Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  The reality of Tate’s words struck Nathan so hard his mouth almost fell open. Until this moment he had glossed over the real possibility he’d be rotting in the desert with the back of his head blown off if Tate hadn’t rescued him. Before that, Tate had risked his life saving him from torture and death at the hands of the psycho, cartel boss, San Roman.

  He had no intentions of betraying Tate, but in his world you never said never. Still, as Tate had reminded him, anonymity wasn’t the safeguard it used to be. In fact, bleeding the life out of The Ring would require him to get a lot closer.

  Nathan’s shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to tell Tate what he wanted. Perceiving a change in Nathan, Tate relaxed and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Lets start at the beginning,” said Tate.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LOAD OUT

  Monkhouse stood under the lit awning attached to the fuselage of the salvaged helicopter and his pride and joy, the Moth. Insects circled the bright work lights with an angry buzz. Monkhouse ignored the errant bug in his face standing with his feet planted and arms folded across his chest, doing his best to protect his beloved Moth from the demands of Jack Tate. “She’ll never make it,” declared Monkhouse. “I spent weeks patching her up after the last mission. We lost the nose turret in the bay and I don’t know if I can ever jury-rig another.”

  Tate couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh, or yell. From the moment they’d liberated the junked helicopter from a murdering band of scavengers, Monkhouse had adopted it as his own, staunchly protecting it from harm. Anytime Tate had even looked at it Monkhouse would begin to grumble.

  “This?” said Tate pointing to Monkhouse and then himself, “I don’t have time for. We’re leaving in four hours and that chopper’s going to take us.”

  “She doesn’t have the range. It’s nearly six hundred nautical miles. She doesn’t carry that kind of fuel capacity.”

  “I covered this in the briefing,” said Tate, feeing himself beginning to bristle. “There’s a forward base we can refuel at.”

  Monkhouse opened his mouth, but Tate stopped him before he could speak.

  “If that doesn’t fly, it goes to the scrap yard, or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “I’ll have Rosse sell it on the blackmarket,” said Tate.

  Monkhouse blanched. “You wouldn’t do that. I mean… look at her.”

  “If I wanted to stare at something big and useless,” said Tate, “I’d watch TV. You’re going to have that chopper ready to go in,” Tate looked at his watch, “three hours and fifty six minutes.”

  “Or else, what?” said Monkhouse, hurriedly softening his question, and instantly regretting challenging Tate’s order.

  Tate took a step closer, invading Monkhouse’s personal space and leaned in. “Do I look like someone who needs to explain how ugly, ‘or else’ will be?”

  “Sorry, Top,” said Monkhouse. “That was out of line. She’ll be ready.”

  “I’m happy to hear it,” said Tate as he held Monkhouse in his unblinking stare for a moment longer. He quickly turned and walked away before he couldn’t keep a grin from cracking his stoney expression. It was hard for Tate to be offended when Monkhouse turned into such a mother hen.

  * * *

  “Ahhhhrooooooooo, hahahaha! This is Revolution Terry, bringing you White Hat Radio where the truth never dies. I expose the real news the black hats don’t want you to know.”

  “Black hats?” said Rosse. “Are ya kidding me?”

  The team was on the last leg of their four and a half hour flight to the center of where Vulcan 4 was supposed to come down.

  The Moth’s crew bay was directly under the engines and the headsets everyone wore couldn’t block out its constant noise.

  Fulton was eager to listen to his new radio, and Tate had held off letting him, to save the rest of the team from enduring a different, but equally unpleasant noise. Not everyone shared Fulton’s tastes. But, they were close to their infiltration point, so Tate let him do it.

  There was a short crackle as Fulton had plugged his radio into his headset and it was oldies music and conspiracy theories ever since.

  “Black Hats are no joke,” said Fulton. “They’re part of the deep state. Did you hear about that train wreck last month? That was no accident.”

  “Aw crap, here we go,” scoffed Rosse.

  “One of the people on that train was this girl, Spy Cat,” said Fulton, with growing enthusiasm.

  “Spy Cat?” laughed Rosse.

  “Nobody uses their real names,” said Fulton. “It’s way too dangerous. Anyway, she discovered coded messages in commercials for a shoe store. She wrote all about it. It’s one of the ways the deep state sends messages.”

  “A shoe store offed this girl,” said Rosse. “Are you hearing yourself?”

  “It’s true!” said Fulton.

  “How does this radio guy…”

  “Revolution Terry.”

  “Whatever, how’s he know about any of this?” asked Rosse.

  “People who know things about the Deep State, like Spy Cat, heard his show. They all started to network with each other,” said Fulton.

  “The Tin Foil Hat club?” chuckled Rosse.

  “You can laugh, but there’s a lot of people who listen to Terry. Now that they’re talking to each other, we’re starting to see the bigger picture of what’s going on. Terry’s probably got a bigger spy network than the CIA.”

  “How long have you been listening to this crap?” asked Rosse.

  “A while,” said Fulton. “A guy in my old squad had a radio. Then I transferred here.”

  Tate glanced over his shoulder at Kaiden, in the pilots seat, and saw a grin curling the corner of her mouth. He wondered what she thought about Fulton’s belief in these conspiracy theories.

  “What’s our ETA?” asked Tate.

  Kaiden switched her multifunctional display to the flight management system and scanned the data on her screen. The flight control panel looked like it had been picked over by scavengers. Wires hung out of holes in the panel where instruments and controls were missing. Monkhouse had enlisted one of the helicopter mechanics, on base, to help make the Moth airworthy, but it still had a long way to go. A piece of duct tape covered one of the holes. Someone had drawn a button on it and written “Press button in case of engine fire.”

  “The good news is,” said Kaiden, “we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “What’s the bad news?” asked Tate.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes,” said Kaiden.

  “Something tells me you don’t like this mission,” said Tate.

  “What’s not to like?” said Monkhouse. “We’re landing in the middle of a bale of hay seventy five square miles wide, populated with, who knows, how many Vix while looking for a needle. That’s a good time in anyone’s book.”

  * * *

  Kaiden found a wide clearing that would easily accommodate the Moth. “Eyes open. Going to whisky, delta.”

  Landing in the wild was insanely risky. Especially areas of dense vegetation because it could be hiding any number of Vix. It became common practice to make noise, and draw them into the open before setting down. The tactic was aptly referred to as waking the dead, or whisky, delta.

  Wesson swung her machine gun out of the port door and Rosse aimed out of the starboard door as Kaiden came down low and circled above the tree tops.

  The trees thrashed wildly under the Moth’s beating prop-wash. Clouds of dust and leaves kicked up and an unseen monkey screeched in panic, diving to the jungle floor and bolting for the safety.

  Kaiden circled a few times, but with no sign of Vix she brought the Moth down into a clearing. Pulling back on the stick she flared the helicopter, quickly slowing down until the skids bumped onto the ground.

  As the rotors spun, all guns pointed out both sides of the Moth, a final precaution should any Vix break out of the distant tree line and
charge them.

  “Okay, shut it down,” said Tate, after they’d waited a couple of minutes.

  The whine of the helicopter’s engines dropped in pitch as Kaiden flipped a row of switches, shutting them off.

  Everyone climbed out of the Moth’s cramped bay, glad to stretch their legs.

  Wesson got the team to work, setting up a temporary camp and reported back to Tate.

  “Thank’s Wesson,” said Tate.

  “When’s the satellite due?”

  “According to Nathan, sometime today.”

  “What are we doing with the database after we get it?”

  “The first thing is getting past the encryption,” said Tate.

  “Doesn’t the database also have NSA information?”

  Tate tilted his boonie hat forward, shading his eyes as he admired the rich, blue of the sky. “Yes.”

  “Can she break the encryption?” asked Wesson with a nod at Kaiden, who was filling out the flight log in the Moth’s cockpit.

  “I didn’t ask, but I figure since she hasn’t volunteered by now, that would be a no.”

  “I was thinking about what Nathan said. Vulcan 4 was the only communication pipeline for American intelligence agencies to talk to their assets in southern Europe. Some of that is probably ‘above top secret’,” said Wesson.

  “I understand where you’re going with this,” said Tate, “I don’t know who I’m giving the database.”

  This question had been looping through Tate’s mind, and he was no closer to a decision. Vulcan 4’s database was a backdoor key to untold amounts of intelligence agency secrets. Black ops movements, operational reports from deep cover operatives, bribes of money, drugs, or weapons to pay for information, etc., and in the wrong hands, that information could inflict incalculable damage. But, in that same box was the information that could be used to expose The Ring. Tate asked himself what would he lay on the sacrificial alter in payment for wreaking havoc on The Ring. He stopped himself before he finished the thought, uncomfortable with the answer taking shape in his mind.

  Clearing his throat, he changed the subject. “Vulcan 4 could come down anytime after sixteen hundred hours. Set up a two man security detail and rotate them every four hours. Have them check the tracker once an hour.”

  “Copy that,” said Wesson. “What’s the tracker’s range?”

  “Maybe two klicks. If we don’t get a hit on by morning, we’ll start a patrol from here and spiral out until we get a signal.

  * * *

  The crest of the ridge was broken as a pack of feral dogs raced over the top. From three hundred yards away, heat waves rippled their images, but it was clear enough to see though the rifle scope that one of them had an arm clamped in its jaws. The pack was skittish and glanced nervously over their shoulders. They ran a short distance down the hill and stopped, turning around.

  The sniper could see their hackles raise and dropped their heads in silent growls. A moment later a Vix came stumbling over the crest. One arm was missing and the front of its shirt hanging in shreds. A jagged hole had been chewed open in its chest and part of its ribcage was missing.

  The Vix turned its head left and right as the dogs began to fan out, then it charged towards the middle of the pack. The dogs crouched, ready to spring.

  The sniper observed the blades of grass near the unfolding drama, judging the direction and strength of the breeze. His finger rested, whisper soft, on the trigger as he braced the stock of the rifle against his shoulder. The crosshairs floated closer to the Vix until the intersecting, fine lines rested above and to the left of the Vix’s head. Exhaling smoothly, the sniper pressed his finger against the ridged trigger. At two ounces of pressure the trigger released with a crips snap. The silencer on the end of the barrel coughed sharply as the bullet took flight, traveling at three thousand feet per second.

  The recoil briefly jostled the snipers view, but he quickly re-acquired his target just as the bullet hit home. A chunk of skull flew off the Vix in a puff of mist and the startled dogs leapt back. The Vix’s head snapped back from the impact then popped up just as quickly. A moment later it toppled forward. Confused, the dogs turned, and ran down the hill with the Vix rag dolling behind them, disappearing from view.

  No sooner had he lost sight of the Vix the sniper caught movement at the edge of his lens from the dense woods, where he’d just shot the Vix. Fixing his scope on the area, he watched as seven people emerged, in single file.

  With Rosse in the lead, they left the shade of the jungle along the spine of the ridge. Tate instantly felt the sun’s heat hit him and he adjusted his boonie hat, shading his eyes as he took in the surrounding area.

  A distant rumble got everyones attention as dark clouds crowded the horizon.

  “Looks like rain,” said Fulton.

  “Ya think?” said Rosse. “Just what we need. More steam, cause, you know, the jungle doesn’t suck enough.”

  For the past four hours they’d traveled a few miles in each direction from their camp with not so much as a blip on the tracker. Everyone knew bad weather was going to make moving through the jungle harder.

  “Ten minutes rest,” called Tate. “Wesson, see me after they do a water check.”

  “Everyone, double check your packs,” directed Wesson. “Make sure they’re closed up tight and dry.”

  “That ain’t gonna help,” groused Rosse. “My pack’s got more holes than my underwear.”

  “Did you see the packs they had at the PX?” asked Fulton. “Why didn’t you get one of those?”

  Rosse at Fulton for a moment. “What are ya, my mother?”

  Wesson and Kaiden joined up with Tate as he took out his map. “I think we’re spinning our wheels,” he said. “I say we head back to the Moth and fly a spiral pattern.” Tate drew his finger in a circle on the map.

  “Do we have enough fuel for that,” asked Wesson, “and still make it back?”

  “That won’t be an issue if that storm hits us,” said Kaiden. “We’ll be grounded.”

  The sniper’s crosshairs moved from one team member to the next, his years of experience intuitively sizing them up and reading their body language. Settling his crosshairs on Tate, the sniper saw a typical second-hand militia type. From his weathered boonie hat and outdated assault rifle to the mismatched camos and paunch belly.

  “These guys all buy from the same catalogue?” said the sniper to himself.

  But there was something in the man’s bearing that made the sniper give him a second look. Years of experience had taught him, he could learn a lot from the little things. The man didn’t point when he gave orders; a sign of respect and confidence in his people. After a brief look at his surroundings, the man quickly identified where a threat would most likely come from and positioned his people accordingly. The sniper moved his view down to the man’s feet. When standing still he didn’t slouch or lean his weight on one foot, but kept it even between both feet making it easier to move in any direction if he had to avoid a quickly. The sniper moved his crosshairs back up the man’s body thinking there was more to this man than met the eye when his breath froze in his lungs. The man was looking right at him through a pair of binoculars.

  The sniper had set up his position amid clumps of tall grass. To counter the natural ability of humans to recognize the features of a face, the sniper had placed blades of grass into the netting that hung from the front of his hat helping him to blend into the natural patterns of the grass, yet the man continued to look his way.

  The sniper forced himself to breathe soft and steady as he moved his finger to the rifle’s trigger with glacial speed. He’d been careful not to upset the organic shape of the grass when he’d threaded the barrel of his rifle through it. If anything would betray his hide would be the scope. The wind only had to blow the wrong way to part the grass for an instant and expose the dark, round shape of his sniper’s lens.

  The binoculars could deflect the bullet, so the sniper set the crosshairs on the m
an’s center mass. The cavitation, or shock wave, caused by the bullet would pulverize his heart and lungs. The body would drop before the group heard the shot giving the sniper time to get more kills before the rest of them scattered.

  All sense of time disappeared. Heat, sweat, the small pebble that was digging into his thigh for the last hour all faded into nothingness. All that existed was the sniper’s breathing and every minute movement the distant man made.

  And then the spell was broken. The man swiveled his binoculars, looking at another hill, then lowered them. The sniper eased his finger off the trigger and let his body relax. The sniper almost laughed as he watched the man pull a roll of toilet paper out of his pack and disappear back into the woods they’d first come from. What amused him wasn’t the toilet paper, but the tomahawk hanging from the man’s belt.

  “Guy thinks he’s Daniel Boone.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing, Marc” said the sniper as he heard the soft crunch of footsteps approach. “Just checking out some locals.”

  Marc grunted as he squatted next to the sniper and fished out a compact monocular from his shirt pocket. Thunder smacked the air and the smell of ozone was becoming stronger.

  “I don’t get why these peasants want to live in this armpit of the world?” said Marc, as he scanned the distant group.

  “Hey man,” said the shooter, “my grandparents were born in this country.”

  “Well,” scoffed Marc, “sucks to be them.”

  The sniper took his eye off the scope, looking darkly at the newcomer. “We hardly been on this op, hombre, and I’m already fed up with you.”

  “Take it easy, Fernandez,” chuckled Marc. “I’m just breaking up the boredom for you.”

  “I don’t need you doing anything for me,” said Fernandez as he put his eye behind the scope.