by Jacob Hammes
“The pilot must be good,” Marcus thought with a grin. How he’d evaded all those missiles, Marcus couldn’t quite understand. He could not afford himself the luxury of contemplation either. He wanted out of this husk of a helicopter before the leaking fuel decided to find some source of ignition.
Stephen’s strong black arm reached down into the helicopter to help Marcus clamber out before anything else could happen. The ample amounts of sunshine peeking through the fluffy clouds made Marcus feel a bit better about his standing before he could survey the situation. Cynthia had put Brenda down near David a few yards up the road away from the wreckage. She was with the pilots now, pointing her rifle down the side of the incline. Cynthia was one of the best shots in the UOD and she used her weak powered scope to survey the land below. Anyone sporting a weapon would be toast with that woman behind the trigger.
The side of the mountain had been ripped open from the blades of the helicopter. Ugly scars marred the gravelly incline and garbage from the crash littered the landscape. Marcus knew he had been lucky. To the other side, away from the incline, was a steep decline stretching for what looked like a few hundred meters. Had it not been for the road, the entire crew would have been killed for sure.
Marcus knew that they had been really lucky.
David was quickly coming to as Marcus jumped from the side of the aircraft for the last time. He was holding his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth like a dog. Brenda tried her best to help him come to his senses, but the pain in her ribs made it difficult to sit up. The team leader, Marcus, was proud of what he saw, despite the fact that they had been shot down.
The pilots were using handheld radios to communicate with their base, giving a detailed description of what had happened and where the helicopter had went down while keeping a close eye out for whoever had fired those rockets. They were laying prone, passing communications information to one another as one of them handled the radio and the other one looked over a map. They would be integral in getting the team out safely.
Below the road, the Apache boomed away with its massive 30 caliber chain gun and spouted rockets every now and again which blew up in balls of black, smoky fire. The booms sounded like massive percussion instruments from so far away and the hillside shook with every impact. It was amazing what those hellfire missiles could do.
“Where is Chester?” one of the pilots asked Marcus.
“Who is Chester?” replied Marcus.
“The crew chief, Sergeant Grant,” the pilot asked again.
“He was taken out with the blast,” Marcus said solemnly. “I’m sorry.”
One of the pilots, Chief Warrant Officer Hugh or Kurt (Marcus did not know who was who), looked at the ground and shook his head.
“Stupid sons of bitches,” he cursed. “We were told this area was clear. You’d think intelligence would pick up a contingent of rocket wielding bad guys! There must have been fifteen rockets we dodged. What is this, some sort of guessing game now?”
Marcus could not agree more. Had there been the slightest inkling of danger, the UOD would have been more hesitant to send the team on such a far flung mission to the middle of the Afghan mountains. They were full of vigor, but far from stupid and putting under-armed Division employees in a combat environment was sheer stupidity.
“Marcus!” He had forgotten all about his colleagues back on the FOB. His personal earpiece had been worn beneath the earmuffs the army had supplied them with and was working just fine. Henry Bauss was still shouting away and Marcus had not even noticed. The commotion was overwhelming and Marcus had forgotten all about the man listening in to everything that had happened.
“It’s me,” Marcus replied, depressing a button on his waist receiver unit. “We’re okay. We suffered one casualty. The crew chief Sergeant Grant is dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, but my squad is safe,” Henry said, finding solace that his own team had not been hurt. “Can you find a place to set up a defensive position and await transportation?”
“We can do that,” said Marcus, walking away from the pilots so they would not hear the conversation. “Brenda may have a broken leg and David was knocked silly, but we can move.”
“I have your coordinates as one hundred meters below the entrance of the cave,” Henry said. “If you can reach the mouth, you should be able to set up a defensive perimeter while staying hidden, too. Satellite imagery looks like the area is flat enough for a pickup.”
“We can make it,” Marcus said, wondering what he would encounter at the top of the mountain. “Is there any reassurance that we aren’t walking into another ambush?”
“No,” Henry said after a long pause. “None whatsoever. But with your current situation you will have the advantage. No one can make it up the mountain behind you without the aid of that road.”
Marcus looked off the side of the mountain, trailed the road up its switchbacks going from one side to the other. There was no one currently making an attempt at the road. If anyone moved out of cover after the crash, they would be at the mercy of the Apache.
“Is there any way you could have that Apache pilot peel off and check out the entrance of the cave for us,” Marcus asked the pilots of the downed Blackhawk. They were busy chattering with the army post, making arrangements for a pickup from the wreckage site. Down on their bellies, looking over the mountains edge, the two were perfectly alike.
At first, Marcus thought the two were ignoring him, and then one of the men tilted his head back.
“You think that’s a good idea?” the one on the left asked. He rolled over and Marcus noticed something about him; his visor had been cracked and he removed it, revealing dark brown eyes and a long, sharp nose. “We’ve already lost one guy and you want to risk moving some of your injured teammates?”
“They will be fine,” Marcus said bluntly.
“And what if the cave is swarming with insurgents? What then?”
Marcus patted his weapon and flashed the pilot a smile.
“We know how to use these things,” Marcus said. “Is it possible or not? We will have better coverage up there, a pickup site, and my team can complete its mission. It’s a win for all of us. If we stay here, not only are we exposed to some little man with a rocket launcher, we’re also exposed to the elements. Frankly, it’s cold out here, the wind is picking up and I need to complete this mission. Now, could you ask the pilot if he could just take a peek inside the mouth of the cave to see if he can see anyone lurking around?”
After a moment of thought, the pilot agreed and rolled back over onto his belly. He tapped his partner on the back and spoke almost directly into his ear. The message was eventually passed on to the Apache pilot and for a long moment, there was no reply.
“Affirmative,” the pilot said over the radio. The volume was turned up loud enough so that Marcus could hear. “I’ll pop my head in for a second, just stay low and don’t get shot while I’m gone.”
He was grateful the military men decided to play along. The team desperately needed to make it to that cave. If it was deemed too dangerous, the Unusual Operations Division would have to work hand in hand with the military to clear out the caves of any insurgents or other bad guys. God only knew when they would have the ability to find someone who could haul off whatever they might find hidden within the cave.
A few moments passed before the Apache flew directly overhead as it gained altitude up the side of the mountain. From below, the helicopter looked even more menacing. The powerful engines were much quieter than the Blackhawk and its slim design made the aircraft more aerodynamic, thus harder to hit. Add that to the inches of steel plating and you had a weapon that could take a thrashing just as well as it could deal one.
If there was one thing Marcus could count on, it was the feeling of reassurance he got from having a multi-million dollar aircraft, armed to the teeth, protecting them from above.
Chapter 7
John was impatient with the way things were going. He
knew what he had to do next but delays were inevitable in the middle of the night. He would be leaving the small apartment first thing in the morning and headed for a flight out of the local airport. The plane was boarding at 0630 in the morning. John intended to be there at 0500, just to be sure.
If only he could shake this feeling he had been having; his head was hurting something fierce.
His bags were packed, his weapons broken down into all their smaller parts and hidden in different parts of the baggage. The Jewel of Babylon was safely tucked away, stuffed into the middle of what little clothing he had. A fire burned inside of him, forcing him to keep the cogs moving.
Sleep had not entered his mind since he left the cave, two weeks and two days ago.
Instead, John sat up in the dim light of the small, underground apartment, rocking back and forth on a mat he had slept on. It was not because he did not want to sleep, but he had failed at every attempt thus far. He could close his eyes for a while, try to rest his aching body, but eventually the fire would be too intense. It motivated him through pain to stay awake, to keep going.
The once piercing eyes were rimmed with red and decorated with baggy dark sacks. His hands shook when he was still, when he was not trying to accomplish whatever his mission was. He only knew that the next part would be revealed soon through intuition alone.
For now, the only plan that he had was to return home. His mother and father were most certainly worried about him by now. They may even think that he was dead. It had been a while since he called. It seemed like years ago, he was in the belly of a plane getting ready to jump into the highlands of Afghanistan. It was funny that his parents were so prevalent in his mind lately.
“How long had it been now,” John wondered.
His eyes were heavy, but he dared not close them. He knew what the darkness would bring him. When first he tried to snatch an hour on a train from Western China, John was frightened awake. He did not know whether he was hallucinating or whether the things he saw were real, but John’s entire team of friends were killed behind his eyelids over and over again.
And he had killed them.
Obviously the dream was just that, a horrible nightmare, but John could not be certain. He was hardly sure of how he got to China, let alone how he found a small apartment to rent. The last few weeks had passed like slides through a slideshow. He retained very little of what he was doing.
It entered his mind on several occasions that he’d been drugged. It was possible that he had also suffered some brain trauma. Once every few days his training would kick in for a minute, allowing him to focus clearly through the haze of confusion. He would look at his hands, study his surroundings and wonder what he was doing before the confusion returned. It was like looking at the world through frosted glass.
John was having one of those moments now.
He stared at the ground, saw the dirt there. Small pebbles of gravel surrounded him, covered the concrete floor with brown dust. The blue tint of the one fluorescent bulb flashing a thousand times per second made the concrete floor look like a moonscape. To his right, near a wall was a pile of crates used by the store above. Mandarin writing covered the boxes, made beautiful scrolling words like art across the wood. To his left was an expansive, open basement. Pillars here and there held the weight of the restaurant and there were pallets of food goods sporadically placed.
It would only be moments before he lost it again.
John let his hands slide idly to the ground. He was careful not let his mind wander to what his hands would do. It felt as if he were fooling himself into doing something he did not want to do. John’s training had been tough, though, and he had learned some useful tricks over the years. He would do whatever he could to try and find some help.
The frosted glass was coming back. It needed his attention again. He could not control it, could not control himself. It was as if he was trapped inside his own body.
It made him think of different things. As an agent in Afghanistan, it was easy to find someone who looked like you with darker skin and a passport that could easily disappear. John had acquired one of the passports a year ago from a young man named Sean Il’ Abkar Muhammad. The young man was an American who had returned to his homeland to fight the foreign aggressors. He lost his life and John got a passport.
The restaurant John had been sleeping in was now closed for renovations, thanks to John. Two dead men had paid the ultimate price so that John could fly home. He did not remember stabbing either of them through the neck, then tearing their windpipes out leaving them dead almost instantly. He did not remember how he got the money he would use to get home, but he could feel that, too. It was in his breast pocket.
The last thing he felt was this new object. The orb was first and now something else. John did not even know what it was, only that it was safely tucked away inside his luggage. Something that his eyes were not privy to, just whatever it was that was forcing him to keep going. He could see around it, touch it and feel it, but whatever had control over his vision was keeping him from actually focusing his eyes on it.
It was like trying to read a text, completely drunk, in the middle of the night after a two hour nap. Though he might have seen it before, his mind was too full of other things to remember. Besides the utter exhaustion, his mental accomplice was keeping him blind and forgetful.
He could feel that fire, radiating through the hazy window that had taken the place of his vision, telling him he had to get home. If John could just see his folks again, maybe buy his parents a nice dinner and tell them that he loved them, he would feel at peace. Maybe then this horrible feeling would go away and let him have his life back.
He could feel that this was the right thing to do.
If only the night would pass faster, John could hurry this along. Instead, he started rocking back and forth again. His hand moved idly, tracing lines through the dirt.
Before he left a brief time later, John made sure to leave something someone would find interesting. He used the blade of his sharp knife to peel a stone free of the orb. It was a dark red one with gold veins running through it. He smiled before he set it on the step of the restaurant. Someone would find it, someone would touch it, and someone would be joining his little game.
Chapter 8
“I see the cave,” the pilot came over the radio. “There’s no sign of anyone in the opening or the surrounding area. Even with thermals, we’ve got nothing.”
The radio was quiet for a moment before the pilot started speaking again. The audio made his voice sound like a pilot off of some cheesy movie from the eighties.
“Yeah, I’m level with the cave and I can see a good distance inside. It appears to be empty. You’ve got a clear shot up the side of the mountain and about twenty minutes left before we have to get back to base. All this maneuvering has taken a toll on us. It’s only about a hundred yards vertical from where you stand now, but you’ll need to use the switchback.”
“Thanks, Hick 1,” one of the downed pilots said into the hand microphone. “There’s more back-up on the way and a team is just rolling off the FOB. They should be here within the hour. You probably saved our lives.”
“Well,” he came back over the radio, “I’ll be around until I have to leave but I don’t see anyone else down there. I pretty much wasted anything that moved. There isn’t even a town around here. I wonder where these people came from.”
“I’m sure it’s got something to do with us,” Marcus answered for the pilot. “Thank him for us as well.”
He walked back to where his team was organized, leaving Cynthia behind to coordinate movements with the two warrant officers. Brenda was sitting up alongside a conscious David. Stephen, always the ladies’ man, was delicately removing Brenda’s boot and rolling her pant leg back.
David was under the care of a much tougher Bishop. The man had stopped his own bleeding and was eyeing David’s wounds. A piece of metal had punctured deep into his shoulder, lacerating a wide swat
h of flesh, but nothing looked serious. There were no arteries hit, no bones showing, and David was more concerned with the fact that his eyes were blurry than the gaping hole in his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asked the Neanderthal-looking man. David looked up questioningly.
“Yeah, I’m fine Marcus, thanks.” The man had not lost his sense of humor. “I can’t see straight and my shoulder is flayed open, but I can walk. What the flying fuck happened up there?”
“We were hit by an RPG, I think,” Marcus answered, kneeling down in front of him. “Your head hurt at all?”
“Sort of,” David mumbled. “I think I might have a concussion.”
“I don’t think so, David. You had your helmet on. Can you tell me why you were holding your head before the helicopter went down?”
“Because I had a headache,” David answered angrily. “Because I hate flying in helicopters and being shot at.”
“Calm down, man,” Bishop said. “You need to control your temper little brother or that head is really going to start hurting.”
“You think it’s happening?” David asked Marcus, ignoring Bishop all together. “You think this is happening because of that cave up there?”
“Yeah, I do,” answered Marcus. “You need to remember your training and put it to good use. There are going to be a lot of intense feelings here pretty soon, David. I need you as a part of this team. You can control this.”
The large man looked Marcus in the eye and nodded, trying hard to suppress whatever emotional trauma he was going through. Marcus turned his attention to Brenda and her wounded leg. Her ankle was black and blue, already bruising from the odd torque the entire team had placed on her bent leg when the helicopter was upended.
“We’re going to move,” Marcus said. “The Apache checked the cave out and they say it’s empty as far as they can tell. We’re sitting ducks here.”
