.
“Well, hello. I haven’t heard from you in a while,” I muttered to myself.
They are following your tracks in the headlights. Speed up, came the voice.
“Oh! Talkative tonight!” I said with mock surprise.
I did as directed, though and sped up. It was harder staying in control at the higher speed, and I suddenly realized why Charlie had wiped out in their truck—no depth perception. At the higher rate of speed, it was nearly impossible to see subtle changes in terrain until you were right on them.
On the brighter side, though, I would reach the rally point faster.
Or die, came my whispered other voice.
“That’s dark,” I complained to my inner voice.
Pay attention, it replied.
Wow! Very chatty tonight.
The rebels continued to fall back as I pressed the motorcycle faster and faster over the desert floor. If I could just get to the road that led to the rally town, I could go even faster, but the blip on my GPS told me I was still a few miles away from that.
