Ranger: Intrepid 4.5

by Chris Allen

  Without warning the heavy downpour resumed just as a second deafening burst of gunfire sliced through the deluge to their right. For a moment it seemed surreal. Surely there was nobody out there? But two Bandits suddenly appeared behind their dead compadre, firing wildly in the direction of the Intrepid agents. Then the Green Berets, Spring and Devereux, were there.

  “We got this!” Spring shouted over the hail of gunfire and Morgan and Braunschweiger kept going. The rounds that were cleaving through the air just inches above their heads were answered by the Green Berets and silenced. Two more down.

  Now the Intrepid agents were running in a low crouch over the last few yards of open ground to the house, their weapons raised, ready to fire again. Rain was cascading down their faces, through their eyes, drenching them, turning the soft brown clay at their feet to rivers of mud. They were ready for anything, their eyes focused on the entrance to the main house.

  The door was flimsy, like the rest of the building, and yielded easily under the Key’s unforgiving shoulder charge – his preferred method of entry from his GSG-9 days, hence the nickname. The two agents burst in and found themselves in a large communal sleeping area where half-a-dozen straw mats were strewn across the floor. The heavy footfalls and yelling of panicked men running to the opposite end of the house echoed down the central corridor, but two men, too slow to respond to the gunfire outside, were still on their backs, grappling with their AKs and bringing them clumsily around to fire at the door. Morgan and Braunschweiger opened fire, killing them instantly. With Spring and Devereux hot on their heels, the four soldiers poured into the building, giving chase to the rest of the crew, who were making their way to the action outside. A padlocked door appeared on the left of the corridor. Braunschweiger charged at it and the hasp-and-staple latch was ripped from the frame. Outside there was an explosion of gunfire. Kirby’s team had engaged the Shining Path Bandits who were running to join the battle at the sentry post.

  “He’s here!” bellowed Braunschweiger. “Ricco!”

  As Morgan followed Braunschweiger into the room, another Bandit appeared at the far end of the corridor, raising an AK. Spring fired straight across Morgan’s back and took the man down, not before a burst of 7.62mm short ammunition spat from the AK and into the walls and roof above their heads. The Green Beret ran forward and emptied a second short burst into the body to ensure the Bandit was dead, then stood post at the northern end of the corridor. Devereux covered south.

  “Ricco! Ricco! It’s us,” said Morgan.

  The man on the floor was alive but only just. His breathing was shallow and his pulse had the cadence of a funeral march. He’d been huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like it was meant for a stable. Morgan was holding his face, trying to see if his eyes would open. Pedrosa was barely conscious, exhausted no doubt by the beatings he’d obviously endured through the night. He was dressed in little more than rags and roped to a D-ring in the wall. Braunschweiger tore the D-ring from its fastenings and lifted his brother agent into the center of the room so they could get a better look at the damage he’d sustained. Then, as Morgan tried to bring Pedrosa back to consciousness, the big Austrian cut away the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Pedrosa gave a sudden yell, his arms and legs flailing in every direction. His friends took the punches and kicks until they finally calmed him.

  “Ricco,” said Morgan again. “It’s me, Morgan, and the big guy’s here, too.”

  “Morgan?” Pedrosa’s voice was a rasp. His eyes opened. Recognition. “Morgan.”

  “That’s right, mate. It’s Morgan and here’s the Key.”

  Braunschweiger leaned into view. A broad grin broke across Pedrosa’s battered face.

  “Guten morgen, mein Herr,” said Braunschweiger, returning the grin. “If you’ve finished with your beauty sleep, liebling, now would be a good time to get your fat, lazy ass up so we can get the fuck out of here.”

  Pedrosa coughed blood, laughed, and then coughed up some more. With the help of his friends, he pulled himself into a sitting position. He stifled a howl of pain and his breathing became more intense and forceful as he fought against the agony that accompanied any movement.

  “They’ve broken some ribs,” he said through shallow breaths. “And I think my ankles are both broken.”

  “I’m on it,” said Spring from outside the door. “One of you guys take over here and I’ll get to work.”

  Without another word, Braunschweiger took over in the corridor, covering them to the north, as Spring – the ODA’s medical specialist – took his place beside Pedrosa, administered morphine and then set to work on the injuries.

  “We have the package,” Morgan said into his radio while helping Spring as he tended to Pedrosa.

  “Roger that,” replied Kirby. “We’re secure out here. Bandits neutralized. All of mine are accounted for and good to go. You?”

  “Same,” Morgan replied. “All good to go. Package in need of evac, ASAP.”

  “Understood. Evac inbound. Move to RV now.”

  “WILCO,” said Morgan. “We’re on the way.”

  DAY 2 – FRIDAY

  Washington DC

  United States of America

  Alex Morgan finished his scrambled eggs and bacon and thanked the waitress as she removed his plates and topped up his coffee. It was late afternoon and he was thankful that the Flip-It Bakery and Deli on Rhode Island Avenue did an all-day breakfast. He’d taken a table well back in the diner with clear views of the entrance, the car park and the street, and close enough to the kitchen to use it as a Plan B exit if necessary. The food was OK, the place was clean and seemed pretty busy, with locals getting coffee and burgers and generally hanging out, despite him overhearing someone say the place was closing down.

  Morgan sat quietly, thinking, elbows on the table, waiting patiently for a car to pull up in the car park. He still couldn’t quite fathom just how drastically his plans had been changed on such short notice. One minute he was sitting in a US Army Blackhawk with a splinted, bandaged and morphined Ricardo Pedrosa strapped to a stretcher, then he was in a VIP Salon at Jorge Chavez International Airport ready to depart Peru for London on one of Intrepid’s Gulfstream G650s, and the next thing he receives a phone call that sees him urgently redirected straight to Washington. To some extent, none of that was unusual for an Intrepid agent. Last minute redirections definitely weren’t uncommon, but this one was different. This wasn’t technically work related.

  Through a roundabout network of old friends and colleagues from the US Army, an email that was intended for Morgan had miraculously made its way around the ether several times until finally finding its way to Intrepid’s Chief of Staff, Mickey Sheridan. The message at the bottom of the string of forwards the email had gone through had been cryptic but its intent was clear: an old friend, a soldier to whom Morgan owed his life, was in serious trouble and needed help. And the only person who could provide the help the soldier needed was Alex Morgan. Sheridan obviously saw the issue as important enough to redirect one of his agents to tend to what was – to all intents and purposes – a personal matter, and he’d wasted no time getting Morgan on the phone just before he flew out of Peru.

  “From your days when you were attached to the 75th Ranger Regiment in Afghanistan. An operation in Paktia Province, 2008. Ring any bells?”

  “Quite a few, actually,” Morgan had replied. “Which bit exactly? There was a lot going down. I was lucky to get through it.”

  “Yeah, some days you feel like you must have nine lives,” Sheridan had said. “I remember.”

  “So, did this guy leave a name?”

  “Said his name was McDowell, Robert J. He’s not with the Rangers anymore. Works for the VA, looking after other Veterans. I’ve had him checked out. He is who he says he is. Sounds like a solid guy.”

  “Yeah, I remember him well. Rob McDowell; good man. Can’t imagine him getting mixed up in anything bad. He was always a really steady guy. Nothing fazed hi
m.”

  “It’s not him who’s in trouble,” Sheridan had replied. “It’s a guy he’s looking after through his work with the VA, a guy named Nash—”

  “John Nash.” Morgan had said the name before Sheridan had even finished. The penny had dropped as Morgan had been connecting the dots all the way from 2008 to the Rangers, to Paktia, to McDowell and then, automatically, straight to Nash.

  “That’s the guy,” said Sheridan. “I checked him out, too. Seems he earned the CMH at Paktia.”

  “That’s right. Jesus! John Nash. He was a sergeant in Headquarters 75th Rangers. He deployed with me when we went out to bolster the leadership of the 2nd Battalion, who were getting hit pretty hard out in Paktia. Our chopper got shot down. Nash and I were the only survivors. He pulled me and most of the others clear. I’d sustained head and back injuries and was barely conscious but we fought back an attack from the Taliban from behind the burning wreckage of our chopper, covering the casualties Nash had stashed there. Then he called in the gunships, neutralized a Taliban machinegun and RPG position on his own, and got me out on the only chopper he could convince to land in the middle of it all. That’s how he earned that Congressional Medal of Honor: he saved my life. Unfortunately, the other three guys he pulled clear were bodies by the time we got back to base.” Morgan had paused. “Did McDowell say what kind of trouble Nash was in?”

  “Only that it’s serious, the dangerous kind of serious. And that the only person Nash will talk to is you. Apparently, and McDowell didn’t really say too much, the issue involves a senior US government official with foreign government connections. The suggestion seems to be that the relations between the US official and these foreigners, whoever they may be, aren’t on the level.”

  Morgan had stayed silent. What the hell?

  “There’s something else,” Sheridan had continued. “Apparently Sergeant Nash dropped off the grid after returning home from his fourth tour and has been living on the streets for the past two years.”

  An SUV pulling into the carpark caught Morgan’s attention. It was a 2007 model Ford Explorer, the one Morgan had been told to look out for. The driver’s door opened and Morgan recognized Rob McDowell getting out. McDowell had hardly changed, although he was carrying the usual signs of a much more comfortable life than their days in the desert and was sporting a beard. It was cold out, as you’d expect of Washington in December, and McDowell was wearing a heavy anorak and gloves. He looked to be favoring his right arm and there was a definite limp. Morgan stood as McDowell entered the diner, and waved him over to his table.

  “Man, it’s great to see you again,” McDowell said, smiling broadly. He removed his left glove and reached out with that hand. Morgan shook it naturally with his own left. “I can’t believe I actually managed to find you.”

  Morgan smiled. “Well, at least we know the network is still well oiled and functioning as it should. How are you, Rob?”

  McDowell took off his anorak and scarf, and the waitress appeared with coffee.

  “I’m good, man. All good. Working at the VA these days.”

  “I heard. How long have you been out?”

  “About three years. I went back to the ’Stan again in 2010 and came back without my hand or much of my right leg.” He raised what Morgan now knew to be a prosthetic right hand within the glove. “My jaw had to be rebuilt, and my right leg’s gone from the knee down. I’ve got more screws and metal in me than a combine harvester.”

  “IED?”

  “You got it. Once I got clear of all the doctors and hospitals, I didn’t want to stay on any longer. So I discharged and we decided to move back here to Washington to be closer to my wife’s family.”

  “How did you end up in Veterans Affairs?”

  “Well, I spent a bunch of time without a job. No one wants to employ us Vets, especially if you’re busted up, but, hell, what do you do? You dust yourself off and you keep moving forward. You keep trying. Rangers lead the way, right?”

  Morgan smiled. He admired the indomitable spirit at the heart of the warrior he knew this man to be. Nothing was going to keep him down.

  “So, anyway, I ended up in the job queues along with everyone else and then one day a job comes up with the VA as the office manager at the Vet center on Taylor Street. Three years later, I’m working down the street there at the VA Community Resource and Referral Center on Franklin, running our outreach program for homeless Vets out of the Health Care for Homeless Veterans office. And now, here I am with you. So, what about you? You must be on the way to general by now!”

  “Who, me? Not a chance,” Morgan replied. “I left the Army ages ago. I do security consulting these days; risk assessments, emergency management, that kinda stuff. Not very exciting but it keeps me busy. At least I was in your neck of the woods when your email finally tracked me down.”

  “Yeah, that was some luck,” McDowell replied. “Where are you staying? Some swanky hotel, I bet.”

  “The St. Regis.”

  “Shit, I knew it!” He laughed. “Me and the missus got a nice little place in the ’burbs. It’s not much, but it’s home, you know. Close to the kids’ school and I can be at the office in twenty minutes on the bus.”

  They fell quiet for a while, drinking coffee, away with their own thoughts. Things were different now. The war had been many years ago and they hardly knew each other anymore. Morgan wondered what the other man’s life was like. Obviously a lot more settled than his own – wife, children, home, stable job. He envied McDowell for that. It couldn’t be more different to the course Morgan’s life had taken. The exact opposite of stable. Of course, Morgan hadn’t had to deal with any of the trauma of the injuries McDowell had sustained. If anyone deserved a good life with a loving family around him, it was McDowell.

  Morgan suddenly remembered Arena Halls telling him years ago that he couldn’t live without chaos and danger, so any chance of a normal life would always be beyond his reach. Was that true? She certainly thought so. Jesus! Was there ever going to be a time when his thoughts wouldn’t default to her? Discovering that Arena had been working for Europol to infiltrate the Helldiver empire in the guise of Dominique had actually had less of an impact on Morgan than the revelation that she was still in love with him. But it was all too late now, because she was married. That had been a serious blow.

  Since being reunited, albeit under pretty harrowing circumstances – again – and husband notwithstanding, they occasionally touched base. It was almost impossible not to, for both of them; they had history and a connection that were stronger than either of them had even realized until they’d found each other again. Morgan found the pull that she had on him, even without regular communication or physically seeing her, to be inexplicable. Like it or not, married or not, it was just the way it was. She knew him right down to his core, and he knew her. He’d received a text from her recently, right out of the blue. Le vrai bonheur est dans le calme de l’esprit et du coeur xxx. No sooner had he started to try to decipher it with his sketchy French than she’d immediately followed up in English with It means, real happiness is in the calm of the spirit and of the heart, Morgan. You should let yourself explore that some time. When you do, let me know xxx

  “Look, man. I know you’re busy and this must all seem pretty fucked up coming out of left field and all, so I’ll cut to the chase. I gotta tell you though, going by our guy’s most recent contact with me, we’re pretty pressed for time. There’s some deadline on this thing but he won’t let on. Say’s he’ll only tell you.”

  Morgan shook his mind clear of the endless distraction of Arena and turned back to McDowell.

  “I’m sorry, Rob. Something you said just triggered a memory,” Morgan replied. “So tell me about Nash. What’s this all about? All I know so far is that he asked you to track me down and that your email has spent the last few weeks getting forwarded to a dozen different people until it finally reached me and now things are kind of urgent. Right?”

  “That’s pret
ty much it, man. Nash is into some serious shit and I’m getting really concerned that he’s getting himself into things that he’s not going to be able to manage on his own.”

  “But I heard he was homeless? How can he be into anything apart from surviving?”

  “Here’s what I know. About eighteen months back, when I got promoted into leading the homeless Vets program here in DC, I made a point of getting out on the streets and looking for Vets who’d dropped off the grid. You know – soup kitchens, shelters, police cells. When I realized how many there were living rough, I started pulling my team out from behind their desks and getting them on the streets too. We’ve had a lot of success, I gotta say, and we’ve moved a lot of guys – and even some gals – off the streets into emergency housing and back into the system so they can get the care they need.”

  “And deserve,” Morgan said. “That’s great work. Incredible, actually. I still can’t believe that it’s 2016 and we still have veterans returning home from war and ending up with nothing. It’s the same in England and Australia and Canada and New Zealand. It’s a disgrace. It’s like we’ve returned to 1918 all over again.”

  “You said it, man. In this town, the politicians practically clamber over one another to get a photo op with a Veteran at a medal presentation, but they’ll cross the street to avoid getting too close to a homeless Vet.”

  “I doubt there’s very many politicians who’d ever even travel the streets favored by the homeless. In this town or any other.”

  “You get my drift, though,” said McDowell.