by S L Shelton
I heard small arms fire behind me. I wasn’t sure if they were shooting toward me or not—it actually sounded like they were shooting away from me. Their headlights kept cutting back and forth across my trail as if they were weaving.
Then it dawned on me.
Gopher!
Gopher was following and firing at them, trying to get them to break off their pursuit of me.
I ticked my speed up a little more, trying to put extra distance between us when I saw a dark slit open in the ground right in front of me—a dry canal possibly. With some quick brake work, I was able to bleed off some speed, then turned the bike sideways into a skid. But it wasn’t enough.
“Oh shit!” The ground disappeared from beneath me and my chest filled with that helpless feeling of weightlessness. I had missed a drop off as the Charlie team had. My back wheel hit the ground hard, bouncing roughly and sending a sandstorm up around me. The bike went over on its side and I was thrown to the ground. Though the impact was jarring, I let myself fall forward, tucking into a roll in the soft sand of the trench to avoid injury.
Couldn’t have warned me about that, could you? I thought to myself, taunting my schizophrenic other voice.
Only moments later, I watched as the air above me was filled with the underside of the pickup truck that had been chasing me. It smashed down with a bone-crushing force on the opposite side of the big ditch.
I didn’t wait for them to catch their wits. I ran over to the truck, drawing my handgun.
One of them was already getting his feet under him when saw me coming. He raised his rifle—my chest contracted as I took aim and squeezed the trigger. As he crumpled to the ground my arm pivoted, almost of its own volition. I followed it with my eye and saw one of the others moving in the cab, going for his weapon. But he was pinned and couldn’t reach it. I hesitated.
Shoot him, my other voice whispered.
We’ve had this discussion, I thought back at it. You don’t get to make those decisions.
I heard a shot from behind me and watched the man’s head explode into a pink mist, clearly visible in the overhead light of the cab. I looked back and saw Gopher coaxing his motorcycle down into the deep gully.
He looked at me for a second after dismounting then slapped me on my shoulder.
“It’s a lot harder taking the shot when the other guy isn’t drawing on you, huh?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied quietly. “I’ve never done it before.”
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and whipped my Glock around, shooting the third man in the head as he was leveling his rifle at us.
Gopher spun around a split second after, rifle up, looking at the man as he slumped over and then crumpled to the ground. “Well you appear to have that part down anyway,” he said before remounting his bike. “Let’s go. We’re almost in range of the other squad box.”
We remounted our bikes and then gunned them up the steep embankment. When we hit the road that led to the rally area, we were within a few minutes of them and knew we should have communications with the assault team again.
“Spartan, this is Gopher. On our way inbound. You should hear us in a minute if you can’t see us.”
“Roger,” Nick replied.
A moment went by before we heard him again. “I see you,” he informed us. “Look north of the road, to your left.”
I looked that direction and saw a light flashing at us.
“Gotcha,” Gopher said.
In just a few moments, we turned up a rough-looking drive lined with low palm bushes. Outside the building, one of the guys waved us to the back of a small abandoned block house—the rally point—before turning around the corner. I saw two of the vehicles the Delta Team had left Iraq in parked alongside an old beat-up Toyota pickup. That must have been the vehicle belonging to the insurgents who had attacked Bravo Team.
We leaned our dirt bikes against the mud-covered wall. I looked down the hill at the lights of the small town below before grabbing the repair parts and going inside.
I looked around and saw guys eating, chatting quietly, and playing cards—anything to take the edge off while waiting to see if the operation was still a go. I made my way over to Nick and noticed a fresh bandage on his leg.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“One of them got off a lucky shot,” he muttered sheepishly. The embarrassment in his voice confused me.
“Their buddies stumbled across us on the way here,” Gopher inserted from behind me. “They weren’t as lucky.”
Nick looked up at me questioningly. “Did you take any fire?”
I nodded.
“Monkey Wrench got the draw on two of them. I cleaned up the slow one,” Gopher quickly added, winking at me.
Nick shook his head and grinned. “They’re going to love you at Camp Swampy,” he said.
I hadn’t heard that one before. But rather than look stupid in front of Delta, I simply assumed he meant the CIA Training Facility. I nodded and moved over to the damaged SAT unit to begin my repair. In less than five minutes, I had it up and running. I switched it to sync and once it had run through its start-up cycle, I hit the broadcast switch before I clicked open the mic.
“Sea Witch, this is Monkey Wrench. Do you copy?” I asked over the radio.
“Monkey Wrench, this is Sea Witch. We read you five-by-five.”
“Acknowledged,” I replied. “On site with Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie teams. Communications are up and running.”
“Monkey Wrench, this is Momma. What part of the word observer did you not understand?”
“Momma, this is Monkey Wrench. My mistake. I thought you said berserker.”
I probably shouldn't have responded to that, but it did garner a few chuckles around the small dwelling. Nick jerked the mic out of my hand and clicked it open.
“Momma, this is Spartan. Forward observers are already reporting that the trail is clear to the storage site and the packages are in place,” Nick said. “It looks like our target group is prepping them for a move. I think we found them just in time. We’ll be starting forward movement in five mikes.”
“Spartan. Confirm. You are going forward with taking the targets?” John asked.
“Roger. I say again, we are one hundred percent combat effective and are taking the target.”
“Acknowledged.” A few seconds passed. “Spartan, we are a go if you are.”
My heart skipped in excitement; I was about to have a front row seat on a covert military Op—and then it dawned on me that it wouldn’t be my first.
Jesus, I love this job!
“Roger that, Momma,” Nick said. “Oscar Mike in five.”
There was another short pause. “Good work, Monkey Wrench,” John replied. “We’ll be listening at our end. Momma out.”
And with that, command chatter would be gone. It was all us unless something unexpected popped up. But I wasn’t worried… that never happened.
**
3:25 a.m. Local time - Near Mahkan, Syria.
The shallow rise in the slopes of the valley allowed for a good view of the target building where the warheads were being stored. One of the snipers had climbed a telephone pole just outside of a cemetery overlooking the town of Mahkan as others were pulling equipment out of the vehicles and setting up defenses.
“Stay here with the reserve guys,” Nick said to me as he tightened the makeshift bandage on his leg before putting on his own headscarf.
I was about to suggest I come forward with the squad box, but he anticipated my suggestion.
“You will stay here unless I call and say hell has frozen over and I need your help with all these flying pigs,” he said angrily.
There was no mistaking the intent of that command. I would stay behind in the farmhouse with the three reserve soldiers and monitor communications. At least I had a video screen I could see the action from. The scope on the sniper’s rifle was broadcasting through the squad box that was hooked up to a small
monitor. I could watch from a safe distance there in the farmhouse rally point.
The radio chatter was at a minimum. I wasn’t even hearing the air support anymore. Of course, that channel was being monitored at the Command and Control Centers, but here it was all business—it was time to get the nukes.
“Spartan, this is Apollo. Moving to the field. We’ll cover you as soon as we’re tucked in.”
“Roger,” Nick replied.
I watched the monitor as Apollo moved his four-man team through a field behind a large equipment shed on the outskirts of town. They walked single file, concealed by the plants in the field.
The sniper clicked his magnification up and zoomed in on the equipment shed. The sides were metal, but we could see ghost images of men moving inside—four by my count—through the monitor.
The radio popped.
“Mr. Peepers, this is Apollo. We’re in position. It doesn’t look like they have sentries posted on this side. Can you confirm?”
“Apollo, this is Peepers. Confirmed. It looks like they have four Tangos inside and one sentry on the town side of the building. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the packages are close to your wall.”
“Roger,” he replied. “Spartan. You can move up to the left of the building. We’ve got your back.”
“Moving,” Nick responded.
The sniper zoomed back out and focused on Nick’s five-man team as they moved to the forward position. When they were in place, I saw him using hand signals in the direction of Apollo. Apollo nodded and the two groups moved in unison to the corners of the metal building.
The sniper zoomed in again, and I saw Nick’s face clearly as he folded his night vision up and pulled back on a piece of metal siding to peer in. After a second, he let the metal fall back into place and put his night vision back on.
“Sea Witch, this is Spartan. Packages confirmed on location. We are executing,” he said in a whisper.
“Spartan, Sea Witch. Acknowledged. Be advised there are vehicles moving toward town from the highway.”
“Roger. Keep me posted if they come our direction,” he said, then paused. “How many vehicles?”
“Spartan. Five vehicles. Two heavy trucks and three escorts.”
Damn. That could get ugly.
“Acknowledged. Keep me advised,” Nick said with tension in his voice. “Peepers, we’re getting ready to kill the lights. Are we still good from your angle?”
“Affirmative, Spartan.”
I watched the screen and saw Nick look around at the assault team before making a snipping motion with his fingers. As soon as the power had been cut and the metal sheeting pulled back by one man on each corner, the rest of the teams went in shooting. I kept expecting to hear gunfire from below with all the muzzle flashes I was seeing in the monitor, but the rifles were suppressed and only emitted a mild ‘pop’.
The four ghost images I had seen earlier were now prone on the floor of the building. The guard in the front of the building had gotten his head snapped by the guy who cut the power. When all was done, I could see the ghost images of the Delta Team inside the shed climbing over something.
“Sea Witch, this is Spartan. Packages in hand. Beginning extraction,” Nick said.
“Spartan, Sea Witch. Acknowledged. Be advised. Convoy has turned off Baghdad Road and is now headed your direction. Contact in less than five mikes at their current rate of speed. Over.”
“Acknowledged. Will let you know what happens. Spartan Out.”
There was a great deal of activity inside the equipment barn. I saw men running to the corners farthest away from their entry point. They squatted by the doors for a few moments and then ran back and joined the others next to the nukes.
What are you guys doing? I wondered.
The big overhead door, which was facing the field they had crossed, opened, revealing a tractor with a wagon attached to the back. On the back of the wagon were two mounds covered by a tarp.
“Player, this is Spartan. Start the getaway car. We’ll need to move as soon as we reach your location.”
“Roger, Spartan,” said the man next to me.
Two members of the backup team ran outside, started the engines on the vehicles, and pulled them around to the front of the house. As soon as they were done, I heard Player start the old Toyota and pull it around.
I looked at the monitor and saw the tractor lurch forward out of the shed before beginning a too-fast exit into the field. The wagon was bouncing like mad, sending the nuclear lumps in the center skidding to the side. Men jumped on the wagon, attempting to stabilize the warheads.
“Spartan, this is Peepers. You have to slow it down or you’ll crack the cases on those packages.”
“Peepers. Get to the departure point, we’ve got the packages covered,” Nick replied with an agitated tone.
The video feed abruptly died, and Player immediately took the SAT link and the squad box into the back of the house to load on the truck. I went out to the back covered area of the farmhouse and looked toward the coming recovery team as the rest of the equipment was loaded into the back of the vehicles.
I couldn’t see it in the dark, but I could hear the tractor coming toward us. I pulled up my GPS and switched to terrain view. The deep gullies between Nick and us would be a problem for that tractor—especially with the nukes on board.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench. You are headed right for a washed-out hillside.”
There was a moment’s delay before he spoke again. “Player, bring the vehicles down and meet us at the road. We’ll ditch the tractor there and then swing around to pick up Monkey Wrench and Peepers.”
He really didn’t want me anywhere near the action.
“Roger. On our way,” Player said before looking at me. “We’ll be back in a few.”
“I’ll be here,” I replied ironically.
The three vehicles pulled out and then disappeared into the darkness.
A moment later, I heard footsteps running toward me. I dropped my night vision back into place and saw it was the sniper—Peepers.
“They aren’t back yet?” he asked as he jogged up next to me.
“No. They’ll be a few minutes,” I replied. “Let’s take a look at that convoy.”
Peepers twisted his scope sideways and popped it off before handing it to me. I opened the flaps and peered down toward the barn, zooming in on the approaching vehicles.
They were racing toward the equipment barn, a cloud of dust rising behind them. The lead vehicle—a sedan—pulled up to the front of the building and skidded to a halt. The escort vehicle and the two trucks stopped behind him. The last vehicle pulled around to the side and several men got out on foot before running toward the side of the building. One of the big trucks looked like the one Ukil's rockets had been in.
“Spartan, Monkey Wrench. Be advised. Convoy has reached the barn,” I said.
“Roger,” Nick replied.
I zoomed in on the sedan. I was shocked to see a huge man pull himself out of the back seat. He must have been at least seven feet tall.
Well you’re a big fella, ain’t ya.
I scanned the other men who got out and was struck by a sudden feeling of déjà vu. Coming out of the front passenger side was that same gunman who had jumped John and me in the alley back in Burbank.
Now, why the hell would he be here? I asked myself.
Get as far away as you can, my other voice chimed in, making the hackles on my neck rise.
“Momma, this is Monkey Wrench. The party pooper from the alley in Burbank just got out of the lead vehicle in front of the barn.”
There was a brief second’s pause before he responded.
“Monkey Wrench. Are you sure?” John asked.
“Momma. Ninety-five percent sure.”
“Acknowledged. Zoom in on him as close as you can, and we’ll try to ID him,” John said.
I zoomed in on the man’s face, getting about two seconds of clear recording time, when the
sky was suddenly lit up with flame, nearly blinding me through the scope.
“Shit,” I exclaimed.
“Claymores,” Mr. Peepers said, grinning.
So that’s what those guys had been doing in the corners of the shed. The sedan was in flames, as were a number of the men who had approached the door.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench. I don’t guess I have to tell you they weren’t happy about their reception. They are mounting their remaining vehicles now. One SUV is headed your direction.”
“Peepers, this is Spartan. Slow ‘em down. We are transferring the packages now.”
“Roger,” he said, and turned to me, pointing at the scope. “I’ll need that back.”
He clicked it back on the rifle before leaning against the low garden wall, tucking the Accuracy International L115A3 .338 Lapua Magnum into his shoulder. He aimed the big weapon at the oncoming SUV, took a deep breath, and then, breathing out slowly, squeezed the trigger as he reached the bottom.
The kick from the blast was significant. It was the first time I had ever been in the presence of such a weapon. The shockwave thumped my chest and left my ears ringing.
I looked down the hill and saw the hood of the SUV blow back across the windshield as it came skidding to a halt. Flames erupted from the engine and four men came bursting out of the vehicle. They immediately began firing blindly up the hillside.
“Peepers. The packages are stowed. We’re swinging back around in your direction.”
“Spartan, as much as I’d like a ride, those trucks are headed this way,” Peepers said into his mic. “You’ll show up about the time they do. Take the packages and go. We’ll meet you downstream.”
“Peepers, negative. We are on our way to the farmhouse now,” Nick insisted.
“Spartan, this is Momma. If you have the packages in hand. Get out of there. Peepers and Monkey Wrench can lay low and come across later.”
Shit! This just got real.
“Momma, are you out of your goddamned mind?!” Nick exclaimed.
“Spartan. Stow that! You get those packages out of town. NOW!” John yelled.
