The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  — — —

  Stones slid and rattled downhill. The can and the box clattered against rock, but Jack struggled ever upward—until the stones slid beneath his feet and he ended up almost back to the roadway.

  Exasperated and fearful of belated discovery, Jack examined the fall and decided he could be far more successful by favoring an edge of the unstable slide. He noted that the break in the cliff appeared to angle toward the bombing scene, and that left side also looked most solid.

  He again began edging up, this time staying as close to the cliff-edged slot as possible. He made better progress but had gone only a few yards when he spotted an unexpected opportunity. A hole almost at the edge of the fall seemed to provide a small opening to a larger space below.

  Jack paused to pant and study the possibilities. Ahead, he saw only extended climbing into the mist—a mist that might dissolve at any time and leave him exposed with no concealment available.

  The hole, on the other hand, might be large enough for him to drop into, and by repositioning even a few small stones he could completely disguise what lay below. Jack looked closer.

  The possible hideout looked even better. There was space created by a large rock slab that had stopped the smaller stuff from filling an almost room-size hollow.

  Jack stuck his head into the entrance. There was a bit of light coming from a sort of slit in a further wall. He could close his entrance and be as snug as the proverbial bug in a rug, with enough light to void any hint of creeping claustrophobia.

  Perfect. He moved a few large stones and had room enough to lower his burdens and then himself. Jack eased his head and shoulders through, and lowered the water can as far as he could reach. Not far enough, there would be noise. He released the can, and it clunked and clattered as it struck—fearfully loud to his heightened senses, but unless someone was very close-by the noise would have been undetectable. Now, providing the can had not sprung a leak … an unnerving prospect in itself … all he had to do was get himself inside and seal his entrance.

  Favoring his damaged and poorly performing foot, while carefully placing each item where he could reach them during his descent to the bottom of his hole, Jack worked his way down.

  Completely blown, he rested for more than a few minutes. His physical exhaustion demonstrated the importance of choosing a hide as soon as one had appeared. He realized that if he had attempted to climb the mountain seeking concealment, he would have given out long before he could have climbed away from the bombing site. If anyone came searching up the rockslide, his chances of not being discovered would have been tiny indeed. Now, all he had to do was disguise his entrance and he would be safely hidden.

  The hiding hollow had decent headroom. Standing, Jack could comfortably reach the entrance. He stretched as far as possible, finding larger stones outside the entrance and pulling a few into positions that blocked even the light from penetrating. He added to his rock protection by fitting a few smaller stones so that they increased the depth of rock but would not loosen and fall.

  Finally, Jack made himself as comfortable as possible. He removed his space blanket from his small pack so that he could cover himself if the night turned cold, which it almost certainly would.

  Enough light filtered through the thin, crack-like opening to allow visible adjustments. He made a flat spot and was able to prop his destroyed foot on Saltz’s box raising it higher than his hip. The pain eased a trifle.

  He had pain pills. Most troopers did. His were Oxycodone, strong enough to anesthetize a horse, some claimed. Most believed them the best available to dampen down untreated pain until the victim got to genuine medical help.

  He gulped two pills and swilled a serious amount of water. He had not hydrated for too long, and the result might account for his unexpected muscle weakness. Drying out could also result in dangerous and painful constipation. Of course, so could the terrific physical knocking around that so far appeared to be of little note, but that, Jack suspected, would cause him stiffness, soreness, and certainly pain in the days to come.

  All of that was as nothing if compared to the damage to his foot. Even the mighty Blackwater Jack feared to examine his wounds too closely. The foot hurt all the way to his armpit, maybe higher. Poor humor at the best of times, absolutely feeble in his current circumstances.

  Jack dared not try removing his boot and attempt to treat the wound directly. He lacked medicines, and he could barely bend enough to reach his knee. His body had taken a beating that did not yet show, but he was already stiffened and slowed—that was for sure.

  He did have an antibiotic. That, like the Oxy, was passed and shared among the enlisted men. Unavailable without a prescription, the stuff just appeared, and few soldiers chose to wait and hope that huge infections did not set in before big time medicine arrived.

  Jack could not remember exactly what his capsules were, but they were said to stop bugs in their tracks. Examining his foot, even within the ruined boot, Jack could believe that he would need all of their magical powers, and probably a lot more. He dug them out and swallowed a pair along with another dose of water. He would have to refill his canteen from his big can before he drank again, but he was already feeling a lot more comfortable, obviously from the powerful pain killer.

  He thought he would just doze for a moment or two, and …

  Voices came from just beyond his light slit. Astonished, Jack shook off the narcotic and slid ahead to peer through the crack.

  By all the gods, his route up the slide had veered far more than he had recognized, and his hole was in the cliff only a few yards from the burnt out but still smoldering Humvee.

  Jack instinctively moved deeper into the darkness of his hole. Common sense told him that no one could see into the thin crack admitting light to his hide, but there they were, at least four Afghans in their always-dirty robes and scraggly beards.

  The enemy had arrived.

  14

  Four of them, small, lean, and dirty with unkempt beards approached cautiously, each armed with a Russian AK-47 (no extra magazines showing). If he had a bit of distance, Jack believed he could kill them without undue risk. And, he would have one round left in his XM3 sniper rifle.

  However, he had no distance, and he would not be able to gain any. Physically, he was whipped. Furthermore, these ragbags might not be the ambushers. They could be good guys (relatively speaking) who would come to his assistance, if they knew he was here.

  That would not happen, unless he sneezed or something. The concept no more than crossed his mind than Jack suffered an almost irresistible urge to sneeze. He smashed the desire with the Army’s approved method of gripping his nostrils between thumb and finger then squeezing together and upward as hard as he was able. Jack’s squeeze was desperation-powered, and possible sneezing flew into another galaxy.

  Were they Afghans, Taliban, or even Al-Qaeda? Jack saw no clue. The four walked around the smoldering crash site, all talking at once as seemed the custom in this land.

  They touched nothing. Perhaps others with more authority were en route. Occasionally they gathered close, pointing and apparently arguing over what they saw. Jack liked that part. The more they trampled around, the less likely any traces of his survival would remain.

  A hand was raised, and the hubbub of ceaseless talking halted. All looked in the direction from which they had come, and Jack shifted enough to see toward the mist-hidden village.

  A white-robed figure appeared. He was escorted by two heavily armed men. Ah-ha, the infamous Sheik had arrived with his personal bodyguards.

  The early arrivers bowed respectfully and their chatter resumed, but the Sheik’s raised palm put a stop to it.

  Jack studied the important personage. He saw a thin man of average height. His grey beard was carefully trimmed, and he was probably in his later years. Still, the old guy had hiked up the mountain, and he had kept up with his younger escorts. Not bad, Jack thought.

  Then, the donkey arrived. It’s handle
r held the sleepy looking animal from the gathering, but studying its crude, stirrupless saddle, Jack had no doubt who had ridden the beast up the rough stone trail. Rank had its privileges in all societies, it seemed.

  The Sheik pointed and spoke, and men rushed into the ash and ruin of the Humvee. They pulled free still smoldering seats and stomped on hot spots. They gently tested the heat remaining in metal parts and found them cool enough for handling.

  Diesel fueled fires burned hot, but unless there were other fuels involved, their smoky fires were also of short duration.

  The Lieutenant’s body received rough treatment as even his burned clothing was torn away. Both rifles and the Lieutenant’s pistol were laid gently aside. Each had endured savage heat, but metallurgy was probably not among the Afghans’ worries.

  Searchers spread out and conducted careful nose to the ground examination of widely spread bits and pieces. Were they expecting to discover the Colonel’s missing box? Probably, but their only significant find was a large part of Sergeant Swartz.

  The remains appeared to be an arm with a shoulder still attached. An Afghan dragged the body part using a length of woven rope from somewhere on his person.

  Loot was arranged for each Afghan to carry, except the exalted Sheik. Even the blown-open fuel and water cans were to be taken.

  Jack had not heard their explosions, and that surprised him. Perhaps the cans had simply swelled until seams broke and the pressure eased out. He had never heard of that reaction, but … Or, more likely, his hearing had not been all that sharp those short hours ago.

  To people with almost nothing, everything had value. They would probably heat the metal and hammer-weld the seams tight, as they had handled metal for countless centuries.

  As the search concluded, the sheik began intense arm waving, and his voice gained exasperated insistence. Everyone, including his bodyguards leaped back into examination of the wreck.

  This time, they pulled everything apart. Even the frame and engine were dragged aside. Their hunt was lengthy and determined, but nothing satisfying turned up.

  Jack smiled to himself. Why would it? What they wanted supported his bad foot. Let them eat cake! Blackwater Jack, holder of the mystery box, was the ultimate winner.

  An announcement was made, and all faced in the same direction. Words were spoken, but Jack could not identify the speaker. Then, the group was on its knees, their scrawny rumps sticking skyward. Prayer time, obviously.

  The meeting dispersed, but before there were departures, the Sheik stepped close to the Lieutenant’s body, raised his robe, and urinated on the officer’s remains.

  Others caught the spirit of the victory and followed their leader’s example. Amid tumultuous shouting, rifles were fired into the wrecked Humvee, half-emptying the available magazines.

  Well, they could celebrate. He knew of their treachery. He expected someone would be pleased to learn of such desecration by their friendly allies. Jack again wished that he had the strength and the ammunition to kill them all. Maybe … ? He sighed in resignation. His next stop would be a major hospital, and he was unlikely to ever serve in Afghanistan again.

  Revenge? If there were to be any, it would have to lie in other hands.

  The Sheik mounted his ass, and the burdened soldiers departed back down the mountain toward their still unseen village.

  Within his rocky burrow, Blackwater Jack settled to swallow more pain pills and to think about what he had seen.

  Poking through his drug supply, Jack found Ambien. Good, sleeping pills. However, dared he sleep heavily before rescue arrived?

  It would be ruination to have relief fly in and depart while he slumbered. Such a miscalculation would be more than inconvenience. It could result in his death.

  He could never walk out, and infection would already be settling within his wounded foot. That disaster already badly needed medical attention.

  When rescue came, Jack had to be alert and ready to announce his presence, avoid being shot by some overly excited recruit, and depart when they did.

  Visibility remained rotten. Jack could not imagine a relief attempt before the team was overdue, and certainly not by air until the weather cleared.

  He had at least a day and a long night ahead of him. But … ? He would take no unnecessary risks. Jack returned the sleeping pills to his pack.

  — — —

  Pain-filled hours are slow hours. Despite heavy doses of Oxycodone, Jack did not approach pain free. He hurt. His foot was a pounding, raging ache. Most of the muscles and joints he could identify ached dully, and as the day passed he suffered horrendous cramps, mostly in his legs.

  He swore, groaned, and twisted and thrashed on the rock floor of his hide. He attempted sleep, and he succeeded for short periods. The rest of the time he dozed in a narcotic-induced haze. He occasionally raised enough to see out his slit. The mist hung as thick as ever.

  Many educated weathermen and most sailors believe that weather usually worsens as a day progresses. As far as Jack could tell, however, nothing was changing. He made his judgments by how clearly he could see the wrecked Humvee. Until evening approached, all remained as if on a painted surface.

  As dark began interfering, a family of Afghans appeared. When they saw the Humvee, their talk became animated. Packs were laid aside. The grownups and their three children thoroughly searched the bombing site. They ignored the charred Lieutenant and the separate body parts but missed nothing else. A few unexploded cartridges were found, and a number of persistent smoke tendrils were stepped on.

  During their search, a mild breeze crept in from the south, and the stench of burned human flesh drifted strongly through Jack’s viewing slit. He considered ramming the slit closed with an extra T-shirt. Bad idea. He endured.

  The family quickly ended their explorations and continued their march, to the Sheik’s village, Jack supposed.

  During the hours of darkness, Jack regularly tested his viewing slit. The last small smoke tendrils with their fiery bases had died, and he saw nothing but black.

  Then there was morning. An early sun slanting through Jack’s opening roused him from his latest sleep. His body had stiffened even more during the long night, but he fought himself into upright sitting and peered at the newly lit world. After days of befogged air, the mountains shown in their bare rock magnificence. Rescue would soon be en route, and anyone looking would not miss the burnt out hulk of the Humvee.

  Surely Colonel Saltz would be sweating blood over his precious box. Yesterday had been the final day of delivery. Or? Or what? Jack gathered that some important opportunity would be lost.

  Saltz might even, occasionally, Jack guessed, wonder how his team had made out. On that score, the Colonel had bad news coming.

  In late morning, Jack was again dozing when the whop of rotor blades crept into his awareness. The sound was not the old Vietnam era whap-whap of ancient Huey helicopters. Blackhawks sounded different, and as they grew closer, Jack recognized them for sure.

  Rescue was about to arrive. He laboriously and painfully worked himself erect. Or close enough to allow him to move about.

  Jack squelched a sudden panic that he would not be able to escape his hole before the rescue party took their look and left for good.

  Ludicrous! The hunt for survivors might not be lengthy, but Colonel Saltz’s search for his box would be absolutely thorough. Still, Jack found himself hurrying.

  Jack had his opening clear before the first of two Blackhawks landed. The second ship circled—providing over-watch, Jack supposed. If he were along, the Colonel would be safely ensconced in the circling chopper.

  Not to worry, as soon as it was safe, Saltz would explode from his helicopter. The box would be discovered missing, and the Colonel’s rage would be memorable. That was when Blackwater Jack hoped to surface.

  — — —

  Jack came out naked. Not without clothing, but absent all gear, weapons, and equipment, including the infamous box. Everything was left be
hind.

  He had spent most of his miserable night planning how he would handle his return to civilization. Much of his thinking had involved Colonel Saltz.

  Shooter Galloway had made a special visit to warn him about the Colonel’s dubious integrity. Galloway had not been wrong.

  The rest was easy reasoning. No matter the prize, Saltz should never have risked lives by sending an unaccompanied Humvee into the mists. The Colonel, the Lieutenant, and the Sergeant First Class had known that it was a dumb and irresponsible act—to further what?

  Something illegal, as sure as Jack had seen the Sheik in frantic search. Well, he, Blackwater Jack, had the ability to end whatever it was here and now.

  Beginning his moves, Jack worked outside his hole. He slid stones across the entrance. He laid them far thicker than necessary. Without his help, no one would ever find the rare sniper rifle or the Colonel’s box.

  What, Jack wondered for the thousandth time, did it contain? Not paper. It was too heavy. Not gold or silver; the box was too light. He had no idea of content or value, and he was too ill to somehow beat the box open. Whomever he informed could recover the box or abandon it, as they saw fit.

  One point was for sure. Before he revealed the box’s burial site, he would have to be one hundred and ten percent certain that he was telling the right man—and that, Jack powerfully doubted, was Colonel Frank Saltz.

  The second Blackhawk landed, and as expected, Colonel Saltz was the first out. A young and sharp looking officer came next. The late Lieutenant Gold’s replacement already chosen?

  Then two enlisted men carrying only their weapons appeared. Jack guessed Bird Colonels rated personal bodyguards. He wondered if these were special men, cronies of the new Colonel? No doubt he would discover such details very swiftly.

  As he began an agonizing and extremely slow descent of the rock fall, Jack heard Saltz’s voice raised in outrage. Despite his pain and clumsiness, the rather unmilitary bellowing sounded good to Jack’s ears. He expected to hear similar indignation from his Colonel, for as long as they were in the same outfit, and as long as the wooden box remained undiscovered.