Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  Walter looked at the list of numbers over Nathan’s shoulder, pretending to understand them. “So that’s it?” said Walter veiling his hand reaching for his gun. “We just wait until numbers stop and they’ll tell us where to find the satellite?” Walter’s hand closed around the grip of his gun. His breathing became shallow as thumbed the safety off and slid the pistol out of the holster.

  Nathan looked at his watch and yawned, unaware of Walter’s movement. “Yeah,” said Nathan.

  Walter held the barrel of his gun inches from the back of Nathan’s skull. He turned away from the inevitable spray of gore as he put is finger on the trigger.

  “It won’t be an exact location,” said Nathan. “But we can narrow it down to a radius of a few hundred miles,” added Nathan.

  Walter subconsciously clenched his jaw as put his gun hand behind his back. “It could take years to crawl through four hundred square miles of jungle,” frowned Walter. “You have to narrow down its location.”

  “As Vulcan 4 comes down, it’s being subjected to all kinds of variable forces,” said Nathan. “Gravity presses down on the earth’s atmosphere, making it denser and creating friction. Every inch that force bounces Vulcan 4 can throw it off miles. Now add cross turbulence caused by gradient pressure forces which will push it all over the place. Then there’s the drag created by the sat…”

  “For a computer guy,” said Walter, “you know an awful lot about satellites and space stuff.”

  “Calm down Walter,” said Nathan. “I know a lot about lots of things. That’s why people like you hire people like me.”

  Walter squeezed the gun behind his back until his knuckles turned white. He was nervous about facing his boss, who was dressing up Walter as the scapegoat for this serious breach of security, and frustrated with Nathan’s smug calmness, as if it was just another day.

  Last chance, thought Walter. Say something useful, or I’ll show you why they hire people like me. “Four hundred miles,” stated Walter. “That’s the best you can do. Even with this monster computer and all your brains. A little gravity and winds got you beat.”

  Nathan was tired and losing patience with Walter’s complaining. He just wanted to go home and sleep. All he had to do was tell Walter there was nothing else he could do. Walter’d be mad, but the troll’s always mad about something. He’ll have to take me back home.

  “Yes, well,” started Nathan but paused before finishing.

  Walter’s mind flashed forward the next few seconds of a flash of light, ringing ears and blood.

  Almost unwanted, a possible solution began forming in Nathan’s mind. He sighed dejectedly as realized he had an answer which meant he wouldn’t be seeing his bed anytime soon. “I can narrow it down,” said Nathan and turned back to the computer monitor. Walter straightened up and eased the gun back into his holster, forcing his stiff fingers to let go.

  Nathan tapped the desk with a pencil as he worked out the details of his solution. “I’ll adjust Vulcan 4 into a very shallow trajectory. It will take several passes around the earth using the density of the atmosphere to decelerate. The computer can refine its estimate with each pass which means a smaller crash radius.”

  “If we’re tracking it right now,” said Walter, “why don’t we track it after it comes down?”

  “We’re tracking Vulcan 4’s telemetry,” said Nathan. “The heat of reentry will fry that system long before it comes down.”

  The skin over Walter's face drew taut with frustration at Nathan's answer. Walter could imagine his future, or lack of one, being decided by his superiors at this very moment. He’d have to give his boss a substantially better solution than four hundred square miles. “How long will it take?”

  “Two days,” said Nathan. “Maybe three.”

  Finally Walter had something solid to stand on and eagerly took control.

  “You’re gonna stay here until you have that landing area narrowed down a hell of a lot more than four hundred,” said Walter brusquely. “You understand?”

  “Here?” said Nathan. “This place’s a dive. Why don’t I come back in a couple of days and check the computer?”

  “I want your undivided attention on this,” said Walter. “You already have that.”

  “And I’m making sure it stays that way,” said Walter. “And these guys are going to keep you company.”

  Nathan ignored the impulse to roll his eyes. He didn’t want Walter knowing this is exactly what he wanted him to do. With the inspiration of slowing down Vulcan 4 to get a tighter crash location came the idea of how to turn the downing of the satellite to his benefit.

  “What happens after I confirm the landing area?” asked Nathan.

  “Then we send our people to get it,” said Walter suspiciously. “Why’re you so curious about what we do with the satellite?”

  “I meant when I’m done here,” said Nathan. “Can I go home then?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, I know what you meant,” said Walter. “I take you back home,” he lied. Walter tried to stare meaningfully at Nathan, but gave up. He turned to his security team as he pointed at Walter. “He stays here until I tell you otherwise.”

  Walter stopped in front of the closed door, his fingers tapping in annoyance on the side of his leg. “Hey,” he said to his bodyguard, nodding his head at the door. The bodyguard quickly opened the door, letting Walter walk out, then followed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CARDS ON THE TABLE

  The room erupted in cheers and groans as the Saints intercepted a hail-mary pass from the Rams rookie quarterback. The sports announcer’s words blurred into a single sound as he reported all the action.

  Tate gently pushed the beer bottles and half empty snack bowls out of the way to make room and put his feet up on the stained and battered coffee table.

  An easy smile creased his face as the sounds of people having a good time brought up memories of life before the Vix; parties with friends, easy camaraderie, and… just living. Small, almost trivial moments with his wife and daughter were now priceless. Swinging his daughter round and round until her small body lifted into the air. Her wild giggles as she held his hands. “Don’t let go,” she laughed. “I promise,” he chuckled.

  Frigid darkness poured into his mind, smothering all light. In one moment his life ended when his daughter was butchered right outside his front door. Outside MY house! How did a Vix get there? I should have been home. Should have been; a real father would have. Tate’s guilt was blind to the realities of his life then. A highly trained and seasoned operator with Delta Force, Tate could be sent on a mission at any time and it was while he was away when his young daughter was killed by a Vix.

  He couldn’t forgive himself and hated himself even more when others told him he wasn’t responsible. Plagued with grief, he convinced himself that his wife and everyone he knew secretly condemned him and would be glad to never see him again. The burdens he heaped on himself ultimately broke him. In the dark of night he abandoned his life, wife, comrades and friends, along with his self respect.

  Two years of self loathing had settled into a dull apathy. Out of money, homeless and hungry, he signed up for the AVEF. It didn’t matter that he was fat, out of shape and didn’t give a damn about anything. Tate was just another warm body that could carry a gun.

  How long ago that seemed. Almost like it was another person. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d care about anyone, or anything. It just proved how wrong he was… again. Now he was leading a team of rookie operators waging a covert war to destroy the very organization that created his team. The Ring.

  Colonel Earl Hewett was recruited into The Ring by a friend who mysteriously died the day after calling Hewett; frightened of something he’d just learned about The Ring. This sparked off a chain of events leading Hewett to recruit Tate and form an alliance to bring down The Ring from the inside.

  In spite of swearing to himself that he’d never be responsible for someone else’s life again, here he was.
Looking around the room at the happy faces he caught himself smiling. Accusations sprang into his mind, wiping the smile off his face. Do you think they’d be smiling if they knew who you really were? What you’ve done?

  Monkhouse plopped down on the couch next to Tate, breaking his thoughts and bouncing bits of corn chips and popcorn off the cushion.

  “You know, it’s not about the fame and medals,” said Monkhouse, with a sloppy grin, pointing to the handmade paper medals everyone had taped to his shirt. He was the one who came up with the idea of hacking the cable feed and even designed the device to do it with. In gratitude, the team had cut out paper medals and thrown an awards ceremony for him.

  Monkhouse waved his beer bottle, pointing to the others in the room. “Any of these guys could be a hero, am I right, Top? I mean, yeah, okay, nobody else would’a figured out how to tap into that cable feed, or got us free TV, but…” Monkhouse noticed the debris of snacks he’d kicked up onto Tate's leg and picked up a, mostly, whole chip. “You gonna eat this?”

  Tate grinned in spite of himself and shook his head. “It’s all yours, cowboy.”

  Monkhouse wobbled his head in thanks and tried to synchronize his hand and mouth to steer the chip into his mouth, but gave up after breaking it on his chin. Looking back at Tate, his eyes lit up remembering what he was going to say. “All of us are heroes in our own way,” Monkhouse said pointing his beer bottle at himself, spilling beer on his chest. “And nobody’s perfect. We all done bad things; on purpose and mistake.”

  Tate frowned at Monkhouse’s unexpected insight. That had hit close to home. “Can we ever make up for our sins?” asked Tate in a moment of unguarded thought. Realizing his blunder he glanced around fearing everyone had heard him. His darkest sins exposed, they’d exile him from their lives. But nobody heard, and the good cheer still filled the room. That is, except for Monkhouse who didn’t see the deeper meaning to Tate’s question.

  “Make up for it?” Monkhouse repeated thoughtfully. “Maybe we can, you know, balance it out with good deeds. Sort of pay off the bad karma.” Monkhouse poked Tate’s shoulder good naturedly with his new revelation. “Life’s full of second chances. Just between us, I’ve done…” Monkhouse seemed to catch himself and glance guilty around the room. “…stuff. But Karma knows me, you, all these guys… we don’t walk on water. Just broken a little. That’s what we are. We’re impervious heroes.”

  “You mean imperfect?” prompted Tate.

  “That’s what I said,” frowned Monkhouse. “Imperfect heroes.”

  * * *

  Tate enjoyed a deep breath of night air while walking to his quarters. The stillness of the night was a sharp contrast to the party he’d just left and left his mind dwelling on Monkhouse’s words. Maybe there was some truth to what he’d said.

  “Everything okay, Sergeant Major?”

  It took a second for Tate to get his bearings. A young MP was standing in front of him with his hand resting on his radio as a precaution.

  Tate realized he must have been standing there for a while lost in thought until the MP noticed him. “I got a little turned around,” said Tate. “I just got new quarters and was heading to my old one before I caught myself.”

  The MP’s stiff posture loosened a little now that he knew he wouldn’t have to deal with a drunk, and possibly uncooperative Sergeant Major. “The new quarters are over there,” he said pointing with his flashlight. “Would you like directions?”

  Tate chuckled. “I’m not that lost.”

  “Have a good night, Top,” said the MP.

  “Same,” said Tate heading to his quarters.

  The army base, Fort Hickock, was in the process of expanding its permanent housing starting with the commissioned officers and senior NCOs. Tate had won a lottery, being picked for one of the first available, new, NCO quarters.

  Located at the southern most end of Panama, the Fort Hickock was situated to act as a barricade stopping the flow of Vix wandering out of South America which had been catastrophically overrun by Vix in the early days of the outbreak.

  The southern fortifications, facing the brunt of Vix swarms, bristled with machine guns, grenade launchers and 20mm cannons. In earlier days every gun was manned twenty four hours a day to defend against the random swarms that would shamble out of the jungle. Underestimating the horror these frail looking and lethargic creatures could instantly unload on you was a mistake you’d be lucky to live through.

  Early into the outbreak Tate was stranded on the roof of a sporting goods store waiting for a wandering herd of Vix to eventually pass through what was left of a small town in New Mexico.

  The stench of spoiled food from the abandoned Indian take-out across the street had attracted a large pack of feral dogs. Seeing the Vix, the dogs came out to defend their territory. Hackles raised, the dogs began growling and snarling. It was like flipping a switch. Triggered by the sounds, the meandering, nearly inert Vix transformed into an seething mass of lightening savagery. Driven by hunger, the dogs attacked. In seconds the Vix ripped through the pack like a flash flood. One of the dogs panicked and bolted, at full run, down the street, yelping in terror. Tate’s jaw dropped as two Vix raced after the animal, easily catching up and pounced on it.

  Another dog scrambled through a small hole in the side of a store. Feeling safer the dog snarled and snapped at the hands reaching for it. This whipped the Vix into a frenzy and they began attacking the adobe wall of the store, gashing chunks out of the soft brick until they’d wrecked their arms to jagged stumps of bone and still they came. In less than a minute they tore through the wall and flooded into the store. The spectacle left Tate melancholy, realizing although he’d been captivated by the drama, he’d been rooting for the dog. He got up to head back to his makeshift tent when he caught sight of the dogs head pop out between the bars of a window. It shimmied and squirmed until it got free of the bars and took off. Tate’s spirit rose as he silently cheered the dog on. A win for the good guys.

  Now, two years after the outbreak science still understood little about the Vix. The fear of infection was so great that scientific research on Vix was outlawed within populated areas. Not even tissue samples were allowed. The researchers who dared to venture outside of the protective walls of civilization were few and any advancement in studying Vix biology was hampered by an absence of supporting resources. The general consensus was that the Vix would eventually rot away in a few years, give or take and nobody, who had money, wanted to put money into a self-correcting problem.

  Tate’s experience contradicted that theory. The Vix didn’t decay normally. They were fast and strong. His hand subconsciously rested on his Colt 1911 as his memories of the undead filled his head.

  It wasn’t until he closed the door behind him and switched on the lights to his quarters that he appreciated how much he’d spooked himself during his walk.

  He’d been out of communications with Hewett since before their cable hacking mission and decided he’d see if there was any notices on his satellite phone before heading to bed.

  The sat-phone was his direct comms to Colonel Hewett. Their lives depended on The Ring never knowing they were, of a sorts, double agents. Their sat-phones used strong encryption guaranteeing their conversations were secure.

  Hewett had been keeping a low profile since the last mission. With inside information Hewett had stolen from one of the members, Tate and the Grave Diggers sabotaged a major deal, costing The Ring a few million dollars and the suicide of a suspected member. Both Tate and Hewett had agreed to wait for the ripples of that mission to die out before taking on another. Every organization knew plans sometimes failed, even disastrously on occasion. But too many disasters would attract the wrong kind of attention from The Ring; something Tate and Hewett wanted to avoid.

  Tate punched in the combination to a small safe and took out the sat-phone and battery. Snapping in the battery he paused, watching for the power to come on. He put it down to take off his boots while waiting for
the sat phone to link to a satellite. Halfway though untying his second boot the sat phone chimed. It always did that when it powered on and he ignored it, continuing to undo his boot. The sat-phone chimed again. Then again, and again. It didn’t always do that.

  Tate forgot about his boot and grabbed the sat-phone. The display showed multiple calls and voice mail from the same number, but it wasn’t Hewett’s.

  Questions swirled around his head. Am I compromised? Should I warn the team? Has Hewett gotten the same call?

  Hoping the voicemail message would answer his questions Tate selected the message on the menu and pressed play.

  “Hello Sergeant Major,” began the recording. Tate frowned as he tried to put a face to this familiar voice. “This is Nathan. Yes, the same Nathan you rescued from San Roman.”

  Tate’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “I need your help. I’m being held prisoner by two or more guards. Go to locker 1171 in the train station in Temple, Texas for further instructions. The combination is five, eighteen, ten. Hurry, Sergeant Major. My time is limited, and yes, the irony is not lost on me. In case you’re deciding if I’m worth the trouble you should know I have critical information which could potentially destroy The Ring. And whatever you do, do not force open the locker.”

  * * *

  Wesson propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm while Kaiden did nothing to hide a yawn.

  Tate turned the sat-phone off having just played Nathan’s message for them. He waited a few moments to let them form an opinion.

  “This is why you got me out of bed?” said Kaiden squinting at Tate with her almond shaped eyes.

  “At least you were in bed,” said Wesson.

  “You’ll get a chance to sleep it off,” said Kaiden.