Wyatt ripped into one of York’s IFAKs and tore open a chest seal. He yanked York’s shirt from his waistline and carefully applied the seal to prevent pneumothorax, a condition that if left untreated would result in hypoxemia and death.
“There an exit wound?” Wyatt asked, as he looked him over. York fought the pain with a strong exhale as he pressed his right hand against the sealed wound.
“Never was a fan of side plates,” he joked, “I guess I should’ve been.” Wyatt ignored him and searched for an exit wound. He didn’t find one. York winced again, and Wyatt could tell his strength faded quickly. He glanced back at Reyes and Kathryn. Kathryn sat alone with her arms wrapped around her knees. Tears streamed down her dusty face, leaving wet steaks of grime.
“You alright?” he shouted across the rooftop. She didn’t answer. Her tears had given way into horrible sobs.
“She’s losing it,” York managed.
“You okay?” Wyatt asked him. It was in that moment he missed Petty Officer Third Class Jessie Adams, who hung upside-down, broken and bloodied, in the helicopter below. Adams served as the team’s Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman (SARC). He was a highly-trained, Naval, combat corpsman attached to their team, capable of rendering the most advanced medical techniques to save lives. Wyatt knew Adams could have assessed and treated York far better than he could, and without him, their immediate future looked bleak.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he responded. Wyatt didn’t believe him, but he hurried toward Kathryn. She threw herself on him. Any hint of calm she exhibited in the courtyard had given way to shock. The RPG explosion must have taken its toll on her psyche.
“Hey, listen to me.” Wyatt’s tone was firm. “I’m going to get you out this, but I need you to keep it together, okay?” She looked at him, her blue eyes glistening and rimming with tears. There was longing there, hope that he could deliver on what he promised. For Wyatt, it didn’t matter if he could or not, he just needed her calm and in her right mind. The last thing he needed was for her to bolt away and catch a bullet. “Stay right here,” he instructed. He didn’t take his eyes off her when he called out to Reyes, “Reyes, any luck getting through to TOC?”
“Yeah, we’ve been connected with a CIA officer here in Aden. She wants to speak with you,” he answered.
“York,” Wyatt called to him, ready to issue orders.
“I’ve got the door,” he interrupted. He knew the words on the tip of Wyatt’s tongue. His sweat-drenched face twisted in pain as he moved into position. He let his carbine hang against his side as he unslung an M1014, a semi-automatic, twelve-gauge shotgun.
“We keep them focused on this entrance. Funnel them through the stairwell and keep the advantage. Reyes, clear the roof, make sure there aren’t any other ways to get up here,” Wyatt ordered.
“On it,” he answered and moved past him. Wyatt checked his radio and pressed his PTT.
“This is Staff Sergeant John Wyatt, who am I speaking with?” he asked.
“Sergeant, this is Natalie Hale, head of Aden operations. We’ve got eyes on you from a drone overhead. What’s your status?” Wyatt grinned in relief.
“There are four of us on an apartment rooftop,” he started as he took in his surroundings. The bay glimmered like a jewel to the north, and jagged brown mountains rose to the south. “Three Marines and one civilian.”
“Understood,” came her response. “I’ve got a team inbound. Six men highly trained.” Wyatt scoffed, only six? “Can you hold for forty-five minutes?”
“We can if that drone bites,” he replied. “They coming by air?”
“Negative, a vehicle convoy.”
“Good copy,” Wyatt responded, less than enthused. York needed medical assistance within four hours if he was going to make it, and that was pushing it. Wyatt didn’t know what else that bullet had torn through, but there was nothing more he could do.
“There’s another way down,” Reyes said as he returned to Wyatt’s side. “Looks to be clear.”
“Alright, exfil is by ground vehicle; we’ll head that way,” Wyatt started, but York cursed as thirty-caliber rounds tore through the wooden door. He fell backwards, unscathed, and as the door opened, he met the intruder with a blast from his shotgun. York blasted a second intruder before tossing a grenade down the stairs. Shouts of alarm echoed beneath them before the deafening explosion roared up the steps.
“Hale! Where’s that Reaper?” Wyatt shouted into the comms.
“Negative on fire support, Sergeant, the pilot won’t engage without a clear and identifiable target. We don’t know if the building contains any noncombatants,” came Natalie’s reply. Wyatt knew she was right. York remained vigilant by the door, and he gripped his shotgun with what strength he had left. New shouts rose from the stairwell, and York fought off another wave of pain and readied himself. Reyes took a position on York’s right.
A familiar sound, like the swift ring of metal on metal, reached their ears. Wyatt’s eyes widened as the grenade soared through the doorway. Time slowed as he watched the explosive travel through the air. It rebounded off Reyes’ shoulder and hit the floor to his right.
Reyes didn’t hesitate.
He dove atop it and took the full force of the explosion. His body jolted violently under the blast, and the explosive dropped the remaining Marines to the ground. Wyatt, ears ringing, slowly rose to his feet. York rolled over onto his side and glanced Reyes’ way. He adverted his gaze down the stairs as a group of men rushed upward.
“Wyatt!” York called, alerting his Element Leader to the threat. Wyatt snapped his rifle up and rapidly pulled the trigger. The rounds thundered through the advancing fighters who were obviously surprised the Marines remained alive. Their shrill shouts of terror echoed around them, but they returned fire.
As he rose from his back, York released the last devastating blast from his weapon their way. York didn’t reload but simply dropped the weapon and swung his M4 back around to a ready position. He flicked the safety lever all the way around and emptied his magazine into the stairwell. Wyatt’s rifle clicked, but he smoothly transitioned to his Glock 19. He guided the rifle down to his left side, rotating it slightly so it would remain motionless as it dangled, and drew the pistol by disengaging the holster’s active retention with his thumb. The pistol barked as he sent rounds through the doorway. He dropped the empty mag and, with blinding speed, loaded another.
“Get her out of here!” York shouted. Wyatt shot his gaze toward Kathryn. She lay on the ground curled up in the fetal position. She was sobbing again. He knew what York was telling him. “I’m done,” he said. “I feel it. Besides, I got to see Reyes through the other side. He won’t be able to do it by himself,” York managed a bloody chuckle. Wyatt hesitated too long for York’s liking. “Go!” he shouted as he shoved Wyatt toward the journalist. The Marine Raider didn’t look back. He rushed to Kathryn’s side and coaxed her to her feet.
“We got to go,” he said tenderly. He started guiding her to the far end of the rooftop before pausing. He hurried to Reyes’ side and drew his Glock 19 from its holster. “Thank you, bro. I’ll see you on the other side.” he managed before hurrying back to Kathryn. “Do you know how to use this?” he asked her. She whimpered as he handed it to her. “Just like in the movies.” She nodded fearfully as her shaking hand wrapped around the grip. “Keep it pointed down until you need it,” he added. The last thing he wanted was to get shot in the back, but, in the event they were overrun, he wanted her to have a way out. If they were captured, the likely outcome for her was a never-ending, gang rape.
York watched Wyatt disappear down the other stairwell and grunted to strengthen his resolve. He moved as quickly as he could to Reyes’ side. He knelt, removed his helmet, placed a hand on Reyes’ back, and closed his eyes.
“Odin, father, help me,” he prayed, “welcome my brothers and me into your halls.” Upon opening his eyes, he dipped his fingers into Reyes’ pooling blood and traced a red streak overto
p his ears and down the sides of his neck. “Wait for me a little longer, brother,” York said as he rose and returned his attention to the doorframe. The weight of his brother’s demise bore heavily on his spirit, but he readied himself as he heard shouts spiral up the staircase in growing crescendo.
The insurgents emerged around the corner and came face to face with York. The Raider’s rounds pounded through the first man, and York marched down the steps dropping each insurgent as they bounded up the stairs. He paused at the corner and caught his breath. Another wave of pain crashed over him, and fire ate at his insides. He suppressed every alert his brain screamed, but he still took a moment to steady himself before continuing his descent. He gritted his teeth and rounded the corner with authority. He picked up his first target and opened fire.
In the chaos, insurgents ended up shooting those in front of them in the backs. A red mist hung in the air as York descended, chasing those fleeing his presence. Maybe they should have tried to retake the building when Reyes was still with them. York pushed the thought from his head and continued down. He slumped against the wall as pain again radiated from his stomach.
He almost missed it.
The barrel rounded the corner from the third-floor entry, and York nearly deflected it in time. He slapped it downward as the insurgent pulled the trigger. The round shredded through York’s stomach, and the Marine advanced on him drawing his tomahawk. The heat in his belly surged and seemed to devour his organs, but York, in his battle lust, roared in fury as he repetitively buried the tomahawk into the insurgent’s head and neck. With each rage-fueled hack, a streak of dark blood trailed after the weapon. Only flayed meat and split bone remained of the attacker’s upper torso, and his head hit the floor with a strange thud, like a broken watermelon hitting pavement.
Tasting blood, both his and that of his kill, York charged onto the third floor amidst a hail of bullets, wielding his tomahawk in mighty arcs. Bullets sliced through him, and, with painful breaths, York sunk to his knees in defeat. His chest heaved, but little air came. His body armor had failed under the onslaught. An insurgent approached. His dark eyes, filled with awe and hatred, looked over the kneeling Marine. Covered in blood, York glanced downward at his gleaming, red weapon. He smiled in euphoria. His end was fitting; it was more than he could have asked for, and surely, the gods smiled on him now.
He looked up at his adversary and presented a wild and savage grin. The man recoiled, but in one last burst of strength, York hammered his tomahawk into the man’s chest and hacked and hacked. Gunfire erupted around him, a beautiful chorus of war drums beckoning him to the halls of Odin.
8
The concussive bellowing of AKMs from the far side of the building confirmed York’s fate. Kathryn followed closely behind carrying the pistol as instructed. She breathed heavily and still shook as adrenaline and fear stoked her body. It was a fear she had never known; it ate its way from her extremities to her core like an invading force seeking to cripple her body. The mental energy required to ward off such an onslaught drained her considerably, and she wobbled more than walked as her legs barely listened to her commands. Still, she trudged onward, following her only hope.
The pang in Wyatt’s heart was hard to ignore, but he had to try. Sergeant Cliff York had bought them considerable time, and Wyatt intended to honor his and Reyes’ sacrifice by surviving. In the process of clearing his mind to focus on the task before him, Wyatt fought off wave after wave of grief brought on by the rolling memories of the two men. Only anger staved off the looming fear. Wyatt felt that fear hovering just beyond his senses, ready to assault his body as surely as it had assaulted Kathryn. However, a wall of impenetrable anger and thirst for revenge kept the fear at bay, but it did little to stop it from taunting him.
He was a lone combatant with a civilian in tow, surrounded and outnumbered. Never before had he faced such a dire situation. His heart raced, dumping another load of adrenaline into his veins.
The isolation set like concrete.
“Keep it together, Marine,” he muttered quietly to himself, “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.” The mantra worked. It was a technique Shaw had taught him.
Wyatt’s mantra came from the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley. He had first heard it in a movie by the same title, and it stuck. Shaw was always going on and on about how important poetry and classic literature was, and, after hearing that poem, Wyatt finally understood. It calmed him and reminded him how in control he actually was in any given situation. His breathing normalized, and his heart descended back into his chest. His mind cleared, and the images of Reyes and York temporarily faded away. He focused on the stairs before him and what threats he might encounter ahead.
Survival first. Then vengeance.
The pair descended from the second floor, and Wyatt checked his corners before emerging onto the ground level. As much as he wanted to smoke the two insurgents guarding the exit, he restrained himself. They faced away from them, and Wyatt seized the opportunity their lack of vigilance bought him.
He motioned Kathryn toward a nearby apartment, and she tried the handle. It was locked. Wyatt crept toward the next unit, keeping his rifle trained on the first of two enemy combatants. He flicked out his arm with two fingers pointing toward the door. Kathryn slowly turned the knob; it quietly opened, and she rushed inside. Wyatt checked the hallway behind him and the two guards again before backing into the room and closing the door.
“What are we doing in here?” Kathryn whispered, but Wyatt silenced her with a finger over his lips. He carefully picked his way around the abandoned apartment. Dust and dirt covered the worn furniture. Distressed belongings showed evidence of a quick departure, but it looked to have been abandoned for quite some time.
Wyatt moved to the window on the exterior wall. He tightened his two-point sling and slung the rifle down at his side. His fingers worked the window lock, and he, as carefully as possible, raised the window. It resisted, and he dare not strike it to dislodge the pane. The Marine Raider moved to the next window. Again, he worked the lock and tenderly pulled upward. The window glided open, and drawing his pistol, he checked the alleyway.
Clear.
He ducked his head through and again checked both directions before swinging his legs over the sill. He guided his rifle through before setting his feet on the dirt. After holstering his pistol, he took Kathryn’s pistol and helped her through. He returned it to her and directed her toward a dumpster just to their right.
Kathryn leaned against the metal side and inhaled deeply. She looked at Wyatt and found courage in his eyes. They held a deep resolve, a firmness she had never seen before. Perhaps it was common on the battlefield, but she had never set foot anywhere near a combat zone, much less in the middle of one, to know one way or the other.
Still, she cared little whether it was a common occurrence or specific to her guardian angel, she was grateful for him and his determination, knowledge, and skill. However, her gratitude did little to stifle the fear that roamed freely throughout her body and ravaged her mind. She felt like she hung by a thread above dark, foreboding water. She shuddered. Drowning was her deepest fear. Staff Sergeant John Wyatt, her thread, kept her alive, but just as he served as a constant reminder of her salvation, he also served as a reminder of impending doom. If he fell like York, Reyes, and the others, what hope did she have?
“You okay?” Wyatt asked.
“No,” she answered hastily. He realized how foolish his question must have sounded. He flattened his lips and checked the Garmin strapped to his wrist, but he realized he possessed no bearing for a safe direction. He squeezed his PTT.
“Hale, do you copy?”
“Yes, Wyatt, go ahead,” came Natalie’s reply.
“We’ve made it outside the building. We are on the west side in a back alley. What’s the update on that exfil?”
“We see you. Standby.”
• • •
Al Amiri ran his hand affectio
nately over the wooden foregrip of his AKM. His fingers traced over the familiar nicks and scratches from past generations. The stain had darkened considerably and much of the original finish applied to the metal had worn away. He had made a few changes to it over the years. He had replaced its fixed, wooden stock with an under-folding stock, and he had the barrel shortened. Despite its rough and patchwork appearance, Al Amiri kept it clean and well oiled.
The weapon had belonged to his father, and he had used it valiantly against the Russians during their occupation of Afghanistan. Like his father before him, Al Amiri had answered the call when his al-Qaeda brothers in Afghanistan fought against the Americans. Bin Laden was a personal friend, and Al Amiri sorely missed him. Although the work in Afghanistan was far from over, bin Laden’s legacy would endure, but Al Amiri could not ignore the pain and suffering in his home country. He had returned to save his people. Western and Saudi influence must be rooted out and expelled, only then could he freely rebuild Yemen and save his people. With millions and millions of dollars at his disposal, he was in the position to do it. However, certain unavoidable roadblocks required his attention.
He had heard of a hidden CIA operation present in the city, and he had lived in Aden for almost two years before he heard the news. They were hunting him, and he couldn’t tolerate that. His Libyan brothers, although not part of al-Qaeda, had won a great victory in Benghazi by expelling the CIA there, and he would accomplish no less in Aden first, then his entire country. Afterwards, he felt confident that he could unite a large population of the country by providing food and other necessities. Once he won that trust, he could continue his rise as a leading political figure and put a stop to Saudi and Western involvement in his country. He would not let what happened in Afghanistan happen to his people. It was time for the Imams of Yemen to return.
The door opened behind him, but he remained seated, cross-legged, unmoved. He inhaled slowly through his large nose and exhaled lightly as he awaited the news.
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