Killing Ground

by Eric Meyer

  “I’ll handle it, Boss. Maybe I can get another loan.” They both knew a loan wouldn’t begin to cover the enormous expense of cancer treatment, but he didn’t press it. Ryder was a private kind of person, and when he said he’d handle it, the subject was closed, “She means a lot to me, the only family I have left. I guess I don’t need to tell you how life gets lonely doing this job.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  The thrills and the action were real enough. But there was another side. Never enough time to nurture relationships, to find a decent girl and settle down. As a result, broken relationships were the norm in the world of Special Forces. They talked about the girls they’d left behind, and maybe finding a girl who would put up with their crazy lifestyle. Both knew the chances of finding someone like that were remote.

  They were walking back to their hotel when they heard the screams of a female in trouble. Automatically, they started to run. Ryder was bounding ahead, and Nolan was right behind him. They saw a man standing over a woman, bringing up a blade, and slashing it down into her neck like a madman. They picked up speed, sucking in air to meet the demands of their muscles for the superhuman sprint, but the screams stopped, and the man started to run in the opposite direction.

  They still hadn’t reached the girl when they saw him stop beneath a street lamp in turn; a civilian, almost unrecognizable in the shadows, except for the striking feature on his face. Three parallel vertical scars. That was all they saw before he turned away from them and resumed running. Ryder stopped next to the body of the woman lying in a pool of blood, but he kept running, desperate to catch up with the murderer. He lost him in the maze of unfamiliar streets and had no choice but to give up.

  When he got back, Ryder looked up and shook his head.

  “She’s gone. There was nothing I could do. When I find the guy who did this, I’ll give him a taste of my knife and show him what it feels like. ‘Whoever sheds man's blood, by man his blood shall be shed, for in the image of God He made man.’ I’ll put the sonofabitch in the ground.”

  “He deserves it, sure.”

  Nolan was thinking how many Ryder had killed, and the men he’d personally killed. But that was the difference between righteous kills and murder. He took out his cell and dialed 911. The cops were on the scene inside of three minutes, and they were wary when they climbed out of their vehicle, hands on the guns at their sides. Nolan made sure his own hands were visible so they could see he was unarmed.

  “We saw it happen. A guy attacked with a knife, or it could have been razor, one of those old-fashioned cutthroat razors.”

  The cop nodded. “Was it you who called 911?”

  “That was me, yeah.”

  “Okay. There’s an ambulance on the way. They’ll do their best for her. Do you know the name of the victim?”

  “No, I…” For some reason he looked down at the face of the woman, and he felt a jolt inside. He knew her.

  Several months ago in Kabul, she raced to rescue us from a Taliban ambush. Surely not?

  He looked closer, but there was no doubt, and he felt sick inside. Her face was the same, except for the pale pallor of death. He remembered the night they’d spent together, and for a few seconds, he struggled to get the words out, “Yes, I think I do know her. She’s an Army officer, rank of major, and her name is Helen Shapiro.”

  A car screeched to a halt next to them, and a plainclothes officer climbed out. He was young, about late twenties, and looked more like a jock than a cop. Broad shoulders, powerful muscles pushing out from his suit coat, a crew cut, and a stiff bristle of the mustache; his lips were pulled back from his teeth in what Nolan suspected was a permanent sneer.

  The uniform explained what happened, and he turned his attention to Nolan.

  “Did I hear that right, you know her?”

  “I met her once in Afghanistan.”

  “I take it you had a relationship with this woman?”

  “No, it wasn’t…” He recalled that night, and he didn’t want to lie, “Yes, just the once.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Sir, I need you to come back to the station house to make a statement. You, too,” he said, looking at Ryder.

  Nolan shook his head. “That won’t be easy. We’re serving Naval personnel, and we’re expected back at Coronado. Our flight leaves Andrews in the morning.”

  He nodded. “The Navy will have to wait. Get into the car. You’re coming with me.”

  The station house was in a seedy part of the city, and it had the stink of such places everywhere. The stink of fear, of vomit and urine, of the darker side of humanity, those people who populated the capital of the wealthiest nation in the world. They put Nolan into an interview room separate from Ryder, and the cop left them to stew for three hours. When he finally came in, he looked smug.

  “I’ve been liaising with the cops in California, and they tell me you men are in trouble down there. Facing a murder charge.”

  He knew it was about to go badly. He tried to explain what had happened in the bar, and that they were confident they’d be cleared when the truth came out. The detective grinned even more.

  “I’ll let you into a little secret, Mister. Since I’ve been on this job, every man who comes into this interview room says the same thing. They’re all innocent, so we may as well let them go. Do you care to tell me what really happened?”

  “I’ve already told you,” he said, angry they were blaming him for the bloody murder of a girl he’d almost fallen in love with the first time they met. When a girl seems your life, it can have that effect on a man.

  The sneer deepened. “Oh, yeah, the guy with the three scars on his face. Funny, I put out an APB, and there was no sign of him.”

  He went away, and dawn was breaking when he returned. The door opened, and he was there, stifling a yawn. “I’ve been talking to the guy who runs the base at Coronado. He tells me you’re both U.S. Navy SEALs.”

  “That’s right.”

  He returned a look that said it all. They were beneath him. “Trained killers, is that right?”

  “They train us to do a lot of things. Most of them to do with saving lives.”

  “Mister, I don’t believe a word you said, but someone has pulled strings with my bosses, and they said you can return to San Diego. I need to advise you this case will remain open, and right now, you and your pal are the only suspects. We’ll have more questions for you and will contact your boss when we require more information.” The grin became a broad, sneering smile, “You know what I’m saying?”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “Something like that. Just because you’re flying back to San Diego, don’t think we can’t pick you up any time we want. And if you decide to confess, give me a call.”

  He got his feet and walked out the door. He left it open, and Nolan met up with Ryder who was emerging from an adjacent room. They walked out of the station house and called a cab for the journey to Andrews. The journey back to San Diego was not a time for celebration. They’d left under a cloud, under suspicion of murder, and they were going back under a cloud that was much blacker.

  When they landed at San Diego International, they watched a C-17 take-off. Nolan knew instinctively who was inside. His men, Team Bravo, under the command of the replacement officer, Lieutenant George Armstrong Custer; at least he was able to smile.

  How could any parent saddle a kid with that name?

  He recalled the last time he’d seen Custer, when he’d been taking an evaluation on the firing range, for the fifth time. Now he was leading Bravo, and he couldn’t help feeling worried. If they ran into serious trouble, they’d need better than Custer to get them out of it. Meanwhile, he’d draw some crappy assignment, waiting for the axe to fall. For either the San Diego cops or the Washington cops, maybe both, to call him and Ryder in and charge them with murder.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Custer didn’t feel happy about leading this four-man fireteam into bandit country. Into war-to
rn Syria, a place known to be a killing ground. And that was before it got worse, so now there were so many warring factions a guy would need a computer database to keep track of them all. They’d brought him in at short notice to replace Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, who had got himself involved in some kind of legal problem. As had another man, Petty Officer John-Wesley Ryder, now replaced by Petty Officer Vince Merano, the Italian American, short, stocky, and swarthy. Tough, like a cord of oak, dark hair and eyes, he was a marksman, a sniper. Custer thought he’d be more at home with a sawn-off shotgun, a so-called ‘lupo,’ or wolf, the favored weapon of the Cosa Nostra. He’d be more at home roaming the rocky hillsides of Sicily, the ancestral home of organized crime.

  He was glancing at the other men sitting on the uncomfortable canvas jump seats in the cargo hold of the big transport aircraft, and he had doubts. Strong doubts. This would be his first mission as the officer in command. Leading men such as these, they looked to him like desperados, unshaven, and most of them with hair that was anything but regulation length. They were relaxed, most with nonchalant expressions as they worked on their weapons.

  His second-in-command, the big, tough black Master Chief Will Bryce, seemed to sense his gaze, and he looked up and nodded. He stripped off his jacket to change his T-shirt. His huge body was clad with slabs of hard muscle, obviously the result of constant physical training.

  Next to him sat Zeke Murray, the communications and electronics warfare specialist. He was non-descript, of average height and average looks. There was nothing threatening about him, and then Custer glanced down as Murray pulled equipment from his pack and began to check them over, detonators and C4 explosive, more than enough to blow this aircraft to hell if he made a mistake. Custer said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t make a mistake, although right now he was playing with a tiny radiation detector, a modern Geiger counter, so no risk of an accidental detonation.

  He sighed inwardly. Knowing his rank counted for nothing in the company of such men who’d seen their fair share of action. So far, he’d seen none. He tried to sleep, and the aircraft droned on, endlessly. Eventually, the monotony sent him to sleep, but not for long. He felt a tap on his shoulder. The Master Chief was standing over him.

  “Lt, we’ve passed the halfway mark, don’t you think now would be a good time to brief the men on where we’re going, and what we’re doing?”

  “Uh, yeah, I was about to…” He grabbed his pack and put it back down. Everything they needed to know was in his head. No matter what happened, he could guarantee never to forget the details of the operation. They moved closer to him and waited. He coughed once and started speaking.

  “The destination is Syria, as you may have guessed. We’ll be parachuting from high level, a HALO drop. That’s High-Altitude Low Opening.”

  “We’ve all done it once or twice,” Bryce murmured.

  “Sure you have. The reason they decided to infiltrate the target area by high altitude parachute drop was because of the activities of the Syrian Air Force. The last thing we need is to run into trouble with Syrian gunships before we even get the mission off the ground.”

  “What exactly is the mission?” Bryce asked. He kept his voice gentle. Although Custer knew he should have spelled it out sooner, not one hour before they were due to leave the aircraft. But now, he felt he had something to tell them that would explain the need for so much secrecy.

  “We’re going into Syria. To Damascus, to kill a man.”

  The reaction was zero. No one blinked. No one showed the slightest bit of interest.

  Merano murmured, “Lt, that’s what we do best. What’s new?”

  He paused, before he hit them with the rest of it. “What’s new is the name of the target. Bashar al-Assad.”

  He nodded. “Okay, that’s new.”

  He got the impression they were less than impressed with the operation to take down the President of Syria. He had another idea.

  Unless they’re less than impressed with my name, the name that’s caused more problems for me than I can remember.

  “Men, about my name, Custer. You see…”

  Bryce nodded. “It’s okay. We get it, Lt.”

  He smiled. “Excellent, so there’s no need to say any more.”

  “Nope. You want us to ride into battle whistling Garryowen.”

  * * *

  They went through the gates into Coronado Base, and Nolan felt like everyone they passed was staring at them. Like they were lepers, unclean. Men who’d besmirched the good name of the service. Ten minutes later they were standing at attention in front of Jacks’ desk, and his gaze was so cold it almost turned them into ice sculptures.

  “I had a long conversation with the Washington cops.”

  Ryder took a half step forward. “Sir, I can explain.”

  His voice was like an ice shower. “No, Petty Officer Ryder, you can’t explain. But I’ll explain. I’m due to retire in a few months, unless they offer to extend my service in the United States Navy. I may even have been in line for a top job in the Pentagon, although that’s more of a distant memory. The chances are they’ll insist on my leaving, and do you know why? It’s because many people in government believe our Special Forces are little more than hired killers. Cutthroats and murderers, and all you’ve done is reinforce that perception.”

  “Admiral, we didn’t do anything,” Nolan said carefully, “It was just the worst of luck, the worst of coincidences. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Twice!” The one word slashed at them like a machete, “I had to fight like mad to get them to free you, and I’ve almost had to sell my soul to convince them neither of you is a murderer. However, that doesn’t alter their perception, and right now, it’s that perception we need to change.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Nolan asked.

  He seemed to calm down. “As it happens, there is something. The woman who died in Washington was on secondment for the State Department, and she was about to leave to travel to Syria on a mission of vital importance to the Kurds. As you know, the Kurds are helping the United States to defeat ISIS. Ms. Shapiro was taking them the means to carry on the fight, specifically, several million dollars in cash to buy medicines, food, and weapons. They don’t have bank accounts, and neither do the people selling this stuff in that region, so it has to be cash.”

  “You want us to deliver the money, is that right?”

  He stared at Nolan and slowly shook his head. “What I want is immaterial. State is in the driving seat, and they have Ms. Shapiro’s deputy to take over the assignment. In view of the murder, they’re concerned that people may have got wind of the deal, so they’ve asked for an escort to go along and protect the courier as well as the money.”

  “They’ve asked for us?”

  He frowned. “They’ve asked for two good men who can handle themselves in a fight. Men who’ve fought in Syria and know their way around.” He paused, and a sly look came into his eyes, “Look at it this way. You’re under a cloud at present, but if you pull this off, State will owe you a debt of gratitude. It could make all the difference.”

  He meant the difference to the pending murder charges. “You’ve cleared it with the cops so we can travel?”

  His lips twitched in a slight smile. “Let’s say I’ve amended the terms of your release into my custody. I told them you’d stay inside American operational areas, and I’m forbidden by the Pentagon to give any details.” He made throwaway gesture, “They seemed to go for it, and you men can undertake this mission for me and start to put things right.”

  Nolan felt a sense of relief. More than anything, he’d already felt like a prisoner, with even the perimeter fence of Coronado closing around him like a prison wall.

  “Where do we meet this State Department courier, Admiral?”

  “Andrews.”

  “We’ve just come from there, Sir.”

  “And you’re about to return. I’ve arranged for a helo to transport you back to San Di
ego International, and there’s an aircraft due to take off in two hours. I suggest you get moving right away.”

  “Yessir. Admiral, about weapons and equipment, I’m not sure exactly what’s involved, but Syria is a basket case, as you know. We’ll need to carry something to defend ourselves.”

  “Negative, Lieutenant. You’ll manage with your sidearms. I don’t want to give people the wrong idea. You’ve done enough damage, both of you, and I don’t want a second front opening in Syria. We have enough trouble as it is. Handguns should be enough, and if everything goes as it should you won’t need to fire a shot. The aircraft is due to land at Incirlik, the NATO base in Turkey. There’ll be a vehicle waiting for you, and you’ll drive to meet the Kurds.”

  “Where exactly do we meet them?”

  “Aleppo.”

  Nolan and Ryder exchanged glances. “Aleppo? Isn’t that city still hot? I understood there were battles raging between the Kurds, ISIS, the Turks, and the Syrians. I’m not sure handguns will be enough, Admiral.”

  “It has to be enough. Like I said, I want to keep this whole thing low-key. Low-key because of the amount of cash involved, I don’t want the State Department breathing down my neck if it goes wrong, and to keep you men out of any more trouble. Any more questions?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Fine. Get yourselves out to the helipad as soon as you’ve changed into your camos. Dismissed.”

  They swapped salutes and left the office. John-Wesley glanced at him. “Lt, something stinks about this.”

  Nolan’s mind was elsewhere. He was still thinking about the body of Helen Shapiro lying in a pool of blood on a grimy Washington sidewalk, and so far the cops had no suspects. Except them, which was ridiculous. “It stinks. And the real murderer is still running loose.”

  “I meant this Syria business. Several million dollars in cash is a lot of motivation to try to steal it. And they’re sending us out with not much more than a pair of peashooters to defend ourselves.”

  “I wouldn’t call the Sig Sauer a peashooter.”