Holding Their Own: The Salt War

by Joe Nobody

  It was a tremendous relief to unshoulder the pack and remove his chest rig and armor. His endurance, strengthened by years of humping a heavy kit all over the planet, wasn’t what it used to be. This is why men retire so young from the forces, he mused, stretching his stiff back and flexing a sore knee. We punish our bodies until they burn out, and then we’re discarded, useless and old.

  Unpacking a quick meal and making sure everything was ready to heat, Nick was soon gathering tinder. He didn’t have to go far. In minutes, there was a slight pile under the ledge of his rock shelter. It was going to get chilly this evening, and the residual heat from his cooking fire would make the rock warm and cozy – at least for a short time. The sandstone overhang above the campfire would also help to disburse the smoke.

  A few minutes later, the blaze was crackling, surrounded by several baseball-sized stones. He wasn’t worried about the fire spreading, but wanted to heat the rocks in case the air became cold later that night. Without weather forecasts, it was always better to be safe than shivering.

  He let the water boil for 15 minutes, using the time to check both ends of his shallow draw. Survival, when being hunted, equated to diligence, caution, and discipline. His meal would be much more enjoyable if he wasn’t worried about armed men stalking his camp.

  He took a moment to hang his pack, suspending the ruck with a length of fishing line from a nearby pine. Texas was thick with fire ants and other assorted critters that always posed a concern. The last thing he needed was some nosey possum drawing the wrath of his carbine, an event which would help any nighttime hunters vector in on his locale.

  The meal was crap, but then again, fine dining in the field wasn’t often an option. Pulling his secret stash of Tabasco from his ruck, Nick sprinkled a few drops on the salted beef and onion stew concocted from his stores. He’d passed by a small lake a few hours ago, a thick patch of cattails growing on the water’s edge. Taking just a moment, he’d pulled up a handful of the versatile plants. Now the tubers were steaming in the broth.

  Even with the ultra-rare sauce, combined with liberal amounts of salt and pepper, it was a dismal meal. He downed a piece of goat cheese that wasn’t moldy yet. No crackers. No bread.

  Were it not for the game of cat and mouse he was playing with the locals, the campfire cuisine might have been greatly improved. Despite the lack of operational towers, Nick kept his cell phone in his kit as a small, portable library full of electronic books he’d downloaded over the years. He was sure there was a reference guide covering edible East Texas plants residing in the tiny computer’s memory, but there just wasn’t time to read, identify, and harvest the local foliage. Besides, he hadn’t charged the unit lately and wasn’t even sure it would turn on.

  “Calories,” he whispered, blowing to cool another spoonful. “It’s all about calories and food energy. Just keep telling yourself that and choke it down. Diana will make you some of her world-class pasta when you get back to Alpha. That, and I’m going to make Bishop buy me… no, the whole team, a pizza. A thick one. With extra cheese. Hold the mold.”

  Nick judged his campsite sufficiently secluded to do a little housekeeping. His body and clothing were seasoned to the point where odor might give away his position. I feel like I’ve spent half of my life covered in a layer of dirt and filth, he thought. It’s a wonder the muck ever washes off.

  Picking up his carbine and an empty trash bag from his pack, Nick made the call to chance movement. A creek gurgled close to his location, the route blocked only by his web of tripwires. He had hurt those hunting him pretty badly, and doubted they’d regroup and risk a nighttime endeavor. Besides, he’d sleep better if he were a little cleaner.

  The plastic bag was soon swinging against his leg, the bulging vessel full of water for laundry – no need to boil.

  But it would be nice to scrub off the grime with warm water.

  After a few moments of consideration, he decided to throw another wrist-sized piece of dried timber on the fire, just enough fuel to heat another container of water. His clothing would have to do with a cold wash.

  He stripped down, tossing his threads into the bag. No detergent. No spin cycle.

  After sloshing around the bag of garments, he extracted his field wardrobe, wringing out each piece and then attaching it to a line above the smoldering column that was rising from the overhang. The smoke would kill odor-causing bacteria as well as help to dry the duds.

  By the time he’d finished with his laundry duties, his bath water was nice and hot.

  Just like washing a car, he started from the top down, wishing for a small bottle of shampoo or soap. With a corner of the always-present Shemagh serving as washcloth, he scrubbed and rubbed. The hot water refreshed him, and while the rag-bath was better than nothing, he still longed for a nice, hot, shower.

  Rinsing and wringing the Shemagh, he hung the towel-sized cotton cloth to dry with his outerwear. He took a moment to examine the well-worn piece of kit, the number of uses for such a simple item never ceasing to amaze the ex-soldier.

  Most people, when visualizing Arab-style head wraps, thought they were purpose built articles like Western hats. That assumption was incorrect.

  While the big man didn’t know the full ancestral linage of the Shemagh, he know that people all over the globe used one form or the other of the multi-purpose cloth.

  Nick had first been exposed to the article of clothing when cross-training with the British Special Air Services, or SAS. He’d noticed all of UK operators using what he thought were some sort of military issue wraps, or ascots.

  “You can use it as a scarf,” replied one burly Scotsman, “It will keep your pack straps and weapon sling from eating into your neck on a long trek. I’ve also used it like a bandit’s mask during sand storms, or to keep road dust out of my lungs.”

  “See these little cotton twirlers,” added another SAS trooper, holding up one of the bundles of thread dangling from the fringe. “These are great for starting a fire. I’ve used my ‘Smog’ for filtering water, as a sunshade, for camo or a disguise, and as a field dressing. I keep two of them in my kit at all times.”

  Nick had been sold, acquiring his first example in a Baghdad open market for a dollar. Like so many local items, the handy square of cotton caught on with the invading armies of NATO, soon a common sight on foreign troops.

  Dressing in the spare fatigues from his pack, Nick spread the now empty plastic bag across the ground and then unrolled his GI-issued sleeping system. It was time to hit the hay.

  As he began his climb under the rock roof, he considered repacking his still damp clothing. Years of experience taught him that unexpected guests might mean breaking camp in a hurry, and leaving any of his precious supplies behind would hamper the mission.

  Again, optimism reigned in the ex-soldier’s mind. He’d let the clothing dry in the dying fire and repack in the morning.

  Ten minutes later, the only sound in the shallow grotto was the slow and steady breathing of a sleeping man.

  Chapter 6

  Greyson surveyed the two hounds, nearly as proud of the canines as he was of his own sons. They were special dogs.

  They were Dogo Argentinos, a breed especially developed for hunting feral hogs in South America. Larger and more powerful than pit bulls, they were built to handle even the surliest boar.

  Greyson had taken the animals’ training seriously, schooling his beloved stalkers to track men. More than once a tourist-hunter had gotten lost on his sizable ranch, and the dogos had been used to locate the wandering greenhorn.

  “Find me a man,” he whispered to the two eager canines. “Go on; find me a man.”

  Releasing their collars, the beasts’ master smiled as both bounded away, their noses scanning the earth in search of quarry.

  Turning to his sons, he announced, “The chief tells me this fugitive is one dangerous SOB. Bring the thermal images, the AR10s, and plenty of ammo. I’ll watch the dogs’ locator beacons. And whatever you three
dumbshits do, please don’t get spooked and shoot each other. Your mother is already pissed enough because I agreed to take this job. I don’t want to sleep on the couch for a week.”

  Two of the boys grunted, not chancing a proper laugh because they were unsure if their father was teasing or not.

  Greyson pulled a small device from his truck and switched on the power control. The surrounding woods were illuminated with the soft glow from the small unit’s screen.

  About the size and shape of a handheld radio, Greyson watched two red dots slowly progress across the image of a map. Two sets of GPS coordinates appeared in the lower left-hand corner, the exact location being broadcasted from the dogs’ collars.

  “Let’s get going,” the father announced. “Those devices only have a range of seven miles, and the dogs are moving fast tonight.”

  Forty minutes later, the display showed both animals were now following each other, their progress slowing considerably. From years of experience, Greyson knew they had picked up a trail.

  Motioning for his sons to keep up with him, he changed course, guiding his party through the moonlit forest on a heading that anticipated where the two dogos would stop.

  “I know where you’re hiding,” Greyson whispered, smiling at the tracker in his hands. “You’re just south of the creek in one of those washes. That’s where I’d hole up, too.”

  Motioning for his boys to gather around, Greyson held up the GPS display. “He’s going to be right here. There’s a whole series of small undulations and crevices to hide in. Let’s head up here to this high ground, find a couple of good trees to climb, and use the thermal to find him.”

  Nods and sly grins were the only responses, the hunting party slightly altering its direction. “Piece of cake,” Greyson muttered, thinking about the town’s inept attempt at a manhunt. “Never send boys to do a man’s job.”

  The dogs stopped a few minutes later, their training requiring them to sit perfectly still once they had located the prey. If it moved, they would follow. If it didn’t, they would hold their position until their master arrived. While Greyson couldn’t be sure they’d found the right man, he was confident they had sited a human in the woods. According to the chief, the only person who should be out in the forest was the target.

  Again, he showed the boys his display, each nodding knowingly, then proceeding toward the objective. Greyson could hear rounds being chambered as his sons moved off. A few minutes later, the oldest pointed upward, his two brothers pushing him up into the low branches of a tree. Dad watched the dim outline of his son disappear into the intertwined, overhead foliage.

  It took a slow sweep before the climber spotted the first heat signature through the thermal optic. While the high-tech scope couldn’t “see through” trees or underbrush, it could detect body heat at over 400 meters. The target could be positively identified at 250.

  Frowning, the younger Greyson whispered down, “I see heat… and maybe part of a body, but I don’t have a shot from here. The canopy is just too thick.”

  “Come on down then; we’ll move in on him.”

  They were 150 meters from Nick’s camp when the older son held up his hand for everyone to stop. “Got him,” he whispered to his comrades. “I can see him plain as day.”

  “Kill him,” Greyson ordered without emotion. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Nick thought he was dreaming. Two loud “thwacks” sounded nearby, followed by thunder… no… wait… those were gunshots.

  A surge of energy bolted though his body, the large man rolling out of his rock-roofed shelter to bring his weapon to bear.

  With a hundred questions racing through his mind, Nick swept left and right, trying to find the threat. But there was nothing.

  How did they get so close without tripping his wires? How did they find him? How many… and more importantly, where are they?

  The impact of two more rounds rendered the answers unimportant, both bullets striking his hanging fatigue shirt and then smacking the sandy soil behind.

  For a moment, Nick thought the attackers were simply bad shots. A quick glance at his garment made him reconsider. Four neatly grouped bullet holes had landed dead-center between the breast pockets.

  “They see the heat!” he realized. “Somebody’s getting serious.”

  Evidently, the angle was bad for the hunters, as they didn’t appear to be able to detect Nick’s actual body, but only the heat from the flame dried, suspended shirt. That was just fine with him.

  He started to reach for his pack, egress on his mind, but then reconsidered. They will be coming in, he thought. If I move, I might expose my signature... give them a better angle. Infrared. Thermal optics. How do I beat that?

  An idea came to him, a decoy of sorts. He reached for the hot stones he’d been using to heat his bed and found them still quite warm to the touch. Taking the chance of exposure, he yanked out his sleeping bag and began stacking the baseball-sized rocks on top of the cloth.

  A moment later, he was dragging the makeshift drag-bag to the spot where his pack was hanging. Quickly lowering the ruck, he began to fill it with the rocks.

  That task completed, he raised the ruck again, tugging on the length of paracord used to elevate the pack. With his carbine in one hand, he gave the now heavy container of heat a good shove, sending it swinging across the narrow ravine.

  Just over 120 meters away, Greyson’s eldest son spied the pack’s image in his optic, a man-sized blur of hot red and yellow colors appearing against the dark grey background. “There he is!” he hissed, losing another two-shot salvo.

  “I got him, too!” added one of his brothers, his rifle joining the volley.

  Nick was ready, scanning for the telltale twinkle of muzzle flashes. When the bright white strobe of his assailant’s shots blinked through the foliage, his thumb flicked off the safety, and soon lead was flying both directions.

  Every Greyson male was an expert shot. Since they had been strong enough to lift a rifle, all three of the boys had spent countless hours refining their skills. But they had never experienced anything shooting back.

  Nick’s first shot tore the AR10 from the older brother’s hands, his second round striking the young man’s chest.

  The next brother was luckier, Nick’s smaller 5.56 round merely shattering his hip bone. With a howl of pain, the 20-year-old went down, and bedlam erupted in the East Texas woods.

  Greyson was hanging back to avoid being directly in the line of fire – wanting to stay out of the way when his boys tore into the stranger. At first, when he heard his son’s scream of agony, his first thought was that one of his boys might have actually shot the other. The youngest of his clan began firing wildly, the thunderous reports of the haphazard spraying adding to the mayhem.

  The old man had no idea where his other two sons were, no way could his shouts be heard over the constant blasting of the panicking boy’s rifle. Knowing only the location of the active shooter and thinking his youngest might be in trouble, Greyson rushed into the fray to help. He wasn’t the only one on the move.

  Nick didn’t have a good angle on the guy tearing up the pine trees with his blaster. The roar of gunfire and airborne lead made it obvious someone was shooting, but the rounds weren’t anywhere close.

  Nor did he know how many men were still out in the woods. He knew he’d hit one, probably two, but other than that, it was impossible to know the count of the remaining assailants.

  Running half-bent at the waist, he zigzagged through the trees, hoping to flank his attackers. Some instinct told the Special Forces operator that it was a small party hunting his carcass, not dozens of men.

  Using the sound of the still firing gunman as a reference point, the big man dashed 40 meters parallel, and then turned toward the source. He’d hit them from the left side.

  Greyson busted unceremoniously through the underbrush, rushing up behind his scared shitless son. If the wild-eyed 16-year-old hadn’t been shoving a third magazine into
his weapon, he would have probably shot his dad. “Cease fire,” the old man ordered. “You’re wasting ammo! Cease fire!”

  The boy’s head was on a swivel, snapping right and left like he was expecting Satan and a host of demons to come flying out of the trees.

  With the shooting now stopped, the next sound to fill the Texas night was the moaning of the downed man. “Help me,” grumbled the nearby voice. “I’m hit! Somebody help me…. Oh gawd, it hurts…. I’m bleeding!”

  “Come on,” Greyson ordered with a bark. “Let’s go find your brothers. And safe that rifle before you blow my head off.”

  But the youngest wouldn’t move, his short breaths and twisting head indicating a mental state of shock. Greyson slapped the boy across the cheek, the burning sting seeming to snap the lad out of it.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the wounded brother, his pleas clear in the night. As they approached the suffering young man, it finally occurred to the father that his third, and now silent son might already be dead.

  Pulling a flashlight from his belt, Greyson surveyed his boy’s wound. “Fuck!” he hissed, the light illuminating the crimson-soaked shirt and pants.

  Without looking up, he said, “Come on! We’ve got to get him to town and a doctor right away.”

  When there wasn’t a response, the now shaken father turned. His eyes grew wide when he saw the size and speed of the phantom-like outline, seeming to float across the ground and coming directly at him. His throat tried to form a warning just as Nick’s rifle butt slammed into his temple. A second later, there were four members of the Greyson family lying in the pine needles.

  After verifying there weren’t any more hunters in the vicinity, Nick tended to his prisoners, at least the three that were still breathing.

  He did his best on the injured man’s wound, but without a very well-equipped field hospital, he knew the guy didn’t have much chance. As Nick used his paracord to tie up what appeared to be the youngest and oldest of the hunting party, the gunshot man finally succumbed to blood loss and passed out. It was best, considering the pain he was enduring.