by Nick Thacker
Bryce shouted orders as the team closed in. “Strahan, with me! O’Neil, Andreeson, keep punching through that line! Don’t let them get to the 50-cal!”
He popped two shots into the nearest Iraqi, a man running for his life toward Bryce. The next two Iraqis almost made it to the sandbagged outcropping just to the west of the base, where a 50-caliber machine gun turret had been set up. Bryce missed the first man, but Strahan clipped his leg just before he reached the half-circle of sandbags. The second man dove for cover behind his fallen comrade, just as a mortar round blasted into the ground and turned the whole area into a crater.
Taking advantage of the moment, Bryce sprinted for the main circle of tents at the center of the camp. Strahan followed close behind, while the other three American soldiers continued their pummeling of the Iraqi camp. Bryce hoped to get in and out in less than two minutes — an eternity in the midst of battle.
As he entered the nearest tent, his in-ear radio squawked to life. “Captain! O’Neil’s down!” The voice was Martin Andreeson’s, a man who’d been part of Bryce’s team for only a few months. “We’re under heavy fire from our six, sir! These bastards came out of nowhere!”
From their six? Bryce’s mind went into overdrive. How was that possible? Thermal scans showed no movement outside the 500-yard perimeter surrounding the base. Further, ground-penetrating radar confirmed that the Iraqi troops were mostly above-ground, and not in the small tunnel system that ran throughout the area.
But they were under fire from the west, behind O’Neil and Andreeson’s position. “I’m guessing about five, maybe six men, sir,” Andreeson continued, and Bryce could hear the sound of gunfire in between the soldier’s words. “Heavy firepower, and they seem to know our exact locations. I’m trying to hold them back, but it’s — “
The voice in Byrce’s ear died, replaced by an eerie silence. Shit.
Two of his men were down, and he still hadn’t located either objective. Thankfully, moments like this were Bryce’s forte, and the reason he was in charge of the small Ranger unit. His mind ran through the different scenarios while he continued searching the tents. Why hadn’t the scans picked up the enemy forces to the west? Even with the river, they’d have seen their advance, and would have warned me.
Bryce came to a small tent, almost dead-center of the camp. Strahan picked off two straggling Republican Guardsmen who were fumbling with their weapons, and then entered the tent behind Captain Reynolds.
“Bryce, what’s up?” Strahan asked. “We’ve got two guys down, and they were hit from behind. Who the hell was doing recon for us?”
Before Bryce could respond, he noticed a satchel that seemed out of place on top of a filing cabinet in the corner.
“Yeah, I know. Just help me find the package and we can get out of here.” He motioned to the other tent, and Strahan nodded and walked over. Bryce waited for Strahan to leave the tent, and he grabbed at the satchel. Rifling through the contents — nothing but paper and maps — he threw the bag aside.
And then, on top of the cabinet, underneath where the bag had been placed, Bryce saw it. Unassuming, it was a simple brown envelope. It was too small to hold letter-sized paper, but its thickness implied that it was meant for weightier items. It was sealed and wrapped in packing tape for additional security, and fastened with a brad. Bryce snatched it and ripped open the top.
From the adjacent tent, Strahan yelled out. His voice, echoed by the radio, startled Bryce. “Boss, I got it — two sheets, double-sided. This has to be it!” He opened the flap connecting their tents, and Bryce saw him waving the documents in the air. Coordinates ran down the left side of the page, itemized and ordered in some unknown way.
“Great — let’s go.” Bryce had dropped the envelope onto the mess of papers and boxes strewn about, and he waited for Strahan to leave first. As the tall man stooped to exit the tent, he turned around and flashed a grin.
“And you thought this shit was gonna take two minutes! Ha!” He chuckled a bit, and reached around his back for his rifle. Through the open tent flap, Bryce could see a shadowy figure approaching.
“Corporal! Get down!” Bryce yelled. Joseph Strahan jerked away from the tent opening, but it was too late. An Iraqi soldier appeared in the doorway, and one hand reached out for Strahan’s head, while the other disappeared behind the American’s back. Strahan let out a pained whimper, and Bryce could see a flash of a knife’s blade and then a splatter of blood on the tent’s canvas wall. He pulled up his weapon and aimed toward the two men, hoping to find a shot.
Finally, a break in the struggle allowed Bryce to fire a short burst from his assault rifle. The Iraqi man tumbled forward, pushing Strahan down with him. “Shit! Joseph, you all right?” he called out.
But as soon as Bryce saw his partner’s open wound, he knew the man was doomed. The knife had cut deep, catching him just beneath the ribs and pushing upward, through his lung. He was bleeding out, and there was no way he was going to live. His eyes flicked to Bryce for a long second, then closed as he coughed a mix of blood and bile. He reached to his side, struggling with something at his belt. Bryce started to walk toward him to offer aid, but within seconds the man was dead.
It was then that Bryce noticed two things: first, the group of three Iraqi soldiers running toward the tent, where they’d just seen their comrade fall. Second, he saw the metal object Strahan had wriggled free from his belt just before he’d died.
The pin of a grenade.
Bryce reacted instinctively. He jumped backwards, trying to put as much distance between himself and the downed soldier, and then covered his head. The grenade blew, just as the Iraqis had neared the tent. The blast tore into them, throwing their bodies back and out onto the open desert ground. Bryce felt the wind rushing overhead, pushing the shockwave and fiery air along with it. A few chunks of debris and smaller bits of rock rained down around him, but he was okay.
Standing, he took in the ensuing scene. The mortars have stopped, he thought. Or had he been shellshocked? Maybe he was momentarily deafened by the explosion. Raising his hand to his ear, he strained to hear the update coming through his radio. “Bryce — you guys okay? I saw the explosion.” It was Sergeant Rodriguez, from the eastern front. “I think the mortar team bailed; we’re not getting any cover fire anymore, and I think I can see about ten guys moving in to your location.”
Bryce listened to the message, and frowned. The mortar team bailed? And now there were ten men approaching? He looked off to the right, where Rodriguez would be stationed, and responded. “Yeah, I’m good. Strahan’s gone. We need to get the hell out of here, and quick.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Bryce’s mind flared once again as the adrenaline coursed through him, igniting his capacity for reason and deduction. His world slowed as he thought through the protocols; the by-the-book training he and his men had gone through for these instances, and he calculated the risks and probabilities of each chosen strategy. His ability to think and process under pressure were unmatched in his field, and his superiors had taken notice. Bryce was the whiz-kid of the Rangers, and his analytical and data-driven mind had gotten him several quick promotions during his short career in the military.
It was time to leave. Each option that Bryce ran through seemed to end in disaster, especially now that the mortar team had gone silent. The coordinates Strahan found were obliterated, as was most of his team. He called back in to Rodriguez to prepare for extraction, and then noticed again the small envelope on the sandy floor. Picking it up, he read the simple inscription on its front:
M.J.
He tore open the top of the envelope, and let its contents slide out onto his hand.
A notebook.
Perfect, he thought. This has to be it. Bryce was about to open the book and see for himself when the spattering of an AK-47 sounded behind him. He jumped forward, bounding through the three tents and out onto the dusty plain, heading east. Just over the rise, he could see Sergeant Art Rodriguez still fi
ring intermittent bursts down onto the base camp. A scream wailed from behind Bryce as he was running, and he heard a curse in Arabic — or Kurdish, he wasn’t sure — as the man fell.
Clearing the outer edge of the camp, Bryce calculated the distance between him and Sergeant Rodriguez to be less than 100 yards; easy enough to make in a full-on sprint. By now, Rodriguez had seen his commanding officer break through the perimeter and was busy covering Bryce’s retreat. In the distance, Bryce thought he could even hear their extraction unit — a helicopter’s rotor wash flying in from the south.
As he closed the distance to Rodriguez, he heard a break in the soldier’s shooting and looked up. The younger man was busy reloading — and Bryce knew he was vulnerable. He hoped to reach the spot in a few more seconds, and together they might be able to hold off the Iraqis for the few minutes it would take for the chopper to reach them.
But as Rodriguez finished reloading, another shot rang out, and Rodriguez’ head jerked forward. Bryce frowned, and his pulse quickened. That wasn’t AK-47 fire, he thought. Another shot rang out, and Bryce saw the telltale twitch in Rodriguez’ body, like a jolting electrical shot. He’d been hit.
“No!” Bryce screamed out in vain as he climbed the last few steps of the shallow hill. He dove for Rodriguez’ gun, simultaneously checking the man’s vitals. Dead.
“Dammit!” He cursed, swiveling around again to continue firing at the fast-approaching Iraqis. As he turned, however, he caught a glimpse of the other approaching Iraqis — the ones coming up the hill from the east, behind Rodriguez’ position.
He was being crushed between two oncoming forces, and he was the only American soldier left. At least five men were coming up from the west, and now he saw the silhouettes of three more. One carried a sniper rifle and was no doubt the one who’d killed Rodriguez.
Shit. This was going to end very painfully. Bryce readied himself, and lowered his torso to the ground. He fired three bursts at the men coming from the direction of the camp, and two of the men fell. Turning, he aimed for the three coming from the east.
They were aiming back at him.
A muzzle flash flared outward from the gun held by the man on the left. A split second passed, and Bryce felt the round pierce his shoulder. He screamed, and dropped completely to the ground. Blood trickled down his forearm, and he loosened the grip on his gun.
A second flash twinkled in Bryce’s eyes, this time from the sniper. He heard the round whiz by, just over his head.
I’m going to die here, he thought. He tried lifting his rifle to his eye, but the pain from his shoulder wound was too great. Then his knee lit up in a fiery wash of pain. Too weak to scream, he let out a low wail as he buried his face sideways into the sand, calmed by the gentle warmth of the Iraqi desert ground.
His left hand reached up to his shirt pocket, and he shifted a little, slowly, trying to grab at the small notebook he’d stolen from the camp.
If I’m going out like this, I’m going to at least figure out why, he thought.
He brought the book up to his head. Straining to open his eyes, he let the cover fall open and glanced down at the first page.
Nothing.
It was completely blank.
What? No! He flipped through another ten pages, each of them devoid of content.
All blank.
He wanted to scream. Had he been set up? Why would this notebook — this blank notebook — be the subject of so much scrutiny, so much bloodshed?
And why was it addressed to someone who had the initials M.J.?
He moved his hand down, closer to his chest, and pushed the book under his body. He’d wanted to throw it, but he didn’t have the strength. If it was an object that was never supposed to be in enemy hands, he intended to make it that much more difficult for them to find.
One last shot rang out as the men started up the hill. One more time Bryce felt the piercing burn of metal, punching through flesh. This time, his left arm took the brunt of the shot, though the bullet had only strafed. He thought about home; about his mom.
Mom. He wasn’t going to be able to get to her now.
To save her.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let the sand blow over him, willing the desert to swallow him.
Chapter 3
9:13 am - White Rock, New Mexico, USA
Cole's morning was shaping up to be one of the best he'd had in a while. The sweltering heat of summer had finally faded into a bearable warmth that made his early morning runs quite enjoyable. Throughout college, he'd slowly gained weight and gotten less fit, and as he continued to eat whatever — and whenever — he liked, he watched his high-school football player’s body morph into a middle-aged storehouse of excess flab. At 27, Cole finally decided this "extra baggage" was unacceptable.
14 months and 67 pounds later, Cole was well on his way to being more healthy and fit than he'd ever been. His parents were proud of his weight loss and fitness accomplishments, but they feared that Cole was addicted to working out and that this new lifestyle was going to consume him. Already he'd gone through three girlfriends in three cities in just over five years, and each failed relationship had left him feeling emptier than the one before.
But now, with just the open road to contend with, none of that mattered. He enjoyed this run — the 7.2 miles from his home outside of White Rock to the second switchback, where he'd turn and head home. New Mexico's mountainous landscape stretched for miles ahead and to his left, and a sheer cliff face flew upwards on his right. Running used to daunt him but in this setting it was different; more relaxing.
As he approached the second switchback, his mind wandered, comparing his past failures and disappointments with his present health and potential. A year ago he couldn’t have walked this route without oxygen. Today, he'd finish the run, take an ice bath, and not even feel strained in the morning. Maybe he'd head into Santa Fe tonight and meet up with some new friends, or maybe he’d relax at home with a movie and a beer. Cole loved the freedom of living one day at a time, accountable only to himself.
The switchback appeared ahead of him, and he slowed to a jog for the last hundred yards. Just as he started his turn, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. Three hundred yards away at the base of the cliff, he could barely make out a destroyed vehicle.
Cole stopped and stared. That wasn’t there yesterday. Surely the police should know about it by now. He squinted, unable to make out any details. He started jogging toward the wreck — from here, he couldn’t see any signs of other cars or people. There were no sirens either.
He got closer. The sedan was almost completely crushed — obliterated, really. He wouldn’t have been able to even recognize that the thing used to be a vehicle if not for the tires — one was smashed, but still connected to the axle, and he saw another one resting on its side about a hundred paces off. He looked up, knowing that the stretch of road he was on climbed up and around this mountain. These highways in and out of White Rock and the surrounding area often had switchbacks and tight turns, and someone must have driven their car off the road, landing on this lower section of road.
There was a blackened wall of rock to the car’s left, and a small crater beneath it, spreading and cracking onto the two-lane highway. Bits and pieces of charred vehicle and metal components were strewn outward around the wreckage. The whole mess was steaming and smoking, and he could hear hisses and pops every few seconds.
Cole kept his eyes forward as he neared the wreck. He slowed to a quick walk and eyed the car carefully, looking for survivors. The smoke stung his eyes, and the heat of the dying fire was still intense. The acrid smell assaulted his nose and mouth.
“Hello?” he called out. There was no response — he knew no one could have survived such a crash — but still, something about the situation wasn’t right.
He crouched down, trying to peer through the smoke and twisted metal into the car’s interior. Straining to see through the smoke and hot air, he tried to discern any signs
of life from within the vehicle. Seeing none, he bent down closer to the ground.
The crunching of heavy boots on gravel sounded behind him. The hairs on the back of Cole’s neck stood up, and he scrambled backwards, away from the wreckage.
“Stand up. Place your hands on your head and step back away from the vehicle.” The voice was deep and menacing, with a gravelly strain that suggested its owner preferred not to speak unless absolutely necessary.
Shit, Cole thought. The cops are here, and I’m the only one around. He placed his hands on his head, and turned slowly to his left —
“Do not move! Do not turn around.” The bellowed command seemed very out of place for a police officer at a crash scene in the middle of the desert.
Cole tensed, then continued to back up. After several paces he stopped and hesitated, awaiting further instructions. Who does this guy think he is?
“Here.” There was a metallic clang and a thud. Cole looked at the ground to his right, seeing a crude set of shackles. “Put them on, then turn around.”
Cole’s heart was pounding. He had no desire to put on handcuffs and place himself at the mercy of some stranger — who wasn’t acting much like a cop at all. What if this was just some wacko looking to rob him, armed with nothing but rusty shackles and a scary voice?
Cole decided he’d take his chances. He spun around to his left.
…Straight into a crushing blow, square on his cheekbone. Stars flashed inside his head. His eyes blurred, and he dropped to one knee. The pain was unbelievable — he had been hit before, in schoolyard fights mostly, but this was something else, like getting hit by a truck.
Cole got up, wiping his eyes with his wrist. Struggling to clear his vision, he looked up into the face of a behemoth; a broad-shouldered man with a slightly hunched back, dressed in military fatigues and holding an assault rifle loosely in his massive hands.
