Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  Wesson lifted her head, throwing bleary daggers at Kaiden.

  “Lets get back on point,” injected Tate before Wesson could reply. “What do you think? Rescue him, or not?”

  “Could be a trap,” said Kaiden. “We know he works both sides.”

  “But we saved his life once before,” said Tate. “He said he’d work with us.”

  “Is that enough for you to trust him?”

  “No,” grunted Tate, “but it’s enough if he has intel that can wreck The Ring… I think that’s worth the risk. Wesson?”

  “I don’t even know who this is,” said Wesson. “Or, San Roman, or what op you ran without me. If you want to exclude me, it’s not my place to complain, but I feel like a third wheel in this team.” Wesson lingered on Kaiden making her meaning clear to Tate.

  He was caught off guard by Wesson’s break from her usual adherence to military formality. He understood the beers were doing the talking, but there was some truth in her words.

  “Sergeant, you’re my second in command for a reason,” said Tate. “I kept you and the rest of the team out of the loop for your own safety, but that was then. Now the team knows what we’re up against and accepts the risks. You’re in the loop now, and I’m asking your opinion whether we go, or not.”

  Wesson straightened up, blinking her eyes clear. “All right,” she said looking at the table thoughtfully. “We don’t know where we’re going.”

  “Right,” said Tate.

  “We don’t know how many hostiles there are, or how their armed.”

  Tate simply nodded.

  “And it’s a 50/50 chance this is a set up to hand us over to The Ring.”

  “Sounds like half the missions I’ve been on,” said Kaiden as she sat back in her chair and stretched.

  “The reward of getting that info sounds too good to be real,” said Wesson.

  Tate was about to say something when Wesson finished her thought. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not.” Glancing from the corner of her eye she saw Kaiden nodding in agreement. “We’ve been hurting The Ring, but not to the bone. This could be what we need to inflict real damage. I say we go,” said Wesson, “but, be ready for an ambush.” She looked at Tate wondering how he was judging her decision.

  “Assemble the team,” said Tate. “Brief them and have them get ready to deploy.”

  “Hey,” said Kaiden. “You didn’t ask what I thought.”

  “Kill bad guys? Steal top secret intel?” said Tate. “This missions got you written all over it.”

  A wicked grin spread from Kaiden’s mouth to her eyes. “Yeah, it does,” she said. “But how do we get the green light for transportation to pull an unsanctioned operation in Texas?”

  Tate’s shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. Kaiden came fully awake instinctively reading Tate. “You’re going to tell Hewett about this? About your connection to Nathan?”

  “There’s no way around it,” said Tate. “This can’t happen without his authorization.”

  “Once he’s put together that you’ve been running off the book ops, you’re exposing yourself to a huge risk,” said Kaiden. “You’ve never been convinced of his loyalties. If he is genuine, everyone’s happy. But… if he’s loyal to The Ring the instant he knows you’re after this intel it puts a bullseye on all of us.”

  “I have a contingency for that,” said Tate grimly. “You don’t have to be a part of this.”

  “Aw, aren’t you sweet,” laughed Kaiden, brushing her long black hair out of her face. “Try and keep me out of it.”

  Wesson read the cool determination in Kaiden’s eyes with an subtle nod of approval.

  “That’s it, then,” said Tate, standing up. “You two make ready. I’ll call Hewett.”

  ***

  Hewett didn’t hide his skepticism and it came through the sat-phone loud and clear. “A training mission. In Texas.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tate. “It’s a great opportunity to improve the team’s skill, get them out of their element, and test their abilities.”

  “Huh, I see,” said Hewett, flatly.

  Tate waited and listened as the colonel drew out the long silence until he broke it with a gravely sigh. “I’ll tell you what I think,” said Hewett, “I think you’ve been pissing in my ear for the last fifteen minutes and telling me it’s raining, Sergeant Major.”

  Tate clenched his jaw, angry with himself. The colonel had known Tate was lying from the beginning and he let Tate dig himself into a hole.

  Tate felt a palpable sensation from the other end of the call that the colonel was seeing through everything he was thinking. Like a bomb, Tate had armed the colonel’s suspicions and another lie would would be the spark that convinced him Tate couldn’t be trusted, or worse, was a dangerous threat.

  None of this was going to plan. He’d always considered the Colonel to be a blunt instrument, direct and to the point. Tate berated himself for such an obvious screw up. Hewett hadn’t made it to Colonel without becoming skillful in playing politics in the military. And I should have known that.

  Not for the last time did Tate condem himself falling so far from the lean, cunning warrior he once was. Now he was left scrambling, caught in a lie. His only way out was to give up the one thing protecting Tate, and his team, from the possibility that the colonel was a double agent for The Ring. The truth.

  Tate and Kaiden knew how to go off the radar, but they’d be hunted for the rest of their lives. He’d do what he could for the rest of the team, but Tate knew they’d be found and killed.

  He had to put his cards on the table, but now he would finally know if Hewett could be trusted, or not.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Hewett.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re deciding how much you need to tell me without exposing what you’re really up to. That if I’m secretly allied with The Ring and I’ve been playing you, you’ll try to kill me before I kill you.”

  “That’s a serious accusation, colonel,” said Tate. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because I’d be thinking the same thing,” chuckled Hewett. “Open your ears. This cloak and dagger crap isn’t my style. I’m being forthright, sergeant major, and I expect the same from you. Right here. Right now. Make up your mind. Either we get to the business of killing each other, or we pull our heads out of our collective asses and get back to taking down The Ring.”

  Before now, Tate hadn’t considered that Hewett was just as prepared to kill him if he sensed a double-cross as he was. If anything, it was a convincing argument for Hewett’s credibility.

  “The ball’s in your court,” warned Hewett. “Are we working together, or not?”

  Listening to his gut, Tate took a deep breath and plunged in. “Colonel, I have to rescue an informant who’s in possession of intel that could severely damage The Ring,” said Tate.

  The line was quiet for so long that Tate began to suspect Hewett and hung up. “You have an informant inside The Ring and didn’t tell me?” said Hewett.

  Hearing the Colonel phrase it that way magnified Tate’s practice of mistrust he had for Hewett. He realized the hole he’d dug for himself and the damage this could do to his alliance with Hewett. Tate threw a hail-mary excuse hoping it would work. “Not in that way, Sir,” said Tate. “I compartmentalized information to protect everyone involved in case one of us were compromised… just as I assume you’re doing the same with me.”

  Tate squeezed the sat-phone subconsciously expecting the worse. He could hear Hewett tapping his desk with something hard as he mulled over Tate’s explanation.

  “I appreciate the value you put on secrecy,” said Hewett, carefully choosing his words, “providing it’s for the right reason.”

  Tate silently breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I honestly believe you and I are on the same side, that we both want to take down The Ring, but,” growled Hewett, “take caution you don’t shake my trust in you.”

  “I understand, Sir,�
�� added Tate.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” said Hewett. “Permission granted. I’ll arrange transport to Fort Hood in Texas and provide the necessary authorizations for your operational needs.”

  “Thank you, colonel,” said Tate. Relief washed through him and suddenly felt the lack of sleep press down on him.

  “Sergeant Major,” said Hewett, “don’t draw attention to yourself. I don’t know if The Ring has people on that army base, but it would be a grave mistake to assume they don’t.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Tate. “I’ll report back after the operation.”

  “Good luck, Tate,” said Hewett and hung up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

  Tate’s chin drooped to his chest in spite of the droning roar of the C-130’s four turboprop engines leaking through his headset. Even the bite of the unforgiving webbing of the backrest of his seat couldn’t overcome his fatigue.

  The military cargo plane bumped through an air pocket, jolting his head back, waking him with a start. Tate screwed his red rimmed eyes at his watch trying to figure out how long he’d been awake. Forty something hours as best he could guess. He groaned as plane banked, funneling a shaft of harsh sunlight through the opposite window into his face, pushing his thudding headache up another notch.

  Squinting, he turned away looking down the aft of the cargo bay at the loading ramp. Memories of jumping from those ramps flipped through his mind. Night and day jumps into hostile territory. He relived that instant of stepping off the ramp, a half second of quiet then the kick from the prop-wash. After that nothing but the sound of rushing wind as he went into free fall. He made a mental note of training this team in parachuting to the ever growing list of things they needed to learn.

  Tate had worked them hard from a loose collection of volunteers into a, mostly, cohesive team. The U.S. Army treated the All Volunteer Expeditionary Force as a bastard child made apparent by the ridiculously meager training they got in boot camp and the second hand equipment they were supplied.

  The AVEF existed for the sole purpose of finding and shooting Vix. No combat training needed. Even the French Foreign Legion had higher standards than the AVEF.

  No identification was required to join and no background check was made. What ever name you signed up with, real or invented, was how you were registered. When, or if, you survived your tour of duty you were discharged with a new identity which made the AVEF the perfect refuge for the dregs of the human race.

  There was little Tate knew about his team’s past. Wesson, the team’s second in command, was a closed book and so was Ota, the teams sniper. Rosse said he had been a prison guard; Fulton worked on a farm, and Monkhouse, the teams engineer, was a… engineer? Based on what Tate had seen him do he might have been a legitimate engineer, or for that matter, a safe cracker, or a handyman with a thing for blowing stuff up. He didn’t fault them for their secrets. He had his own and kept them close to the vest.

  Kaiden, on the other hand, had been part of his Delta team back in his old life. She knew his family, hobbies and, of course, his real name. If she held any judgements about Tate she kept them to herself. It was a talent Tate appreciated, but it also irritated him. Even though they were friends Kaiden was… elusive. Her private life wasn’t just private. It was secret. And somewhere behind that shroud, Tate suspected she was living another life. Kaiden would disappear for days and return without mentioning it. The few times Tate had pressed her about it she would smile and ignore him. Some of the guys on his old Delta team had joked that she was a spook, working for the CIA, and although Tate didn’t like to make assumptions he suspected that was closer to the truth.

  A quick movement caught Tate’s attention as Fulton fumbled with his MP5, and the compact submachine gun clattered on the floor’s metal plating. Blushing, Fulton quickly picked it up, shrugging apologetically to Tate. Add weapons handling to the training list.

  The team did show progress in some areas. They could shoot and move better than the average combat soldier, but they weren’t supposed to be average. Unofficially, their role was special operations and in spite of the improvements he saw in each of them there was a lot of blood, sweat and pain they’d go through before they’d reach the elite level he expected of them.

  The plane bucked, shaking Tate from his thoughts. He wondered how long he’d been staring at the cargo ramp. Everyone appeared lost in their own thoughts. The team had deployed in the middle of the night, only a few hours after their party and it was anyones guess how much sleep they’d gotten on the flight except for the teams medic, Sergeant Tyler Rosse. He was asleep before they were wheels-up. His squat, barrel chested frame sagged like a rag doll in his chair. Tate simultaneously envied and resented the man.

  His thoughts were broken as the pilots voice scratch over the headset.

  “Attention back there,” said the pilot. We’re making our final approach to the Hood.”

  Tate notices a drop in the roar of the engines as the plane took another bank then settled down.

  “Strap in,” said the pilot. “We’ll be wheels-down in two shakes.”

  “Somebody wake up Rosse,” said Tate resisting the temptation to do it himself.

  “Come on, dude,” said Fulton pushing his elbow in Rosse’s arm. “Wake up.”

  Private Jeff Fulton was the youngest member of the Grave Diggers and the team’s radio man. Rosse had taken Fulton under his wing after a traumatic run-in with a ruthless band of scavengers. Fulton had been his shadow ever since. Rosse reluctantly accepted his new sidekick with his typical abrasiveness.

  “Yeah, I’m up. I’m up,” groused Rosse with his eyes still closed. Blinking, he sat up and stretched with a drawn out groan. Suddenly his eyes went wide as he looked up at the fat ducting that snaked along the overhead of the cargo bay.

  “What is that?” exclaimed Rosse pointing to a sheet of white vapor coming down from the overhead pipes. “Is it supposed to do that?”

  Everyone looked until they saw what Rosse was pointing at then returned to their own tasks, unconcerned.

  “Relax,” said Tate. “It’s just vapor coming off the cooling system. It won’t kill you.”

  “There’s lots of stories about the military doing chemical experiments,” added Fulton. “Maybe…”

  Rosse frowned at Fulton who withered under his stair.

  “But that was a long time ago,” offered Fulton. “You know, if you believe that kind of stuff.”

  “Ya see this?” groused Rosse. “This is why I hate flying.”

  “It’s a wonder you slept at all,” Tate jibbed.

  The floor of the plane bucked as the landing gear touched down. Everyone held on as the pilot reversed the engines. Whatever Rosse was complaining about was drowned out as the four, forty three hundred horse powered, engines rose to a deafening roar as they pushed against forty tons of speeding aircraft, quickly bringing its inertia to its taxi speed.

  * * *

  After several minutes of taxing across the airfield the C-130 gently bumped to a stop. Metal seatbelts clicked open as everyone got out of their seats with a stretch and a groan. Bracing against the gentle sway of the rolling plane they picked up their gear.

  The brakes grumbled, bringing the plane to a stop. A moment later light and Texas heat spilled into the cargo bay as the loading ramp lowered to the tarmac.

  Outside, two bored soldiers sat on the back of a flat-bed truck, indifferently watching the team come down the ramp.

  Stepping out of under the shade of the plane the sun beat down on Tate. He fished out his weather beaten boonie hat for relief.

  “I thought it would be cooler than home,” said Wesson.

  “Nah,” said Fulton. “Jungle heat’s got nothing on Texas.”

  “But, it’s a dry heat,” grinned Monkhouse.

  Tate slung his pack over his shoulder and walked over to the soldiers on the truck who sized him up as he approached.

  Looking at the team,
nobody could be blamed for thinking they’d been dumpster diving at an army surplus store. Their worn and faded army combat uniforms were a collection of mismatched camo patterns. Their gear was functional but dated and their weapons, in some cases, were older than they were.

  Nobody in the team, including Tate, wore their rank. On their ACU jacket was their name tape in faded black letters. The one thing that they all had in common was the unit patch each wore on their shoulder. A green shield with a red border. In the middle of the shield was a snarling skull with a black dagger plunged through it. Across the top of the shield was their unit motto, Relentless Remorseless. Anyone curious enough to look up the unit patch wouldn’t find it, or for that matter, any unit named Grave Diggers. If anyone asked they were told the team was part of the AVEF. After that most people lost interest. The AVEF was considered the ugly, step-bastard of the US Army by many in the military. It was a bias that Tate tried to ignore, but admitted he probably would have shared that opinion when he was part of the elite Delta Force.

  “Corporal Duggan,” stated Tate, seeing the soldiers name and two chevrons on his uniform. “I’m picking up a vehicle,” said Tate, showing him the manifest. “Can you tell me where the motor-pool is?”

  “It’s about four miles up that road,” said Duggan, pointing with his thumb.

  Monkhouse followed the soldiers direction with his eyes seeing only blurry, distant buildings through the shimmering heat. “Four miles?” repeated Monkhouse.

  “What’sa matter? Can’t take a little sun?” mocked Rosse, whose face was already running with sweat.

  “Says the guy who looks like a snowman in hell,” said Monkhouse.

  “Can you give us a ride?” said Tate.

  Duggan eyed Tate's ACUs for any sign of rank before answering. “I dunno,” he said. “Can we?”

  Tate smiled ironically. The army’s the same everywhere you go, he thought. “How about we help you load up that cargo?” said Tate, nodding to the pallet of supplies in the cargo bay of the plane.