“Yeah,” Shaw quickly responded, “my doctor just walked in.”
“Alright, we’ll hit you up when we get back stateside.”
“Sounds great,” Shaw replied. “Reyes, I’m glad you’re in one piece, and York, look after everybody.”
“Sure thing, Boss,” York replied.
“Thanks for everything, Captain,” Reyes stated. Shaw simply smiled. The device chirped and Shaw’s image whisked off the screen. Wyatt returned the device to Reyes, and he pressed his lips tightly together as he contemplated their conversation. Shaw out? It just didn’t feel right.
3
Over the passing weeks, Shaw grew stronger. His spirits were higher after receiving approval to open a case with the State Department to get al-Sabir’s family to the States. Pushing the process through Weber appeared to have worked. However, his mood was still dampened by his doctor’s obstinate refusal to pronounce him as operational, but he felt good physically. He hadn’t pushed his body to its limit yet, but he felt it would hold up. The Raider rubbed his stomach, a habit that had formed subconsciously after his gut shot, and hoisted his bag over one shoulder. He turned and caught May standing in the doorway.
“Doctor Bakshi isn’t pleased that you’ve decided to leave AMA,” May said, using the acronym for Against Medical Advice.
“Well, Doctor Bakshi doesn’t understand the importance of today,” Shaw countered. He knew his body better than Doctor Bakshi did, and he would have stayed had his team not received orders to conduct an operation in Yemen.
“Well, we’ll miss you around here, Captain,” she said.
“It’s just David now,” he replied. The young nurse shook her head and grinned.
“No, you’ll always be Captain Shaw.” If he was going to say anything, the words left him as the emotion tingled throughout his body. He immediately suppressed them and managed a quick nod.
“Thank you,” he said. She leaned in the doorway smiling but almost jumped as the hospital phone in her scrubs pocket rang. May looked at him one last time.
“Got to go. Good luck out there, Captain, and don’t forget your physical therapy.” She answered the phone and left him. Shaw rubbed his stomach again and sighed. He had entered the room as a Special Operations Officer in the United States Marine Corps and was leaving with the realization that his military career was ending. The gravity of his new standing within his country stuck him deeply.
Shaw inhaled heavily and took his first step out of the room. He continued down the hall, chose the stairs over the elevator, and exited the hospital lobby. Summer was yielding to fall, but the leaves had yet to change. Sea salt drifted on the breeze and filled his nostrils. He loved coastal living and relished any time he got on the water. His forty-three-and-half-foot sailing yacht called his name, but more pressing matters required his attention.
He was on track for a medical discharge at the first of the year, and his apprehension grew every time the thought crossed his mind. While he was still in, he wanted to monitor his team and help in any way he could. Shaw’s first dilemma, though, was transportation. He could call Sara Reyes, but with her being eight months pregnant with Reyes’ first child, he didn’t want to inconvenience her. That left the military bus. It ran as scheduled from the hospital to other parts of the base. He knew of a stop not far from his battalion headquarters.
The bus arrived as scheduled, and Shaw boarded. Marines, both young and seasoned, as well as spouses and children, enjoyed the convenience of base transportation. Most took it from housing to the commissary and back, but Shaw, living off base, rarely used it. He rode for twenty minutes before it arrived at his stop. He had gotten in touch with Lieutenant Neil Bateman, an Intelligence Officer, who served with the Marine Special Operations Support Group (MSOSG).
Because of Marines like Bateman, Shaw and his team had all the equipment, logistics, intelligence, communications, air support, and even canines they needed for their deployments. MSOSG linked his team to Joint Tactical Air Controllers (JTAC) and Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) when needed, and it was because of that relationship that Shaw was successful on the battlefield. To him, they were the unsung heroes of MARSOC.
Shaw entered the building in which Bateman worked and preceded to the operations room. It was there that they would monitor the mission in real time, and Shaw was grateful to be invited. The officer pushed through the door and entered the room filled with monitors and personnel. It really was like the movies, he thought. He was normally on the other side of things, but now he was a guest, and so he respected the boundaries. This was their turf, and he wasn’t about to encroach on that. He just wanted to remain informed.
“Captain,” Bateman greeted with an outstretched hand. Shaw gripped it firmly and offered a quick pump. The Marine was slender and short with his hair freshly cut within regulation.
“I appreciate you allowing me in, LT,” Shaw replied.
“We’re just all glad you’re alright.” Shaw forced a smile. He wished people would stop saying that.
“What have we got?” Shaw asked.
“In short,” Bateman started, “we’ve got a link up with the Air Force to provide MQ-9 Reaper support; the pilot’s callsign is Cheerleader. She’s quite a firecracker.” Shaw cracked a grin.
“And a QRF?” Bateman nodded his head.
“The command isn’t expecting any conflict, but the 5th Fleet in the Gulf of Aden currently houses SEAL Team 3 and the 13th MEU. We’ve got it all set up,” Bateman explained. He seemed confident enough, but Shaw felt out of his element. He trusted Bateman knew what he was doing and so did the command above him.
“Alright, when does this thing kick off?” Shaw asked.
“Oh-eight-hundred, local time,” Bateman replied. Shaw checked his watch.
Thirty minutes.
• • •
Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti
The ball bounced against the ground, ricocheted into the wall, and popped into the operator’s hand. Again, as it left the Marine’s hand, it thudded in quick succession before it returned to the man’s possession. He paused for just a moment before throwing it again. The rhythm, soothing in its own way, passed the time for the bored Marine. The quick thump thump pop lulled the man as he waited for his orders.
The Marine’s M110A1, a 7.62x51mm sniper rifle fixed with an adjustable Schmidt and Bender rifle scope, lay on the bed next to him. His helmet, equipped with night vision binoculars mounted on the front and an integral communication headset, sat on the nightstand to his right. He was dressed and ready for combat sporting his gray jacket, woodland camo pants, and a pair of Solomon hiking boots. He wore a tan plate carrier strapped around his torso laden with extra magazines, an individual trauma kit, a radio, chem lights, and of course protective plates. A tan, desert scarf hung loosely around his neck and exhibited the designs local to the region.
The Raider’s senses picked up the boots pounding on the floorboards as they raced toward his room. He knew what the haste meant. He dropped the ball, snatched his rifle, and scooped up his helmet just as Master Sergeant Beasley entered the room. His hair was buzzed short, and he sported a trimmed, dark beard. An M4 dangled across his chest, and it bounced as he came to a stop inside the room.
“Wyatt,” he called, “we’re up!”
“Rah,” Wyatt replied as he followed the other Raider out. With purpose, he moved down the hallway, passing rooms on the right and the left. Out of the rooms poured the rest of the MSOT under Neeman’s command. The excitement brought forth by the operation quickened Wyatt’s step as they emerged into the op room. They joined the rest of their team as Captain Neeman took a position in front of them.
“You’re all up to date on the situation in Yemen, so I’ll be brief,” Captain Neeman began, “over seventy-five percent of the Yemeni population, twenty-two million people, are in desperate need of humanitarian aid. In short, we’re pulling security for a group of NGO reps and media personnel looking to assess the situation and find a new avenue f
or their aid. The fighting at the country’s main port of Hudayda has made their efforts to insert aid into the country that much more difficult. I needn’t remind you that we will be protecting American citizens in the midst of this civil war. HQ doesn’t expect any resistance on this op, but I want to keep everything tight. Got it?” He glanced over the standing men and received firm nods of confirmation. “Alright, let’s get to it.”
The fourteen-man team, led by Neeman, loaded into the waiting SUVs and sped toward the adjacent airport reserved for military operations. They pulled into a large hanger and exited their vehicles. Wyatt watched as Neeman strode up to one of the NGO representatives. The rep was dressed in brown and khaki and wore a badge around his neck. He was tall, thin, and balding. To Wyatt, his eyes appeared kind and wise. A nudge from York stole his attention.
“Check it out, man,” he whispered. Wyatt followed York’s gaze.
“Whoa,” he said as his eyes found her.
The tall, thin blonde nodded and smiled as she conversed with an older woman. She wore a gray button-up and tan pants, and her long, flaxen hair was pulled into a ponytail. Her features were delicate and her skin bronzed from the sun. With an athletic figure, she was sure to attract the attention from every Marine present, those married and those not.
“Let’s load up!” Neeman commanded. The Raider team moved to the waiting helicopters, and Wyatt found himself fortunate enough to help the attractive blonde onto the craft. He quickly took the open seat next to her and clipped in. He let one foot hang out the side as the UH-1Y Venom’s rotors started to spin.
As the Element Leader, Wyatt assumed responsibility for the Marines on his helicopter. Beasley, the team’s Tactical Chief, who sat diagonally across the fuselage from him, assumed responsibility for the civilians. That was the beauty of the MSOT. The Element Leaders could focus on leading their respective squads, while the Team Commander and Team Chief focused on operational objectives.
“So, what’s your name?” Wyatt asked the blonde seated next to him as the two helicopters took to the skies. Their communication headsets muffled the roar of the rotors and amplified their speech, but Wyatt still had to shout for her to hear him. She glanced his way and grinned as wisps of her golden hair whipped around her face.
“Kathryn Byrd,” she answered. “And you are?”
“Don’t waste your time with him, Sweetheart!” York shouted. Wyatt cracked a grin.
“John,” he answered, unfazed by York’s interruption, “What’s your role in all this, Kathryn?” he continued.
“Special Correspondent on assignment for CNN,” she replied. She patted the camera bag in her lap.
“So, you’re a war photographer?” Wyatt asked.
“Not exactly. It’s my first time on assignment outside the country. Maybe one day.” When Fred Seymour, the senior journalist who was supposed to be in her seat, contracted MRSA from his mixed-martial arts gym, Kathryn was offered his spot. She felt for Fred and hoped he recovered from the dangerous staph infection, but she couldn’t deny her luck in obtaining an assignment that should have taken her at least three more years of entry-level work to be eligible. Perhaps, if she really scored here, she could have her pick of assignments upon her return, and maybe, she could finally sink into a groove and focus a bit more on her social life.
“You excited though?” Wyatt asked. The question seemed absurd to her, but she recognized he simply tried to keep their conversation going. She had seen it time and time again with every other guy that showed interest. How could she not be excited? She was surrounded by elite Marines headed to a country at war with itself to help provide aid for a struggling and starving people. It was a story she had dreamed of throughout her journalism studies at Mercer University.
“Oh yeah,” she replied. Her smile was as contagious as it was beautiful. However, despite Wyatt’s best efforts, York stole the show. His stories had the entire helicopter laughing. Wyatt could only smile. He was no match for Sergeant Cliff York. The guy could hold a conversation with a mannequin.
The Gulf of Aden soon appeared beneath them, and Wyatt leaned back to allow Kathryn a view.
“First time in a helicopter?” he asked. She shook her head.
“First time with Marines through!” she shouted over the roar of the rotors.
“Having fun so far?” Wyatt didn’t take his eyes off her, and she met his gaze. More simple questions, was there any depth to this guy?
“Yeah,” she replied.
They flew east for an hour, and Wyatt had effectively run the course of small talk. He sat in silence staring out to sea. She hadn’t asked any questions in return, so he took the hint. York wore a knowing smile and stared straight at him. Wyatt met his gaze and puffed an exhale before cracking a grin. He pushed the controls to his radio and kept his gaze fixed on York.
“You’re a douche,” he said after switching his radio to a private channel. The communication came through clearly to York’s headset, and he laughed. Wyatt returned his gaze out to sea wearing the same grin. Kathryn turned to Reyes who sat next to her.
“What’s your story?” she asked. York laughed again, his deep bellowing drawing Kathryn’s attention. He held up a hand to wave her off, and she returned her attention to Reyes.
“I’m married with a kid on the way. Blessed to be serving my country, ma’am,” Reyes replied.
“A man of few words,” York added. It was true. Reyes was unnaturally shy for a Marine Raider. When the general Marine population dubbed most MARSOC and Recon Marines as cowboys for their wild behavior and contempt toward the chain of command, Reyes remained reserved and polite. He always said sir and ma’am and was quick to volunteer for even the lowliest of duties. York was confident he would loosen up, but Wyatt wasn’t so sure. Although he was fresh out of training and only on his first deployment, Reyes hadn’t changed much.
As a devout Catholic, Kyle Reyes had struggled a bit after his first kill, but that hadn’t lasted as long as they all thought it would. Shortly after, he proved himself a valuable member of the team. He did take some heat for almost getting the captain killed, but that blew over pretty quickly. However, the jokes were just beginning. The coming years would not only test his warrior spirit but his sense of humor as well. Wyatt had little doubt that he would roll with the punches and dish it out when the opportunity arose.
“Here we are,” York stated as they soared over the coastline, drawing all eyes to the beaches below. The turquoise watered lapped gently against the rocky shore as the aircraft roared overhead. Mountains shot up beneath them and soon gave way to a sprawling residential area.
“Alright, boys,” came Neeman through their comms, “heads on a swivel.” It was in that moment that Wyatt sorely missed Shaw.
Aden sat nestled at the base of a small mountain range. The Arabian Sea formed into a bay to the north, and the entire city rested on a peninsula. It was in Aden that the NGO representatives hoped to secure port access to deliver humanitarian aid to the southern region of Yemen. The Houthi faction controlled the capital but not the majority of the country. The different rebel factions that controlled the south, including al-Qaeda, made operational planning more difficult than in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. The fronts in that part of the Middle East were more clearly defined. In Yemen, the good guys and the bad guys shared territory and fought the same enemy, the Houthis, but that did not mean they were all friendly to Western influence. Additionally, many who left to fight for ISIS had returned to Yemen, which greatly complicated matters. Wyatt thought it all was just a big mess, but the people, the innocents, suffered, and that didn’t sit well with him.
Kathryn laughed next to him, bringing him back to the moment. She still conversed with Reyes. He was telling a story, but Wyatt hadn’t been paying attention. Kathryn turned to address Wyatt.
“Did that really happen?” she asked. Wyatt had no idea to what she was referring. Before he could inquire, the helicopter jolted violently. An explosion ripped through the rear
of the aircraft. Kathryn shrieked, and Wyatt gripped the hull to steady himself. Black smoke billowed from the engine, and the tail violently whipped back and forth. The rotor was missing.
“Captain, we’re hit!” Wyatt shouted into his comms. The helicopter descended rapidly, too rapidly. “Brace for impact!” he shouted.
“Brace for impact!” York echoed. Those same words resonated through the cabin as the Raiders shouted and readied themselves. Wyatt quickly tugged on Kathryn’s harness. It was tight.
“Keep your head back,” he shouted, “Cross your arms! Grab your shoulders!” He didn’t know if she heard him, but it was too late. The helicopter slammed into the ground and tumbled. The blades snapped and spun in deadly arcs away from the vehicle. Wyatt shouted, a steady cry of defiance in the midst of the deafening crash. Dirt and dust plumed into the air in the wake of the collision. The cabin, what remained of the aircraft, rolled to a stop, and on it settled an eerie stillness.
4
Aden, Yemen
Natalie Hale sipped her coffee as she pored over the report before her. She wasn’t tall; maybe five and half feet, and she maintained an athletic physique. She kept her long, dark hair woven into a single, thick braid; it draped over her left shoulder. A few stray strands had fallen to frame her slender face. She wore a maroon, quarter-sleeve shirt and khaki pants. She glanced up from the documents, and her sea-green eyes trailed out the open window. Part of the security detail grunted as they worked out in the afternoon sun. The two men, Jared Becker and Matthew Quinn, were shirtless and drenched with sweat. Becker pounded his chest having just flipped a large tire, and Quinn panted as he pumped his arms to create the quick waves with heavy, black ropes.
Natalie rolled her eyes before returning to her work. Smarter men would have exercised in the morning or late evening, but not in the heat of the day beneath the scorching Yemeni sun. Then again, perhaps they chose the heat of the day for an entirely different reason altogether. She didn’t know much about them, only that they were former SFOD-1, or Delta Force as the unit was more commonly known. She never saw them apart, but then again, she never really paid much attention to them. They were on the team that kept their compound safe, and that was all that mattered.
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