by Shawn Kupfer
“Well, fuck that,” Nick muttered, rolling down his window and grabbing the radio. He tossed the radio out onto the street, smiling to himself as he rolled the window back up.
“American operative,” the radio still on the passenger seat repeated. “We know you have a radio tuned to this frequency. Respond.”
Shit! I threw out the wrong radio! Nick yelled at himself, grabbing the only remaining handset and tossing it out the window, as well.
The only sound in the F3’s cabin was now the end of a punk song Nick had never heard before. Nick felt sweat on his upper lip, even though it was chilly outside and the window was still down.
“Calm down,” he muttered to himself, trying to quiet the subtle nausea in his stomach – the kind of feeling he got from knowing he’d just made a huge mistake. “At least they can’t track you anymore.”
The words failed to reassure him as the next song on the iPod came up – he recognized it as The Misfits instantly.
Hey, bright side – at least I can turn this up as loud as I want now.
Nick cranked the volume as high as it was go and slowly increased the pressure on the accelerator. All at once, he was reminded of driving to the construction site in the early morning, working on an apartment complex in Culver City – getting up at four in the morning and driving the darkened, abandoned freeways. At the same time, he remembered high school, remembered sneaking out at two in the morning, borrowing his brother’s car and just driving for hours while the streets were empty. The cool air blowing in through the window and the faint smell of the ocean... it was familiar. Almost comforting. Almost like home.
It was an experience he and Christopher had in common – driving through the dark, late at night, in someone else’s car. Christopher had a different ocean, of course, and most of the cars were stolen, but both men had the same experience from their high-school days. Christopher – a guy he probably never would have spoken to before the war, a guy whose path would never have crossed with his own. Despite being on different coasts, the two ran completely different lives. Nick got up every morning and drove to a job, worked for eight hours, caught a meal, and helped his mother at her restaurant. Christopher smoked dope, slept until three in the afternoon, and spent the night running cons or breaking and entering. In the real world, they’d never hang out together. Now they were brothers.
Nick hoped Jason Black had been able to get a message to Christopher, to let him know Nick was alive and still running. He didn’t know what his crew was up to, what kind of asinine mission Sawyer Ross had sent them on in his absence, but if Christopher was in command of 47 Echo, he didn’t need to waste any energy worrying about Nick.
Nick tried to put his friends out of his mind and focus on the road – he didn’t need to waste energy worrying any more than Christopher did.
“Eyes front, foot on the gas,” Nick told himself, taking a deep breath through his nose and blowing it out slowly through his mouth.
When his phone rang an hour later and it was Jason Black on the other end of the line, Nick was almost not surprised. The Air Force Captain – or perhaps not, Nick realized – didn’t bother to say hello, or to wait for Nick to. He just started talking.
“Couple of dead PLA spec ops guys, another one all fucked up. Blown up helicopter. Your work, I presume?”
“Yeah,” Nick replied.
“You might really have a few issues you need to work out, man. Just sayin’.”
He hadn’t really talked to Jason Black much over the last couple of years – three times, to be exact. But Nick was curious and fascinated at the same time.
He acts like there isn’t even a war on, he thought. From Black’s tone of voice, it was like he was calling a buddy on a slow Tuesday night to bullshit while the Lakers game was at halftime.
“Looks like Ghost is hip to your route, or at least where you’re headed in a general sense,” Black continued. “If I were you, I’d expect heavy resistance at the North Korean border. That’s where they’ll try to set up a choke point.”
“I had a feeling. Any suggestions?”
“Yeah. Try not to get killed.”
“OK. Let me rephrase. Any helpful suggestions?”
“I ain’t got much for you, I’m afraid. I’d pitch in and help out if I could, but this blue-suiter you saddled me with won’t keep. I tried to get our nearest FOB to send a Death Jet to help fuck up Ghost’s program, but...”
“No go,” Nick said, nodding.
“Well, sort of. They kinda don’t believe you’re still kicking. And since I’m not supposed to be here – they think I’m off at Rattlesnake running a surveillance upgrade – I can’t convince them otherwise. You’re –”
“On my own. Got it.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll deal. Any idea what I’m looking at? Numbers-wise?”
“We don’t really have an accurate count. Ghost is pretty secretive.”
“Well, it is right there in the name. But I’m guessing you have a ballpark?”
“We estimate the total unit strength somewhere in the high hundreds. You’re high-priority, but they got other shit to do. If I were a betting man, I’d say... fifty? A hundred?”
“Outstanding,” Nick said flatly. “What about equipment? Ordinance?”
“Whatever they need, they get. Helicopters, explosives, shit we probably haven’t even seen yet. Funding for Ghost is black-book, but we know it’s a lot.”
Nick dug into his front pocket and pulled out a pack of the Red Suns Feng had given him. With one hand, he thumbed open the pack, drew out a cigarette, and tossed it in the general direction of his face. He surprised himself by catching it by the filter in his mouth. He pulled the lighter from the pack, lit the smoke, and took a deep breath.
“You still there, LT?”
“Yeah. You’d better have decent beer on ice when I get back. I mean IPA or better. Preferably Los Angeles local.”
“That’s the spirit. Now move your ass. I got a couple hundred bucks on you.”
The line went dead – whether Jason Black hung up or the connection dropped didn’t really matter. They didn’t have a hell of a lot more to say to each other, anyway.
“Ah, well,” Nick said to himself, turning the volume on the stereo back to maximum. “At least I won’t have to deal with the stimulant detox when I’m dead.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Walking In The Dark
“Let me guess. There’s a problem,” Christopher said without turning around in his chair.
He’d thought it was Carson coming up behind him, but the voice that answered was definitely of a higher register. Still, Christopher probably would have said the same no matter who was approaching his perch in the Razor’s passenger seat. The fact that it was Mary coming to see him really didn’t make any difference – it was that kind of day. Hell, it’d been that kind of mission.
“Problem is the right word,” Mary said, her voice dropping as she walked up to the side of his chair. It was only loud enough for Christopher and Bryce to hear when she continued: “Fucking showstopper might be even more appropriate.”
“Don’t suppose I could get you to sugarcoat it? Couch the bad news in some good news?” Christopher said, sighing.
“Um... we still have some of those vegetarian MREs you like,” Mary said, her voice flat. It was obvious she was really stretching for something that could be considered “good news.”
“Mikey is the one who digs on those,” Bryce reminded her softly.
“Shit. You’re right. Sorry, then, Chief. No good news.”
“Fine. Better just hit me with the bad news.”
“Stealth leak is gone.”
“We lost it when we stopped to lose our leash?” Bryce asked, careful to keep his voice low.
Mary shook her head.
“No. We weren’t stopped that long – I managed to pick it up again thanks to the NoKo listening posts. Then, about ten minutes ago, the trail just vanished. No int
ermittent signals, no squawk. Dead air.”
“NoKos?” Christopher asked.
“If they still have it, they’re not telling.”
“What could cause that?” Christopher asked, glancing at both Bryce and Mary. The two of them knew the Razors better than anyone onboard – if either of them had ideas, he wanted to hear them.
“Complete signal shutdown,” Bryce said, shrugging.
“Like, pccccch?” Christopher asked, miming an explosion with his hands.
“Possible, but unlikely,” Mary told him. “We’d have probably picked up something on the NoKo net, if not on our own sensors when the Razor’s solid fuel blew.”
“So, then...” Christopher said, drawing out the last word.
“They stopped. Shut everything down. Engine, comms, adaptive camo. Everything. Killed all the power,” Mary said.
“Why do that?” Christopher asked.
“Two reasons I can think of,” Bryce said, stifling a yawn and checking the nav system. “One, they met up with a contact and decided to dump the Razor early. Load that thing on a flatbed and be rid of us. Two...”
“They detected the leak,” Christopher said, catching on. “They stopped to cover for the night and try to patch it, or try to contact their handlers to come get their new truck.”
“That’s my guess,” Bryce said.
“Mary?”
“I agree, Chris. They’re stopped and covered.”
“Then we might have one more shot to grab them,” Christopher said, forcing himself to grin. He suddenly realized why Nick didn’t smile much these days.
“If we’re lucky,” Mary said.
“Go wake up Pete and Carson,” Christopher told Mary. “Then you three start working on your best guess on where they could have covered. I want your top three possibilities ASAP, clear?”
“On it, Chief.”
“Bryce, throw us in park at the next good spot. I want you and Daniel on weapons. Make sure everyone’s locked and loaded with enough extra rounds to drop a pissed-off rhino.”
“Roger that,” Bryce said, nodding.
“Martin!” Christopher yelled loud enough for their demolitions expert to hear from his chair at the back of the vehicle.
“Yeah?”
“Start putting together the nastiest shit you can come up with!”
“Chief, you’re my favorite person ever,” Martin shouted back.
* * *
“I mean, there’s no way to know for sure,” Peter said, shrugging. “All four of these make excellent hide spots.”
Christopher had asked for three possible cover locations for a 28-ton all-terrain vehicle that was now visible to the naked eye. His team had come up with four, and couldn’t confidently rank them in order of most to least likely.
“So what? We take our best guess?” Gabriel asked, an eyebrow arched high as if to say please tell me that’s not the plan.
“Or do we split up, steal some local transpo,” Michael started, “Check each location and keep in contact on 1-9 Victor?”
“That was my first thought,” Christopher said. “On paper, that gives us the best chance of finding them quick.”
“There are problems with that, though,” Carson said. “Availability/reliability of local transport. Fact that we’re sure they can’t transmit, but not sure they don’t have hand radios that can receive 1-9 Victor. And worse, say a short-handed team catches them in local transpo? Outgunned doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“So, what, then?” Anthony asked. It was the first time Christopher had heard him speak in hours.
“Bryce?”
“I managed to put together a course that’ll hit all four spots,” Bryce told them, bringing up a map on the large plasma. “It’s about 40 square miles, but if we hump it, we should hit ‘em all before sunup.”
“Yeah,” Carson said, “problem is, we don’t know how long it’ll take them to fix their leak, if that’s what they’re doing.”
“I’ve already given the Chief an estimate on the minimum damage they could have,” Mary said. Christopher could see the exasperation on her face – they’d gone over this already, and yet, Carson was bringing it up because he didn’t like Christopher’s original decision. He felt heat rushing to his face and hoped the red lights inside the Razor masked his flushed skin.
“Hey. Staff Sergeant. We have a problem here?” Christopher said, trying and failing to keep his voice from showing his anger.
“No problem, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Then stop pushing for a plan I’ve already decided against. We clear on that? Because your ass can walk home if you prefer.”
“Solid copy. Sorry, Gunny.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just cut the bullshit.”
Carson opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, closed his mouth, and nodded. Christopher could see what the Ranger was up to. He didn’t care one way or the other whose plan they went with. He just wanted to show everyone who he thought should be running this mission. He wanted everyone to see Christopher the way he did: a joke, a two-bit con man who shouldn’t be in charge of a Chik-Fil-A, much less $14 million worth of military hardware and nine other lives.
Christopher made a note to have a conversation with Peter. They needed a signal to knock this guy the fuck out if he became a problem.
The rest of the 47 Echo crew stood silent, visibly uncomfortable, like kids who had just watched their mother tell their father he was terrible in the sack.
“Bryce, we’re not getting anywhere just sitting here. Get back on the wheel. The rest of you, gear up – weapons, TotalVis, armor. We’re going to need to search these areas on foot, and I want each of you ready for whatever might pop up out there. Let’s move, people.”
Peter and Bryce got moving first, but the rest of the crew followed almost instantly. In a moment, they were all busy at their stations, and the Razor was rolling again. Carson was standing over Anthony’s shoulder at the comm station. Christopher tapped him on the shoulder.
“Let’s talk, Sergeant.”
“Sure thing, Gunny.”
Finding a place on the fully loaded Razor to have a private conversation wasn’t going to happen. The closest thing to isolation was the currently unoccupied middle section of the vehicle, where the four fold-down racks were currently up. Christopher leaned against the wall and motioned for Carson to lean in close.
“Look, man. I know you think I’m just a criminal scumfuck who lucked his way into a pardon. There’s no way you think I should be running this mission.”
Carson started to say something, but Christopher held up his hand and continued.
“Truth be told, I don’t give a fuck what you think. Fact is, I am in command. These are my people. You either fall in line with that and do your goddamned job, or you may find that you’re right. That I am just a criminal scumfuck. And a criminal scumfuck will just shoot you in the head and leave your body to rot out here. And my people will back me up that it was North Koreans or Chinese who shot you, ‘cause guess what? You’re on a truck full of criminal scumfucks, pal. Next time you feel the need to show everyone how smart you are, remember that.”
Before Carson had a chance to reply, Christopher turned his back on the young Ranger and stalked back up to the front of the Razor. He dropped into the passenger seat and strapped himself in tightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bryce start to open his mouth.
“Unless it’s mission critical, bro, I’d stow it for now,” Christopher said, sighing.
“It could be,” Bryce said. It was impossible to tell by his tone whether he was joking, but then, it always was.
“Fire away, then.”
“Good job handling the Ranger. He’s been acting like he thinks he calls the shots for a while now. He needed some readjustment.”
“But?”
“He’s a kid, Chief. Kids are fucking stupid. They do stupid shit, and say stupid shit. Remember? You used to be one.”
“You
r point, Bryce?”
“Ranger school and all that shit has this kid brainwashed to think he’s a stone-cold killing machine who’s 100 percent on top of his shit. There’s a reason they do that.”
Christopher wanted to tell his driver to just shut the fuck up and drive, but the last two years had taught him that Bryce rarely spoke this much. If he was talking, it was because he had something to say – and when Bryce had something to say, it was best to listen. The guy was only a few years older than Christopher, but he seemed wiser than a man three times his age.
“Make your point, Bryce. I’m too goddamn tired.”
“We need him to think he’s still on top of his shit, or he’s a liability. I’m not in your shoes, but if I was, I’d make sure to put him back in a position where he feels like he’s got some measure of control pretty soon. You’ve shown who’s top dog, but you might have shut him down a little too hard.”
Christopher closed his eyes and nodded.
“After a nap. Wake me up when we hit the first point.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wrong ‘Em Boyo
Nick thought he’d made it five hours without stimulants, without reaching into his pocket and taking twice as many pills as the label suggested. He looked at the clock.
It had been an hour and a half.
On the plus side, it had been almost a thousand miles since he’d mistakenly thrown the Ghost Unit radio out the window, and it had been uneventful. He’d driven through most of a daylight cycle, and the sun was just now starting to set.
He didn’t feel what he’d call “alert,” but he felt awake enough. He wasn’t likely to crash the car, and he wasn’t hallucinating his brother or his father was in the car next to him. All things considered, he was in better shape than he had a right to expect.
That’s the way, he told himself. Look at the positives. You’re physically uninjured, which is a miracle in and of itself. Sure, you’re all hopped up on speed, but once you make it back to friendly territory, a little sleep and decent food will patch that up. And according to the GPS, the North Korean border is only an hour away. You’re almost there, kid. Just keep your eye on the road.
