Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  They’d gone dark since they’d entered the country three weeks ago, and the phones had been locked in a small container to which only Liu had the key. But since the operation was almost over, he’d decided to lift the ban, hoping the small privilege would lift the morale of his men. They’d lost their fair share of human assets, and even though they didn’t show it, he knew they had to have their doubts. Even though the entire unit was as elite as it was lethal, its members were still human.

  Liu hoped Gang wrapped up the inquisition at the prison early. He wanted to be gone from the island sooner rather than later. Even though waiting was a part of the business, he’d never quite grown accustomed to it. Boredom made him restless.

  He looked at his satellite-enabled laptop and scanned the international headlines. The attack on Sudan’s soil had exploded onto the UN’s radar, and the Security Council—notorious for inaction—was convening a meeting to discuss the situation. Liu knew the truth didn’t matter, not with those political devils. They only cared about their personal gain, not the welfare of the countries they served. Their superiors had counted on it and knew that the “truth” was a matter of interpretation.

  “I’ll be back. I’m going to do one last sweep,” Liu said to a sergeant they’d recruited from the PLA’s Special Reconnaissance Chengdu Region, known as the Falcons of the Southwest.

  The thirty-year-old warrior looked up from his handheld device and nodded, swiftly returning his attention to the tiny screen.

  Can’t really blame him, Liu thought. Anything beats this standing around.

  ———

  The current was a steady pull but navigable this close to the island. John’s face was covered with black camouflage paint, his head the only part of his body visible as he breaststroked his way through the warm, dark waters. Three ghostly shapes moved in unison with him.

  The UAV had confirmed the location of the camp that the Chinese team had constructed inside an orchard. It consisted of four large tents, two satellite dishes, multiple generators, two large trucks, and two SUVs. They’d seen a flurry of activity, indicators that the small force was breaking down the camp in order to move.

  If they didn’t act quickly, they’d lose their window.

  The plan was simple—at least as simple as a tactical assault against an enemy position could be. John would lead a four-man team across the quarter mile of open water; Amira and Tim Greco would drive onto the island from the mainland. The two teams would converge on the location and synchronize a diversion and the assault. The objective was clear—secure the ONERING at all costs and return to the embassy. All personnel on site were considered enemy combatants, which made the rules of engagement easy to understand—shoot everyone unless they surrender.

  Uh-huh, John thought as he swam steadily through the current. Until first contact. Then it all goes to hell like any best-laid plan.

  The dark island grew closer, the shoreline less than ten meters away. At this short distance from the sprawling mess of Khartoum, the chaotic mayhem of the city seemed quieter, a deceptively slumbering metropolis. The river had an isolating effect, and it afforded him the opportunity to sharpen his mind into a heightened state of awareness.

  Suddenly, he felt the soft bed of the river beneath his feet, and he trudged forward, careful not to disturb the surface as he worked his way through the muck below.

  Four dark specters emerged silently from the river, appearing to glide across the last few feet of water.

  Once on solid ground, he moved ten feet inland and dropped to a knee, listening for any signs they’d been detected. The team followed suit, awaiting instructions. A faint glow emanated through the trees, and he heard the mechanical grind of generators.

  We’re good so far, he thought, and removed the black waterproof backpack he’d been carrying. He nodded to the others, and the three members of the embassy’s security team did the same.

  John smiled in the dark as he removed his gear. It was common to carry more than a hundred pounds of equipment on an operation. The movies always made it look so easy, with Special Forces or paramilitary heroes moving with speed and stealth, avoiding the enemy and killing at will. The reality was a bit more cumbersome, usually due to the weight of tactical communications equipment, weapons, ammunition, food, and water, the last weighing eight pounds per gallon—none of it was light.

  But in this case, they were on a raid, which meant they kept the tools of the trade to a bare minimum, and John’s aging back appreciated it, regardless of his level of fitness. You’re not some young grunt anymore, his body told him.

  He pulled out a sound-suppressed H&K MP5SD-N, specially designed for the US Navy for close-quarters combat in wet environments, and slung it across his chest. His Colt M1911 .45-caliber pistol went into a holster on his right thigh; the KA-BAR fighting knife into a sheath behind the pistol. Finally, he removed a small, encrypted radio and secured it to the tactical harness he wore over his black fatigues. He placed the earpiece in his left ear, secured the tactical throat microphone around his neck, and plugged the end into the handset.

  Now for the real test—establishing comms, he thought, knowing that no matter how much preparation went into an operation, communications were paramount. He’d seen more than one tactical masterpiece end in death and destruction because communications equipment had failed, either from technical or environmental reasons.

  “Alpha, this is Bravo Actual. Comms check,” John said softly.

  “Bravo Actual, this is Alpha Actual,” the clear voice of Tim Greco responded. “Read you loud and clear.”

  “We’re on the island and ready to move into position. Once we’re on target, I’ll initiate the assault. How copy?” John asked.

  “Roger all, Bravo. We’re in position and ready when you are. No issues getting here. Good luck.” Tim said.

  “Roger. Going radio silent now. Out.”

  He turned to the rest of the team, who’d overheard the quiet exchange, and said, “Okay. Let’s move out. The target must be that glow coming from the trees. When we get closer, I’ll stop us at the final assault point and radio Alpha team. Any questions?”

  Silent shakes of the head answered his query. As I expected, he thought. The three members of the embassy’s DSS team were all former military with combat experience. Exactly the kind of guys I can work with. Now let’s get the show on the road.

  He began to stalk across the dark, grassy earth of Tuti Island. Moving quickly, they covered the remaining distance within minutes, until the four shadows stopped at the outer perimeter of the camp.

  John crouched motionless behind the hedgerow of bushes, his assault team arrayed in a line beside him, waiting for the order. Their objective was less than forty meters directly ahead, illuminated by four sets of portable floodlights. This can’t be this easy, he thought, unconsciously shaking his head.

  Four vehicles—two SUVs and two canvas-covered cargo trucks—were parked in the middle of the clearing and pointed toward the dirt-road entrance to the orchard. Eight Chinese men, wearing Western clothing and dark military boots, casually milled around the right side of the trucks and were exposed to John and his team. What shocked John the most was the fact that these elite soldiers’ weapons were holstered or lay across the hoods of the vehicles. Some of the men were checking smartphones, while others were engaged in conversation. One of the Chinese team even appeared to be dozing in the cab of the front truck.

  I feel for you, pal, John thought, remembering his operational days when exhaustion became a physical weight and any brief respite was a welcome gift.

  But it was a scene of total complacency, and as John knew from his multiple tours in Iraq, complacency killed.

  John grabbed his handset and deliberately pressed the button three times, each one issuing an electronic click. He looked at the three members of his team and nodded.

  Good. This is going to be fast, he thought. He gripped his suppressed MP5SD submachine gun and waited. It didn’t take long.
>
  A vehicle’s engine sounded on the audible horizon, growing louder by the second. The posture of the men in the orchard changed instantly, just as John had expected. Suddenly alert, those sitting stood and placed their hands on their pistol holsters or grabbed black submachine guns from the hoods of the trucks. They faced the entrance to the orchard almost in unison.

  John exhaled and felt his familiar battle focus sharpen one last time. He never tired of the sensation, a calming sense of power and confidence, strengths required for the violent work that lay before him. The battle focus reinforced for him that what he was about to do was necessary, a sacrifice at the altar of the greater good.

  A black SUV emerged into the clearing and stopped just inside the tree line, thirty meters away from the lead cargo truck. Its engine idled, as if waiting for permission to join the party.

  The men stared at the vehicle, but no one reacted impulsively. They’re trained and patient, waiting to see who’s in it.

  Finally, a young man in his late twenties approached the vehicle, shouting as he moved closer. The SUV remained stationary, unmoved by the man’s orders, taunting him with its pitilessly bright headlights.

  The remaining men all stepped toward the SUV in unison, like moths drawn to a flame. The combination of Chinese shouts, the running generator, and the idling diesel SUV masked the short movement of John’s team. That’s our cue, John thought, and exhaled one last time, initiating the assault.

  At the far right of the assault line and closest to the SUV, John took two steps forward and achieved a clear sight picture with the red-dot reflex scope of the MP5. For him, the scope allowed him to rapidly move from one target to the next much faster than with iron sights. He focused on the man closest to the SUV, exhaled, and gently squeezed the trigger.

  Thwack!

  A single bullet tore into the right side of the man’s head. He dropped straight down in a crumpled heap, dead in the glow of the SUV’s headlamps.

  John shifted the weapon to the next target as he heard three more shots so closely fired together they made a loud, singular sound.

  Three more men fell, struck down by gunfire less than a second after his first shot.

  The remaining men reacted, spinning to their right to face the danger head-on. They fired blindly into the underbrush, the floodlights’ glare concealing the darkness beyond, from where John and his team fired with lethal precision.

  John pulled the trigger on the MP5 one more time and executed a flawless failure-to-stop drill on his target. The first two bullets struck the man in the chest, and he fell backward against the lead truck. The third round struck him in the middle of the forehead, snapping his head back.

  Three left, he thought and smoothly shifted the weapon one more time, searching for a target. He was too late—there were no more to be had. The three members of his team had dropped the remaining targets where they stood. The entire ordeal had lasted less than three seconds.

  It’s always so fast, a detached part of his brain thought.

  Eight men, members of an elite Chinese unit, lay on the ground, their death poses spotlighted on a dirt stage by the lighting they’d erected themselves.

  None of the bodies moved. Good.

  John stepped forward, and his men followed. They appeared out of the blackness, four wraiths materializing into the light of the inner circle. The three other shooters broke off from him and checked the bodies to remove weapons and ensure they were dead.

  As John glanced across the carnage, he briefly wondered if any of these men had participated in the ambush at the cemetery. He didn’t know if there were more men at other locations, but it didn’t matter. They were engaged in a shadow war with this unknown Chinese force, and they’d won this round.

  The doors on the SUV finally opened, and Tim Greco stepped out from behind the steering wheel, quickly followed by Amira from the passenger side.

  Even at this distance, the low level of illumination only accentuated her beauty, transforming her into some otherworldly creature John longed to be near. She’s gorgeous. It was the discipline and dedication she personified that awed him. She was special, although he sensed she tried to diminish it by withdrawing inward, refusing to let anyone inside the protective, steely exterior their work demanded.

  John waved at them, and Tim nodded. Amira smiled, and John felt his face flush under the layer of black paint. Thank God she can’t see me blush. What are you? In fucking high school? Get a grip, old man. She’s too young for you.

  He’d thought—hoped—that he’d seen her looking at him strangely earlier at the embassy, secretly assessing and analyzing him, like a puzzle she was trying to solve. Or wondering what the hell was wrong with you, more likely. But it seemed like it had been more than casual interest.

  Tim, Amira, and two men from the embassy’s security team who had exited the SUV stepped toward the truck, bringing him back to the ONERING and the task at hand.

  “I’ll check the lead one,” John said. “Brad, take the second truck.”

  “Roger,” Brad, a former Army Ranger, said. “I’ve got it.”

  John was halfway to the truck, hoping the DARPA system was in the back of it, when he heard, “What the—”

  He turned to his left just as a single gunshot boomed from behind the second truck.

  Brad fell backward, landing on his side and lying still.

  Oh God, no, John thought as more gunshots echoed through the small orchard. He searched for the shooter, but he didn’t see anything.

  Terry, a former Navy SEAL, returned fire toward the back of the second truck as Frank, the third member of the team, ran over to his fellow Ranger’s fallen body.

  A black canister sailed through the air and landed next to Brad’s motionless form.

  “Grenade!” Frank shouted, and dove to the ground, landing on top of Brad to shield him from the blast.

  John dove to the earth, his back to the grenade, and waited.

  BOOM!

  The flashbang grenade exploded, sending a concussive roar and blinding light across the space.

  For a brief moment, the world inside John Quick’s head went silent. All he could see was a white blur, but he knew the effect wouldn’t last long. The ground quickly came back into focus, and he forced himself to his hands and knees.

  His training propelled him into action. If the shooter was still there, it was either move or die.

  Sound rushed in next, and he thought he heard echoes. But then the ground vibrated under his fingertips. That isn’t good.

  The Chinese cargo truck lurched forward in the clearing, accelerating toward the American SUV and the freedom beyond, intent on destroying everything in its path—including Amira and Tim.

  CHAPTER 38

  As Cole soared through the air, he thought, This is it. I’m dead. This maniac got me killed. But then he landed on top of a flat tin roof with a crunch and rolled into a kneeling position with a ringside view of the chaos unfolding in the courtyard below.

  The landscape was cloaked in dark shades of gray, the dim glow from various windows inside the prison creating distorted macabre shadows that danced across the walls and ground. The prisoners had scattered in all directions at the first sound of gunfire, and the darkness only heightened their panic. Cole saw several men crouched in corners against the walls, as if waiting for someone to save them. You guys need to save yourselves, or you’re never getting out of here, he thought sympathetically.

  “We need to move and get off this roof,” Logan said as gunshots and muzzle flashes lit up the courtyard like cameras at a rock concert. “We’re sitting ducks up here. Cover me.”

  Before Cole could respond, Logan slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and slid off the edge of the roof. He hung momentarily and then dropped out of sight.

  Cole heard him hit the ground, followed immediately by, “Your turn!”

  He scampered to the edge, slung the rifle across his back, and slid his legs out into the open air, allowing gravity to take
control.

  Bam-bam-bam!

  Below him Logan fired three quick shots, and Cole heard a scream of pain mix with the chaotic shouts of confusion and fear. His arms fully extended, Cole released his grip on the metal roof and plummeted to the ground.

  The shock of his landing sent a deep vibration through his body, but he reacted quickly, bending his knees and allowing himself to roll backward to absorb the energy of the fall. He scrambled to his feet and stood next to Logan.

  “What now?” Cole asked, glancing at Logan, who was staring at the northwest corner of the courtyard in the direction of the telephone poles of death, where inmates had been crucified in the blazing heat and sun.

  “Follow me,” Logan said, and moved into a crouching run.

  Cole sprinted to catch up and then slowed himself to Logan’s pace once he reached his partner’s side. He spotted what Logan had already seen and was overcome with relief. It’s about time.

  Two figures in black fatigues were rappelling from the guard tower, while two men still in the guard shack on the roof covered them with automatic weapons fire from suppressed submachine guns.

  Cole heard their distinctive bursts and realized they were coming from all directions. At the courtyard’s northeast corner, even more black-clad men fast-roped down the prison’s walls.

  “Looks like that little receiver of yours worked,” Logan said, scanning their surroundings for any threats.

  “It was a transmitter, not a receiver,” Cole said.

  Logan smiled to himself. “We can discuss the nuances of satellite communications some other time.”

  The two men dashed across the courtyard, closing the distance to the nearest team of commandos. The first of the commandos landed on the ground and released the rope, spinning on his heels to assess the situation.

  The commando whirled his submachine gun at Logan and Cole, who both stopped in their tracks and lowered their weapons.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re Americans, and I assume you’re here for us,” Logan said quickly, looking into a serious face covered in black camouflage paint.