Jack again relaxed. He would rest, observing when he felt the need until dark descended. Then he would sleep. When morning again came, he expected the military column would be preparing to move on.
If not, he would continue his own wait, but by morning, his bowel would be threatening and, well, he would be anxious to … Jack reminded himself that patience was a sniper’s most important attribute. The enemy would know that as well, and Jack would not be able to move during daylight.
A second day in his rock slit? Jack groaned silently, but caution would remain paramount. Today he had killed his enemy. His mission was completed, but he now had a new primary objective on which he should exert all of his skills.
That most important effort was to get home alive and undiscovered.
24
It was again night. It had not been a peaceful day, and Jack was pleased to greet the dark. The snipers had roamed. They had poked and peered. They had worked together and separately. They had sat and scoped, but they had not come close to Jack’s hide.
As he had hoped, these snipers were unable to adjust to the concept of someone making long and to them impractical shots far beyond anything they attempted.
In most ways, Middle Eastern snipers, no matter who trained them, were World War II quality. Their information included standards and techniques from the 1944 manuals, and their experience, using their no longer cutting edge weapons, was stretched at six hundred yard shooting.
Blackwater Jack had read those ancient US Army field manuals. The best, the Bible of the time, was FM 21-75, dated 6 February 1944. Its powerful title was, “Scouting, Patrolling, and Sniping.” The sniping portion covered a meager thirteen pages including sketches, and that was all there was.
Arming a soldier with a sniper rifle, no matter how well he shot, did not make a scout sniper, and the Afghanistan mountains were scout sniping territory.
Jack could have easily slipped into a shooting position and silently dropped each sniper far enough from his hide to divert searching in his direction.
He did not because he had nothing against this contingent of soldiers, and he wished the Afghans to believe that their enemy had escaped and gone far from the scene of his murders.
By mid-afternoon, it was clear that the commander believed he had done enough and that further searching would be futile. Troops were assembled where they had first dismounted, and the village Klaxon drew the snipers’ attention to leaders’ arm waving for them to return.
That did not convince Blackwater Jack that all was now clear. If he had commanded, he might have done the same, but as the troops reached the crest of the pass, he could have again deployed his snipers in hope that hidden enemies would now believe the area clear and expose themselves.
Jack observed the military’s departure from the area with satisfaction. He would practice exemplary patience. He would remain in his hole until the night was well along. If snipers were left, as he suspected they might be, they would depart with nightfall. Night vision goggles or rifle sights were not in common use. Snipers would be as blind as everyone else after dark. Then, Blackwater Jack might make his move.
Jack dozed the day away, more than a little impatient with time’s slow passage. His bad leg felt rested as did most of his body. He nestled, covered by his blanket, his head resting on his pack, but his naps grew ever shorter. He dearly wished to be away.
Stones rattled, and Jack’s breathing stalled. All quiet returned. Then there was movement just beyond Jack’s limited vision. As improbable as it seemed, they had found him. How? He could not imagine. A thick stink entered his nostrils. Many Afghans stunk, but … ? There was more movement just beyond his view, so close that Jack feared to attempt to adjust his rifle to gain a useful shooting position.
A shadow crossed his view an instant before something light colored planted itself before quickly stepping on. Then, it stopped and it stood. The animal had spiky horns, and it boasted a sort of a goatee beard. Blackwater Jack supposed that he stared at some kind of a wild sheep or maybe a goat.
Whatever it was betrayed no awareness of Jack’s cringing presence. And the great Blackwater Jack was cringing. Relief was swift in arriving, but for too long a moment he had believed that an armed enemy was about to shoot him dead.
The goat, perhaps it was something like a European Chamois, Jack was too relieved to clearly judge, scratched at an itchy rib with a hind foot before jumping to a further boulder and then another to move on down the hillside. Probably on a field raid, Jack guessed. There couldn’t be enough forage on the barren mountainside to support even a single animal.
Then relief sledged Blackwater almost as had the panic. No wild animal would be roaming the barren mountain if men were about. He could move from this hole and safely begin his return to his original hide and his GPS beacon.
He would move with utmost care, of course, but with his night vision goggles working, he would see where others could not.
It was time to start. Days were melting away. Suppose a powerful storm moved in and his signal could not be answered before his week ran out? Suddenly restless and anxious, Jack gathered his gear, opened his rock slit and slid into the falling night.
The nearby village showed only a few fat lamps burning. No electricity—that luxury may have departed with the Sheik’s demise. Jack listened but heard only a soft whisper of wind across the tumult of broken stone.
Gripping his rifle at Port Arms, he began a long circle to come in on the rock fall from an unexpected angle. He considered pausing to replace the night sight batteries, but the green light stayed strong. He would wait until he really needed new ones.
A stone slid under his boot and rattled noisily away. He hoped he sounded like one of the wild goats. All he wanted now was safe passage.
Jack got at it.
— — —
A man could over-worry, and Jack supposed he had done just that. His route back to his original hide had been easier than anything yet attempted. The star-bright night sky gave enough light to make his night vision goggles most effective without being so bright that unequipped warriors could single him out.
He had come to the rock fall from a different angle, and he had sat and studied the critical pass through the cliffs for longer than needed. The passage up the broken stones and through the looming cliff was his final hurdle. If he passed here undiscovered, the odds swung mightily in his direction.
Nothing stirred, and Jack struggled, much as he had on his escape from the blasted Humvee, attempting to ignore the same noise and discouragement of loose rocks moving beneath his boots. Then through the gap, and he was upon his perfectly hidden hollow. He moved stones and was inside in little more than a blink.
Somehow, he had become bathed in sweat, and as he reorganized his meager equipment, Jack noted that he must have sweat before because he smelled much like the wild goat so recently encountered. His nose wrinkled in disgust. If anyone came searching close, they would believe that a whole herd of stinking sheep or goats was camped nearby.
Jack assumed his observing position and began to study what he could see on this side of the mountain. He would have to go forth to place his GPS caller, and if the copter found other people too close, the pilot would not land. Then what? Jack could barely consider the world-challenging march to safety he would have to attempt.
His common sense told him that no one would be camped or wandering in this stone-cluttered wilderness, but Jack did his best to be sure.
Dawn was not far distant, and just before full light was when he would position his GPS. He had lasered the distance from his hollow to the landing spot used before. Two hundred and fifty open yards was burned into Jack’s mind. Better yet, he had noted a possible hide almost beneath the helicopter’s landing pad. If it proved to be as good as it looked, he would delay there.
Then Blackwater Jack waited.
— — —
As the sun crept above the most distant ridges, Jack made his move. He carried everything
he planned on taking away. He returned the XM3 rifle to the position he had first favored. The rifle had fared well there. Perhaps it would remain untouched for…? Jack feared to estimate. One thing was for certain; he would not be back to use it.
He left the unneeded Camel Back water system and his canteen. He removed the batteries and placed his night vision goggles on top of the pile. He packed only the wooden box wrapped in his space blanket and the GPS caller. He covered his hole as if he would never return but knowing which stones had to be moved made retreat to its cold security swift and simple.
If his beacon was not answered, he would have to return to his hole for another night. The helicopter would not come after dark. That had been made clear enough. Equally clear had been the promise that when he set off his beacon, the chopper would arrive within hours.
In the Middle East, activities rarely occurred when scheduled. How could they when few even owned a watch? Jack wondered if the mercenaries, freedom fighters, or plain old outlaws flying the chopper were disciplined men who would remember that a life might depend on their punctuality, especially when they obviously hated their customer.
Jack positioned his GPS beacon in the center of the only flat spot he had seen on the mountain, right where his chopper had touched down bringing him in. Then he retreated to a nearby rock clutter from within which he could safely observe.
When his ride home arrived, he would have only fifty yards to traverse before throwing himself into the helicopter. Assuming that he had remained unseen, he should be in and away with hardly a pause.
The morning hours slogged their way to noon with no beating blades touching his hearing. Jack’s mind shuttled between wondering if the helicopter was even stationed at his old base through the not unreasonable probability that the ancient machine was laid up with a mechanical malfunction.
Jack contained his movements and never raised his head to peer around. Many a woodchuck had poked himself up to see what he could see to his own sudden demise. Jack had no weapon, so what could he do if an enemy approached, anyway?
Safety lay in his defiladed position. He would tempt no discovery.
Soldiers always slept when they could. Only in movies did they sit around chatting about home and their girlfriends. Blackwater Jack remembered how almost instant falling sleep was accomplished, and he was dozing heavily when the thud of chopper blades struck his ears.
His ride was well out, he quickly decided, but getting louder, and sounding wound tight, as if the machine’s engine was pushing hard.
When it appeared, the helicopter was close to the ground, and it was flying fast. Even as he attempted to read the ship’s identification numbers the copter flared and slowed as if it had struck a gigantic wind.
The chopper settled heavily, and the blades slowed a trifle to keep the machine on the ground. The side door opened, but Jack was already charging as hard as his legs could move. He ripped his pack from his shoulders and flung it into the belly of the helicopter. He took the few steps to recover his GPS and dove for the open door even as a hand reached for his. Their hands gripped, his foot landed on the nearest skid, and the chopper spun on its axis heading back the way it had come in.
The pilot had turned the right way, and centrifugal force helped hurl Jack’s body inside the cabin. The engine increased RPMs, and the blades thudded more quickly, as the machine tilted forward. They were away and moving swiftly. Well done, Jack recognized.
The familiar enraged glare of his rescuer was almost pleasant to behold. The man thumped Jack into a seat, snatched the GPS away and examined it to make certain it was no longer operating. He secured his seatbelt while Jack was still fumbling for his pack.
There was no congratulatory conversation. During his rush to board, Jack had not broken his silence of too many days. Now, with the pilot and his single disagreeable crewman ignoring him, Jack found nothing to say. They rode in silence, back toward the big airport, and to his much larger aircraft, Jack hoped.
— — —
The chopper pilot wasted no time in traffic patterns. He came in low and skidded to an immediate stop behind a large hanger. As they descended and passed along the strip, Jack saw his plane in front of the hanger with its props already turning. Were they waiting his arrival? It could be. His pilot had been busy on the radio.
Skids touched, his glaring-eyed assistant leaped onto the ground and demanded that Jack get moving. Jack was moving. He had a strong as steel grip on his pack, and he hit the ground running.
Together they raced through the large hanger, out the front, and up the few steps into the old but now achingly familiar aircraft.
The glarer leaned close, his mouth almost touching Jack’s ear. When he spoke, his voice was clear but astonishingly gentle.
The tone jerked Jack’s eyes to the face almost touching his. The Afghan said, “We know what you did.”
Jack’s blood froze, but the man smiled. His brutal features cracked. The glaring disappeared and his eyes softened. He spoke as if he genuinely cared about his charge.
“We could not reach the men you shot. You have removed an impossible burden from our lives, and we thank you with all of our hearts.”
His hand touched his own heart, and he dipped his head in a short bow. Then he hurried from the cabin, to stand at the foot of the steps as if preventing Jack from leaving the aircraft. The snarl and the raging eyes had returned.
Jack felt his weakened knees steady. Some Afghans appreciated his work. Incredible! He had, apparently, eliminated someone who had needed what Blackwater Jack had delivered. The Sheik? Most probable, but perhaps his number one guard as well.
Blackwater Jack’s morale leaped. Just the right people had noted his lone and lonely labors—and he had been thanked. Perhaps not two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, but? Jack hungered to respond, but he could think of nothing to say.
A crewman was cranking up the steps, and as they rose, Jack chose a response that in the poverty ridden land of the Afghans could mean much.
He whipped his binocular strap from his throat and tossed the expensive glasses toward his personal glarer.
As the door closed he saw the man catch the glasses. If his eyes or expression changed, Jack did not see them, but the gift was great, and the secret friend had to be grateful.
Jack granted himself a “Good Job” and sank into a bucket seat.
Still, in this terrible land a man was not safe until he had left it. Jack felt the plane’s swift taxi, and he worried that the speed of their departure signaled lurking danger.
At the strip end, the pilot wasted no time in checking magnetos or test running his engines. He poured on the coal, and the lightly loaded aircraft lifted. The pilot ignored the usual left turn onto a base leg. He chose a course and drove the plane along it, gaining altitude by demanding max power until they were almost ten thousand feet above the ground.
No anti-aircraft fire would pick them out at that altitude, and the pilot cut his engines back to a cruising speed.
They were away. Jack rested his feet on the pack with the wooden box. His replacement foot felt nothing, of course, but that leg was more than a little shaky. He was not home yet, but the most dangerous steps had been taken.
25
Just before noon, the small twin-engined Cessna-310 Jack had boarded in Galveston, Texas sat down on Blackwater Training Center’s long strip.
The owner-pilot had been an affable oilman whose politics were stunningly right of center (about where Jack’s lay). He had been good company throughout their flight. They had talked hunting, flying, of course, politics, and the oil business. No questions about Jack’s journey had been raised, and Jack had offered none. The oilman had unannounced interests at the former Blackwater complex, and they left it at that.
Soggy summer heat destroyed any expected excitement of being almost home. Jack bummed a ride to his dusty car and pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bag.
Seeing no one to report to, nor experiencing any need to annou
nce his re-emergence on the public scene, Jack recovered his cell phone, watch, wallet, and handgun from the vehicle’s trunk. He dumped in his pack, and with exquisite relief added his leaned and sweat-stained money belt to the pile.
Jack twisted his ignition key and departed. The air conditioning blasted into action, windshield wipers slapped, and he could at least see where he was pointing. Blackwater Jack headed north, a solid sense of satisfaction finally sinking in.
At Chesapeake, huge Golden Arches caught his eye, and neglected sensors came to life. A genuine American cheeseburger sounded fitting, so he pulled into parking, strolled inside, and sucked in the so-familiar smells of a McDonald’s restaurant. Home at last!
Good Lord, he had been gone only about two weeks, but it felt as if he had been roaming for months. Most astonishing of all, his passport remained unstamped, as if he had never gone further afield than North Carolina.
To other customers he probably smelled much like the wild goat he had seen in the mountains, and with his scrubby, weeks-old beard he undoubtedly looked like one. The oilman had not complained, but Jack chose to sit as separate from other customers as he could manage.
Behind his unshaven disguise he was, after all, a civilized American who knew how to use a modern shower and was accustomed to astonishing conveniences like toilet paper. Jack wondered if he would ever choose to visit the Third World again. At the moment, it seemed unlikely.
He ordered a Big Mac, with fries and a large soft drink. Coke or Pepsi? Who cared? He was in a world where choices were manifold and men did not endlessly glare at each other.
Jack could not know the nations he had passed through, but there had been many. Yet, not a single Customs official had appeared. That miracle alone justified his expenditure of two hundred thousand dollars, more or less. Jack’s respect for what remained of the old Blackwater organization strengthened.
On the other hand, he discovered his expectation of Homeland Security actually amounting to much severely weakened. If he could manage such secret entries and exits, so could others. Bad news all around!
The Making of Blackwater Jack Page 21
