Six

by Charles W. Sasser

  “The pararescue said Buck was bleeding out,” Chase remarked in a distant voice, to which no one replied.

  Team leader Bear Graves, the team’s core of implacability and inner quiet, raised Mission Control on the radio. “Reaper Three Three, this is Foxtrot Delta One. What do you have on vehicles egressing to the north? Over.”

  “Delta One, Reaper Three Three. They are under tree cover at this time. Do not have visual. Over.”

  Before he was hit, Buck had given a good accounting of himself with his machine gun, knocking out the enemy’s heavy weapon and laying down cover fire for the rest of the team to maneuver. Graves picked up several expended 7.62 rounds off the ground from Buck’s gun. He looked at them, shook his head sadly, and handed them to Chase. Next to Buck, Chase was the youngest and newest member of the team. He and Buck had gotten close.

  But now was no time for melancholy.

  Graves rallied the team. “Stay on track,” he said. “Me, Buddha, and Chase will sweep the huts for any signs of the hostages. Fish, you and Caulder check the bodies and gather intel—cell phones, whatever you can find.”

  The team split up to its assigned tasks.

  The body of the Chechen leader who had died at the beginning of the fight lay sprawled next to a pair of bullet-riddled SUVs. Caulder photographed the body for the after action debriefing. Next to the dead fighter lay a pistol and an AK-47 with laser optics attached to an adaptive rail system.

  Caulder summoned Fishbait. “Ever see an AK rigged like this?”

  “Look at his kit,” Fish pointed out.

  “This shitbird isn’t Boko Haram, that’s for sure,” Caulder noted. “How many we got?”

  “Eight. These are soldiers, Alex. Not terrorists. Trained and geared up.”

  Caulder activated his voice mic and passed the information along to Graves. “Delta One, Delta Six, we’ve got eight unknown Kilos. At least one has a comm set and a rail system with laser sights on his AK. Over.”

  “Bag the Kilo with the radio,” Graves instructed. “We’ll take him to the safe house.”

  “Roger that.”

  Graves, Ortiz, and Chase approached the hut that Caulder had previously ascertained to be a possible place where hostages had been detained. They eyed the wooden cross standing in the village square. What the hell had gone on here? Dried blood on the crossbeam where hands had been tied and on the upright at the foot level spoke of torture and some sort of sacrilegious mockery.

  The three SEALs entered the small dilapidated hut with slatted wooden sides and a rusted tin roof. Iron rebar divided it into two separate holding cells. Scraps of rope hanging from a wooden stake driven into the floor indicated someone had been tied to it.

  Chase photographed the bullet-riddled body of a large, long-limbed African male propped against the inner wall by the door. By the looks of him, he had trusted his executioner moments before he was gunned down; his pistol remained holstered. Whatever had happened here between Boko Haram and the foreign troops had undoubtedly involved major treachery.

  Small bare footprints in the dust of the earthen floor could have been left by the preteen girls abducted from the Ebo Village schoolhouse. Other prints included smaller ones, possibly left by the teacher, and several other of adult males wearing shoes.

  “Those poor little girls,” Ortiz murmured.

  Graves pointed to a bowl left in a corner of the hut. Shoeprints indicated this may have been the male side of the holding cell.

  “Bag that,” he said. “We need DNA samples to see if Rip was here.”

  Ghetto left the hut to continue a search down-village while Ortiz collected evidence in a Ziploc bag. Graves squatted at the stake, trying to get a feel for what had happened in this wretched hut. The stake, the cross outside, blood on both … Any Team Six SEAL who ended up in terrorist hands might wish he had been cast into Dante’s Inferno instead.

  Graves’s eyes focused on chalk marks left on the base of the stake. He made out crude letters: F D 1. He pounded the post with the meaty side of his fist.

  “Fuck! We just missed him.”

  Buddha knelt to look at the chalked letters. “Foxtrot Delta One,” he read, the team’s radio call sign.

  Graves got back on the radio. “All nets. We have confirmation Taggart was here. No evidence of other hostages. Over.”

  “Foxtrot Two Two copies. Be advised, the Nigerian Army is en route. You have ten minutes.”

  The United States might have coordinated with the Nigerian government for an in-and-out clandestine mission, but that would never cover a village full of dead men. Things could turn dicey if troops arrived before the SEALs got the hell out of Dodge.

  Ghetto Chase interrupted the radio net. He had come up with something else. “Delta One, Delta Six. I found a fresh grave on the east side of Building One One. Over.”

  Graves’s eyes locked with Ortiz’s. Taggart! Bear tamped down rising panic as he and Buddha shot out of the cell hut. They found Caulder, Chase, and Fishbait staring down at a freshly-turned grave at the edge of the village.

  “Do we have a shovel?” Bear asked.

  “Bear, we got to get out of here,” Caulder warned.

  Graves turned on him, his jaw set. “I need a fucking shovel.”

  He spotted the breaching crowbar attached to Chase’s pack. He snatched it, dropped to his knees and began burrowing frantically into the loose mound of soil. The others looked uneasily at one another.

  The crowbar proved worthless. Bear cast it aside and used both hands to claw out the dirt, like a dog digging for a gopher. After a moment, Caulder went to his knees to assist. One by one, the others joined the effort—Ortiz first, followed by Chase and Fishbait. The Team. Each of them dreaded what they might uncover.

  Bear struck something first. He probed until he felt a head and hair. He inhaled sharply, his senses stung by the stench of decay …