by AJ Tata
“What does he mean about the other things?” Zachary said, turning toward the woman. She was wearing a dark khaki outfit that blended neatly with her chocolate skin. Attractive woman, he thought. What the hell is she doing with Ballantine?
“Why should I tell you anything?” she said with a laugh.
“Because we’re both Americans, and Ballantine is up to no good.”
“What makes you think I’m American?” she laughed again. “And even if that’s the case, why the hell would I support such a corrupt government?”
“You’ll get no argument from me on our government, but it’s the way of life, you know. Democracy and all that good stuff.”
“Your government chooses to murder innocent people all over the world and does so in the name of freedom or democracy or vital interests. Well, we’ve turned that to our advantage.”
Zachary raised his eyebrows. Anything to compel her to talk. He needed information.
“We could not stop what has been set in motion now even if we wanted to.”
Zachary let the thought sink in for a moment, connecting this new information from this current identity with his programmed information from his previous identity. He smiled inwardly, thinking that it was a challenge to have to sort through two personalities. He had to achieve consensus with himself to figure out what he was thinking. He smiled.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Have you ever met my brother Matt?”
The black woman smiled. “No, why? Is he a big bad ass or something?”
“There’s that, but he’s also the smartest man I know.”
“Can’t be too smart if he’s in Canada, right here in our base camp,” she said.
“No, no. I think you’re wrong there, Virginia. He’s got to know something neither of us knows.”
She paced along the wooden floor, her long legs reaching out slowly as she walked. Zachary couldn’t help but notice her perfectly honed body, like that of a jungle cat, with absolutely no fat.
“Tell me about the war. I’ve heard it all from Ballantine. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“I was doing a job for my country. I had no bone to pick with the Iraqis or anyone else over there. My company was attacking his division. We had been briefed to capture the commanders of any Republican Guards units. I saw a command post vehicle and went for it. Ballantine and I met in hand-to-hand combat. His brother came to his defense.” Zachary paused a second, then continued. “So I shot his brother dead. It was war.”
“Yes, I understand that, and it is very similar to the story that Ballantine tells.”
“The war is over.”
“Maybe you don’t know that now, twelve years after the first Persian Gulf invasions, your country has again attacked Iraq; this time without provocation. We, Ballantine and the rest of us, are the counterpunch.”
He didn’t respond to her statement. His mind spun, searching for a tangible piece of information that could either confirm or deny her statement. Had the U.S. attacked Iraq unprovoked? If so, Zach was certain that there had to be good cause. But then what the hell was he doing here in Canada? Confused, he watched her circle the room.
“How do you think it will feel?” Virginia asked him. Her face was less than a foot from his. He could see in detail the softness of her lips, her smooth skin, and her striking facial features.
“How what will feel?”
“To watch your brother die,” she whispered coldly, “and then live with that memory.”
Zachary went cold at the thought, his curiosity about Iraq vanishing into the black void of his mind and replaced with the unfocused image of his brother’s face.
Surely there was something he could do.
CHAPTER 30
Moncrief Lake
Matt watched the ground rise toward him, his rusty parachutist skills kicking in. The irony was not lost on him. Twenty-four hours ago he was getting onto an Air Force jet to fly to a counter-terrorist summit. Now he had just jumped from an Air Force plane to help destroy a terrorist cell.
He looked over at Rampert’s man, Hobart, who signaled him with a thumbs-up that it was time to deploy their parachutes. Pulling the rip cord, Matt felt the familiar yank of his canopy inflating and his leg straps crushing his testicles. Images of Mindanao and Ron Peterson flashed through his mind as he briefly recalled jumping into the C-130 crash in the uncharted rain forest a year ago.
Remembering his lucky landing amidst the wreckage, he reached over and pulled down on the two toggles. Suddenly his parachute flared, slowing his descent. Keeping his feet and knees pressed firmly together, he kept his eyes focused on the horizon. His body instinctively prepared for impact every two or three seconds, creating an anxious feeling that made him want to reach toward the ground with his feet. But he had learned long ago to avoid doing that at all costs.
Suddenly, the ground grabbed him before he had a chance to think about it again. He tumbled lightly and rolled away from his fluttering parachute. He felt a sharp pain in his left ribcage near where he had stowed his weapon. Once the pain dulled, his first thought was the same as it was for every jump: That wasn’t so bad.
Matt pulled his parachute down quickly and stowed it in a kit bag. That chore completed, he carefully scanned above the high weeds and spotted Rampert. The colonel was a solitary dark figure silhouetted against the soft night hues. He grabbed his bag and weapon and raced to Rampert, who had already packed his gear and was speaking quietly to no one that Matt could see. Then Rampert turned toward Matt.
“We’ve got movement toward the lake and just to the east of the drop zone. Ballantine’s goons are setting up two ambushes. Our man is being held in the cabin nearest the lake. We can loop east, north, and then west to avoid the ambushes. Our two other men are already moving in the opposite direction. Stick with me.” Rampert whispered when he spoke and used subtle hand and arm signals.
Matt followed the quickly moving Rampert, leaving the two kit bags behind. Flipping down his night-vision goggles, Matt picked his way through the sparse wood line like a running back through a defense and listened as Rampert talked quietly to his two other men.
Two other men. As if he was one of Rampert’s men. The thought brought back memories of all the missions with the Agency and the wounds that had ended that career path.
He saw Rampert stop and lift his M4 with a silencer. Matt scanned ahead of his own weapon for possible targets. He saw two darkened figures moving slowly toward them in the light-green haze of his night-vision goggles.
“Confirm you are not near checkpoint two,” Rampert whispered, obviously talking to his other team over the radio net that special operations employed.
After a brief wait, Rampert said, “Roger. If you are, stop now.”
Matt watched as the two men in his vision continued to saunter toward them with no particular sense of urgency. It was clear, though, that they were carrying long rifles.
The two whispers escaping from Rampert’s M4 were welcome sounds. If Rampert had waited a few seconds longer, Matt had been poised to shoot. He heard in the distance the unmistakable sound of two bodies falling to the ground unimpeded. Matt and Rampert moved quickly to the two dead men, Rampert shining a small flashlight in their faces. While Matt knew that Rampert was conducting a quick search of the enemy, he also suspected that he was confirming that he had not shot his own men.
He had not. Matt continued to scan the horizon while Rampert checked the equipment.
“Let’s move,” Rampert whispered. Matt noticed Rampert had secured two small radios, one from each man. “Hang onto this. It may be helpful,” Rampert said, handing Matt one of the small devices that looked and felt like it might have been purchased at Radio Shack.
They moved quietly along a small ridge, angling down the slope to the north. He knew this was the direction they needed to be going. An instinctive flare ignited within him. Something from the Philippines, the memories, the smell of gunpowder, the dead bodies.
His brother.
Could it be true? Was Zachary actually alive?
They stopped at the edge of the tree line before it gave way to an opening occupied by five cabins.
“Cabin nearest the water is our target,” Rampert whispered to Matt.
“What’s the plan?” he asked, the quiet night air interrupted by a zipping noise.
Matt turned and looked at Rampert as the colonel slumped forward, obviously hit by the single, silenced gunshot. Matt moved quickly, dragging Rampert behind a hardwood with a large trunk.
“Find Hobart. Tell him he’s in charge. Get Boudreaux. It’s critical we get Boudreaux before his memory returns,” Rampert gasped in short breaths.
Another shot tore at the tree directly above Matt’s head. He turned to find the shooter’s location. Scanning the wood line with his night-vision goggles, he noticed movement near the intersection of the lake and the tree line. He quickly checked Rampert’s pulse, weak but noticeable, and wrapped a gauze bandage from the colonel’s first aid pouch around the seeping wound just above the right pectoral.
“Find Hobart,” the colonel whispered again, “and get Boudreaux.”
“Roger,” Matt said, moving silently back to the north and then looping toward the lake. The M4 was a comfort in his hand. The scar in his abdomen tightened as flashes of combat in the Philippines leapt through his mind and he spotted the large lake through the green haze of his night-vision goggles.
He knelt by a thick pine, scanning to the north. He noticed a slight reflection of a faint moon off the lake when he heard the distinct sound of AK-47 gunfire coming from across the clearing to the west. Fearing a trap, he avoided focusing in that direction and moved toward the east again, preventing anyone from trapping him against the lake and the cabins.
Taking a knee again, Matt clipped the radio he had secured from Rampert onto his belt, placing the earpiece in his right ear. He flipped the switch on the control box before speaking.
“Hobart this is Garrett. Rampert is hit.”
“Say again, call sign,” came the response.
“Rampert’s hit. Don’t have a call sign. This is Garrett. I jumped in with you.”
“Roger, what’s your status?”
“On the east side. I’ve moved Rampert from where he was hit, and I’ve circled back to try to find the shooter. What’s your status?”
“We’ve killed two and are pinned down by a team of two to four.”
“Roger. We killed two on our way to the objective. You should be fighting the remnants. How can I help?”
“See if you can move back toward the cabins and flank them from the rear.”
“Roger. Where are they located?” Matt asked. He had a general idea, given the shots he had heard, but wanted their perspective.
“They’re between the last cabin and the lake, almost a hundred meters into the wood line.”
“Moving now.” He found the water’s edge and moved slowly into the frigid lake. Quietly, he lowered himself into the water until only his head was above the surface. He held his weapon and the small radio set above the water as he smoothly glided parallel to the shoreline. Soon Matt noticed the clearing with the cabins off to his left and the dock with small fishing boats just ahead. He could feel the soft clay slide beneath his feet. He paused, grasping a wooden railing as he guided himself around the outer edges of the dock.
Matt could hear more gunfire, this time much closer. Bright spots flared as hot white spots in his night-vision goggles. He focused on a small copse of trees thirty meters to the front as his destination. Sliding smoothly, silently, through the water, he felt his adrenaline surge. He dialed in on his mission, focusing on the gunfire, his index finger rubbing absently on the trigger guard of his weapon.
Matt stumbled just a bit as he closed in on the shoreline, his feet fumbling on the steep bank. He slowed his movement as he emerged from the water, allowing his clothes to drain slowly. He centered himself in the small grouping of pine trees and waist-high shrub, scanning the horizon and feeling strangely secure in his covered and concealed position. It didn’t take him long to find two of the terrorists who were holding Hobart and his partner at bay.
Matt secured the headset and switched on the radio as he slid the monitor in his vest pocket.
“Are you there?” It was Hobart’s voice.
“Yes, I’m in position. I need you to fire two shots so I can get your location. I think I see two of the enemy,” Matt said.
“Roger. Where are you?”
“Don’t shoot in the direction of the lake.”
“Roger.”
Matt waited patiently while Hobart positioned himself to get a decent shot that would not wind up toward his location. He heard two loud pops and saw the muzzle flashes nearly fifty meters up the ridge. Just as quickly, he saw three muzzle flashes return the fire, surprisingly only twenty meters to his direct left. In fact, the enemy was using an extension of the same group of trees.
“You got us?” It was Hobart’s voice.
“Roger,” he whispered, mindful of his proximity to his targets.
Matt reached slowly to the muzzle and switched on the AN/PAQ-4C Infrared Aiming Light. He shivered against his icy, water-soaked clothes. If he didn’t move soon, it would not be long before hypothermia set in. Though cold, he refocused.
Matt trusted that Rampert had properly adjusted his aiming light as he drew a bead on the first target. His hand absently turned the silencer, testing to make sure it was properly seated and would muffle the sound of the subsonic bullet he was about to launch into the skull of this unknown person.
The man’s body was a dark mass with mild distinctions. Matt watched the aiming light dance across his target’s forehead for a brief second and then he squeezed the trigger. Before the man dropped dead on the ground, Matt had placed the aiming light on his partner, who was now just turning toward his fallen comrade. Matt had a perfect face shot from about twenty-five meters. The aiming light hung perfectly on the man’s nose as Matt squeezed the trigger again.
The second man dropped dead about the time he began to receive heavy fire from what he presumed was the third member of the ambush element. He felt a spray of bark from the tree as he whispered into his headset, “Give me some help, guys.”
“We’re on it,” Hobart said.
Matt crawled low to another position ten meters from his last location. Hearing a heavy volume of fire come from Hobart’s location, he slowly raised his head to notice he actually had a better view of the enemy from his new vantage. He watched as the third member of the team slumped against a pine tree from the precision fire.
“Looks like you got him,” Matt said into the radio.
“Roger. Keep your PAQ-4 lit and turn it skyward. We’ll link up in thirty seconds.”
“Roger.”
Matt turned his muzzle skyward so that Hobart could zero in on the infrared beacon. Watching through his PVS-14s, he noticed the skill with which the veteran warrior led his wingman through the scrub toward his position. Hobart moved in quick, silent movements, like a bobcat.
He heard two whispers cut through the still Canadian night like a zipper closing. His stomach sank as he watched Hobart and his partner drop like shot quail. Unsure of their status, Matt quickly shut down his infrared aiming light, fearing Ballantine, or whoever, had night-vision goggles.
His caution was well-founded. Tree bark sprayed against his forehead. He rolled and then low-crawled toward the lake. He didn’t relish the thought of reentering the cold water but realized he might have no other option. Two more shots whipped through the trees from where he had just departed. He slowly inched into the dark water and moved quietly toward the dock. Finding the dock again, he rested.
Then it occurred to him that it was he, Matt Garrett, against Ballantine in the Canadian outback. He was, perhaps, the lone survivor of a commando raid to retrieve a compromised operative who also just might be his brother.
Freezing his ass off
in a Canadian oxbow lake, Matt realized life was full of tremendous ironies. The surge of adrenaline served as a catalyst to remind him that it was a year ago that his brother rescued him from a revolution in the Philippines. Suffering near debilitating guilt since his return and Zachary’s death, could he really be facing an opportunity to save his brother? Could God be giving him this chance at redemption?
Deciding that it would be best to save Boudreaux, whoever he might be, he tucked away the blossoming hope and the pressure that would surely accompany the notion. He quietly pressed the magazine release button and surmised that, after his brief firefight, he had at least five rounds remaining.
Standing on the wooden ladder that thousands of tourist fishermen probably had climbed with coolers full of lake trout, Matt scanned the open terrain around the cabins less than a hundred meters away. Noticing movement near the tree line he had just fled, he watched as a tall man crouched low and scanned the lake. The man appeared to be backing away from the wood line and moving ever so slowly toward the first cabin. It had to be Ballantine.
Matt slid his magazine back into the weapon with a barely audible click, then raised his carbine in the general direction of his target. He could see through his own night-vision goggles that his target was wearing some form of night-vision device as well. Noticing this, he realized that he would only be able to turn on his infrared aiming device briefly before the target would be able to see it and respond.
He waited patiently as Ballantine finally turned toward the wood line again. Matt swallowed some dry spit and leveled the weapon to a height where he thought the infrared light would shine behind Ballantine, if it was Ballantine, so that he could walk it over to his target. His thumb felt absently at the safety selector switch, his mind registering that the weapon was in the fire mode. His other hand rested on the PAQ-4C selector, slowly rotating the switch to the on position to avoid any metallic click.
The infrared light appeared as a bright white streak, a laser beam of light invisible to the naked eye. The aiming light shone about ten feet behind the target. Matt slowly walked the light across the surrounding terrain until it pointed directly at Ballantine’s midsection. He knew a head shot would kill him instantly, but he wanted the certainty of a torso shot.
