PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  Harris’ dark eyes were twinkling with the buzz from the day on the river, but he was guarded in his expression, never wanting to brag openly about his accomplishments. Plus, he wasn’t yet sure of just how much he’d accomplished. The river had been crowded on Friday and the weekend; they had passed hundreds of other rafters and kayakers each day despite even the torrential downpour they had paddled through on Sunday. It had been like a whole new river today, the floodwater morphing it from a fun jaunt into what felt like a very serious, life-or-death situation. They hadn’t seen another soul out there today, either.

  “That was some serious shit,” Chip said evenly, watching Harris finally release the stress of the day to break into a chuckle and a wide smile, “I think you boys are ready for Africa.”

  The other three whooped and raised their beers in a toast, grateful to finally be assured that they had done something exceptional. They had developed a tremendous respect for this young whitewater virtuoso, who all weekend had acted like nothing they were doing was out of the ordinary in any way. Not many people could run with SEALs—especially in water—and although they would never let him know it, this kid had been lighting them up all weekend long. He was like some kind of duck—totally at home in the water and looking like nothing ever fazed him out there. While they had been furiously paddling and swimming, he seemed to move effortlessly through the river’s chaos with perfect, almost meditative economy of motion.

  They had developed a bond over the last few days, Chip telling them river stories of his adventures exploring Central and South America, and them telling him hints and bits of their days on the SEAL teams, flirting with the line of things that were never supposed to be spoken of. All had lost friends in action—Chip on rivers and the others in places and ways so far out of the realm of common experience that Chip couldn’t fully imagine it. If not for a family rafting trip when he was twelve, though, Chip didn’t think it was that far fetched that he might have wound up with these guys, looking for a similar level of challenge along a more disciplined path. Still, at his current stage in life he thought piloting adventure tourists down rivers sounded like a better job than killing people in far-off hostile lands. He’d save his adventuring for unexplored foreign rivers.

  Ten minutes later the beers were finished, dry clothes were put on, and the kayak, raft, and gear were loaded. They piled into the SUV for forty-five minutes of winding roads back to Chip’s tattered ’97 Tacoma, still parked at the top of the river.

  “So you paddle shit that big all the time?” Roberts asked Chip. At six-foot-two and a burly two-fifty, Roberts was the largest member of the crew. Due to his bulk, he had been the most challenged by the swims back to the raft, and thus the most wide-eyed in the boat all day. The amount of power the bushy-black-bearded behemoth had brought to their paddling had been a huge asset, however, and he certainly hadn’t uttered a word of complaint about the swimming.

  “Naw, that’s pretty rare,” Chip answered earnestly, his serious tone another affirmation that today’s adventure had been above and beyond what most whitewater enthusiasts would tackle. “That’s the most water I’ve ever seen here. When I was in South America we skipped over to Peru to explore a creek that nobody had done before. We had to hike seventeen kilometers carrying our kayaks just to get to it. We ran a few nice waterfalls on the creek, but on the second night it poured rain. When we paddled out into the bigger river the next day, the water was cranking high. We had to run about twenty kilometers of huge rapids way down in a canyon. We managed to look at most of the bigger rapids from shore before running them; but there were three or four where there was no way to walk around due to cliffs, so we had to paddle ‘em whether we wanted to or not.”

  Carrying the boat around rapids had not even entered their thoughts yet, and the men suddenly realized there was a lot more to this whitewater business than was obvious from their limited experience, just like there was much more to their jobs than simply pulling a trigger. Judgment and experience could mean the difference between life and death.

  “Whoa,” Roberts responded softly, nodding. These four men who had seen and done things beyond the comprehension of average people were still unaccustomed to a civilian regularly telling stories that gave them pause.

  “How much does that kayak weigh?” Mendez wanted to know. The sleight man was the smallest of the crew at five-foot-eight, though you would never know it—he always gave two hundred percent effort in compensation for his size.

  “It’s forty-five pounds empty,” Chip explained. “But with all of my gear and food for four days it’s more like ninety.”

  The men all nodded at this. Hauling heavy loads for long distances over uneven terrain was certainly something they could relate to. The conversation quickly turned to tales of the heavier loads that the SEALs had carried through uncomfortable places, with Chip often wincing at the suffering that these guys seemed to get off on. In that way they were different—carrying the kayak was Chip’s least favorite part.

  They wheeled into the gravel parking lot where the day had begun. They all hopped out to help Chip shift his kayak and gear over to his well dented and scratched dark green Toyota. They tied his boat back in place on its perch on a couple of two-by-fours that were bolted directly onto the fiberglass topper as makeshift roof racks.

  They said their goodbyes, and Harris handed Chip a wad of twenty hundred-dollar bills.

  “Great working with you. Thanks for the trashings,” Harris smiled, gripping Chip’s hand in a bone-crushing handshake.

  Chip grinned and stuffed the wad of money in his pocket.

  “Good luck in Africa!” He was jealous. He’d heard of the fabled whitewater of the Dark Continent but had not yet had an opportunity to take on that adventure.

  The men climbed back in the SUV and pulled away as Chip slid into the creaking driver’s seat of his truck. He turned the key and the old engine puttered to life, accompanied by the grumbling of an exhaust leak. Only two more weekends of work to go, he thought. Time to start shopping for tickets to Ecuador.

  2

  Tuesday, October 4th

  THE THREE-STORY brick office building was nondescript, a relic of past times nestled on the edge of a quaint, historic downtown. Located about a half hour outside the DC Beltway in Virginia, it was a nice compromise of being close to the action without the annoyance or danger of being right in the middle of it. As Harris pulled open the door and stepped from the crisp morning into the narrow foyer, he was grateful that this was as close to Washington as he needed to get. When he’d pulled that trigger in Pakistan, he had no idea that the tiny movements of his index finger would create ripples that turned into giant waves washing into every corner of his life. It wasn’t that he regretted for a moment what he’d done. For the guy who had masterminded the attack that killed three thousand American civilians, several bullets from Harris’ H&K 416 to make absolutely sure he was dead was the least that Harris could do. The problem was more that he wished he had known ahead of time the consequences of being that guy on that mission. SEALs were all about preparation, but nothing could have readied him for the unforeseen changes he’d been through. New job. New town. Even a new name. Only his wife—his old high school sweetheart—remained the same. That and the fact that he could seldom talk about his past with anyone. If everyone had kept their mouths shut, this wouldn’t have happened.

  In the aftermath of Pakistan, the media frenzy was the only part that no one had anticipated or planned for. Every reporter in the country wanted to break the story of the men who had carried out the mission. Americans joined in the craze, even creating a website where people could exchange information on SEAL sightings in their home town. The men had been terrified for the safety of their families. They couldn’t continue to live under their current names with the team—it was only a matter of time until their identities leaked and some Middle Eastern zealot sought retribution against everyone who had been in the room on that fateful day. But what would they do
next? The reputation they’d generated would be a boon for marketing themselves as consultants or contractors, but they had to hide their identities. It seemed there was no way they could continue doing what they did best. While every government agency wanted to take credit for the mission, none wanted to figure out a solution to the mess afterward. Worse, no matter which agency was involved in hiding the men, politicians at the top would know. That was how secrets leaked.

  Worse for Harris and the several of his closest teammates was that they hadn’t just been SEALs for the thrill or the challenge. They believed deeply in their country, and a huge part of why they’d risked their lives so many times was to prevent America’s enemies from harming the greatest country in the world. It was a fundamental building block of who Harris was, and he wasn’t even close to ready to leave that core mission behind.

  Fortunately, Sutherland had found a viable solution for the men he had worked so closely with on that fateful final mission and many others over the last ten years. He’d found a discreet sponsor, retired from CIA, and quietly gotten them all moved and set up with new names and a new project that would take maximum advantage of their special skills while still allowing them to participate in the fight that had defined much of their adult lives. It was the best solution, but it failed to completely offset the disruption that had resulted from exemplary service to their country. They had gotten only one politician involved to get the new project off the ground. Sutherland fervently hoped that would drastically limit the possibility of leaks. It was the best that he had been able to do on such short notice.

  What a relief the past weekend had been for Harris, spending time with three former team members, letting it all hang out a little bit and telling a few old stories around the fire. He’d missed his guys and that feeling of camaraderie. He knew that too much had been said in front of their river guide, but he wasn’t worried about Chip. The guy felt like something of a brother after their adventures on the river—and who was he going to tell? It was worth it for the weekend he’d had and to further his new career by getting back with his team and having a new mission. He was grateful as well for a chance to serve his country in a new and different capacity. Duty was an old and faithful friend to him, a steering force. He’d felt lost during the few months he’d spent without it. Plus, he was tired of sitting on the sidelines, and itching to get back in the fight.

  Harris took the steps two at a time. The floor plan was so tight in the old building that there was nowhere to retrofit an elevator, so only hardy souls could work on the third floor. He reached the top landing and turned left, walking to the end of the hall and a plain wooden door with “Export Logistics, LLC” stenciled in black on a smoked glass windowpane. He opened the door and walked into the reception area, marveling at the absolute seventies unattractiveness of the burgundy and olive block print carpet and the crumbling furniture that looked like it was purchased from Goodwill. The receptionist smiled and gave a little wave from behind a battered metal desk as Harris proceeded directly across the room past her and into the master office.

  Sutherland looked up from a file he was reading and stood. He took off his reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose as his face pinched, then reached across the desk to shake hands with Harris.

  “Blake, good to see you. How was rafting?”

  Harris was a bit startled—he was still getting used to his new first name, and also to being addressed by this man with anything other than his rank. “It was good, sir. I feel like we learned a lot, although I’m not sure it will be enough.”

  “Well, let’s get down to nuts and bolts and see then, shall we?” Sutherland took a seat behind his desk and spun his flat monitor on its swivel mount to where they could both view the screen, and Harris perched on the edge of the desk and leaned in to get a better view. Sutherland made a few clicks of the mouse, pulling up a satellite view of what appeared to be a mountainous area of lush, green forest. Bisecting the picture in gentle curls was a ribbon of white running generally from the top left of the screen to the bottom right. From this distant view no human structures were visible in the image, and the brightness of the white on the river only hinted at the rapids and cataracts that might lie within the deep gorge. Harris had seen the images before, but he was looking at them with new eyes after his weekend on the river.

  Sutherland’s middle finger rolled the scroll wheel on his mouse, slowly zooming in on an area in the middle of the screen. The blur of white began to resolve into distinct rapids and waterfalls, and the green blobs into individual mountains coated in what appeared to be impenetrably thick foliage. Nearly continuous cliff walls became visible along the top of the gorge, and the view zoomed in on one particularly cliffed-out spot next to a round bowl of blue-green water. A white smear of rapids came down the river and turned to pure white across the edge of where it met the bowl. The pool was surrounded on all sides by cliff walls, with only one small tendril of iridescent aquamarine water exiting opposite the white. Above the pool, tucked on the edge of the cliff wall, Harris could now make out the camouflaged forms of four thatched roofs—two round and two square. The tan of the dried palm leaves they were constructed from blended almost seamlessly into the blanket of jungle that draped over to obscure and break up their edges. As the picture zoomed in even more and clarified, Harris could see that two of the structures opened onto a stone patio that blended into the rocks at the edge of the cliff overlooking the waterfall and pool.

  “How high is the falls?” Harris asked.

  “We’re pretty sure it’s around sixty feet. You can see the weakness in the cliff wall just above the edge. That’s the point where we feel it’s possible to ascend from the river. It’s still quite vertical, but lower angle imagery suggests a series of wide crevices that will allow purchase for climbing.”

  “The problem isn’t going to be getting up the cliff,” Harris observed, “It’ll be stopping before the falls.” His new whitewater training was helping already. He poked his callused index finger at the white smudge on the river just above the waterfall. “That’s a pretty substantial rapid leading into the falls, and there isn’t an eddy—a calm spot—big enough for a raft to stop. We’d be washed over the falls before we could get out of the boat. There’s no way we can deploy by air?”

  “An unsanctioned black operation in a friendly neighboring country’s airspace? You know there’s no way we could risk that, if we could even figure out some way to get access to aircraft.”

  “Then we’ll have to go in over land.”

  “Our intelligence suggests that the surrounding jungle is filled with booby traps,” Sutherland cautioned, “and the bulk of his forces are stationed around the perimeter. Upwards of seventy men. You’d need at least a full platoon to fight your way in, and the target would almost certainly know you were coming long before you got there. We need a covert mission, not a pitched battle. It’s simply too risky over land. We have to go in through the river.”

  “A smaller boat could probably stop,” Harris mused, sitting back away from the screen and looking up, thinking aloud. “Maybe a kayak could do it. But I can tell you after this weekend that it’ll take a long time to get our men checked out for kayaking something like this. Maybe years.”

  “So it can’t be done.” Sutherland’s resigned answer was more of a statement than a question. He leaned back also, drawing a loud squeak of protest from the rusty springs of his decrepit office chair. They couldn’t afford failure in the first mission his new project was tasked with if they were to have any hope of it developing into something more. If this mission was a success, plenty of doors would open for them—Sutherland knew that some of his former colleagues over at CIA would love to have access to a proven contract team that didn’t appear on any of the books. He was counting on it. But if this mission didn’t work, he wasn’t sure how he was going to help these men build new lives. He had another moment of trepidation that taking on this fledgling project might have been a massive mistake. Th
ey were rushing things, and he knew it. He wished for the umpteenth time that the first mission could be in a familiar environment like the Middle East, where the men had worked for years, rather than in a friendly country right next door. However, this was the first and only mission opportunity that they’d been given. They had to come up with a better solution to this problem, or Sutherland’s formerly distinguished career might come to a screeching halt right here. Never mind what would happen to his men if the project failed.

  “Wait—I’m not saying it can’t be done,” Harris defended, never one to give up easily. “I’m saying it can’t be done by four men in a raft.” He was silent for a moment as he formulated the thought. “If we had one specialist in a small kayak who could stop before the lip of the falls, he could set an anchor into the rock wall and throw us a rope before we washed over the edge. We could tie off the raft and get onto the ledge. We’d just have to lower the kayak over the falls along with the raft before we rappel to the base of the falls to exit.”

  Sutherland frowned. He could see where this was heading, and he didn’t like it. “We can’t bring in a complete outsider with no training. It’s out of the question.”

  “No training?” Harris was indignant. “The kid has more training for this than anybody else we’re gonna find. He’s been on the ground down there, too—had some wild stories from there and South America. Sounds like he’s been in plenty of tight spots. He sure kept his cool a few times when my men were nearly shitting themselves yesterday.”