“I’m guessing you don’t get asked to a lot of parties,” joked Nathan.
“Do you?”
“Fair enough,” conceded Nathan, after a moment’s pause. “So, about that uplink. Vulcan 4 uses a P.E.E.F. A proprietary encrypted, eccentric frequency and it won’t talk to anything that’s not using the same frequency.”
“What’s to keep them from modifying a receiver to intercept the signal?”
“Nothing,” said Nathan. “They’ve probably already done it.”
“Where’s the part about having more time than I think?” pressed Tate.
“That’s the eccentric part,” said Nathan. “Vulcan 4 continuously alternates the frequency. Their receiver knows to look for that signal, but it has to decipher the signal pattern and that takes a long time. Only after that happens can they send the data.”
“I’m impressed. I didn’t think The Ring was that technically advanced.”
“I don’t want to blow my own horn,” said Nathan, “but they weren’t until they hired me.”
“You set up that receiver?” asked Tate in disbelief. “Who’s side are you on?”
“A more sensitive person would be hurt by that question,” said Nathan. “I didn’t say the receiver works.”
“It doesn’t work?”
“No, it works like a charm,” said Nathan. “Just not the way The Ring wanted. When they activate Vulcan 4 the receiver will appear to go though the motions of deciphering the frequency, but I built in my own functionality.”
“Including geo-tracking?” prompted Tate.
“Bullseye. They’ll be expecting the hand-shake between Vulcan 4 and the receiver to take a few hours. That should buy you the time you need to catch up to them.”
Tate checked the satellite tracker and saw the location of Vulcan 4 had changed.
“I just sent you…,” began Nathan.
“I see it,” said Tate. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“You can reach me on my sat-phone. Out,” said Tate and disconnected the line.
Tate slung his pack over his shoulders and walked over to Wesson, who was talking to Kaiden.
“I’m Oscar, Mike,” said Tate. “Are you good to go?”
“Yes,” said Wesson.
He knelt down next to Kaiden, maintaining a business as usual attitude. “I’ll see you in a couple days,” said Tate.
Kaiden[ Kaiden tells Tate to stop fighting the past.
this line doesn’t work, but whatever she says can’t be to ‘on the mark’.] studied his battered face before meeting his eyes. “Stay away from Marc,” she mumbled. “He’ll kill you.”
Tate craved the chance to catch up to Marc, but wasn’t going to argue with her about it. “See you soon,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
Stifling a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet and addressed Wesson. “After you get her taken care of, come back and wait for us here.”
Monkhouse and Rosse walked up, giving Tate a nod that they were ready.
“Don’t worry about Kaiden,” said Wesson. “I have this.”
“I know, sergeant,” smiled Tate. “That’s why you’re my second in command. If things go according to plan, we’ll be back here in 48 hours.”
“Copy that, Top,” replied Wesson. Tate glanced at the tracker, checking the position of Vulcan 4, then motioned to Monkhouse and Rosse to follow him.
With the first few steps, the conflict and doubt Tate had been battling melted away. This was the right move, he thought, and felt his energy lift, fed by renewed purpose.
“Hey Top?” said Monkhouse.
“Right here,” said Tate.
“Didn’t the three of us go up against these guys just a few hours ago?”
“Yes, we did.”
“If I remember right, that didn’t work out so well.”
Tate touched one of the cuts on his face, feeling the crusted blood mingled with his eyebrow. “No,” said Tate. “It did not.”
“And now we’re doing the same thing again?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?” puzzled Monkhouse.
“The first time they were ready for us,” said Tate, “and we weren’t. This time it’s the other way around.”
* * *
“Something’s wrong,” said Marc as he stood by the fire watching the flickering glow on the surrounding jungle. “It’s taking too long.”
Vulcan 4 sat next to a signal booster and four small, black boxes with fibre optic cables attaching them in a daisy chain.
Hall read the status display which showed the power levels were strong and Vulcan 4 was transmitting. Telemetry from the receiver confirmed they were making a connection, but the receiver still hadn’t deciphered the signal pattern.
“They said it could take a long time for the receiver to sync up,” said Hall.
“How long?” persisted Marc.
A mercenary stepped out of the darkened jungle and slung his rife over his shoulder. “It’s your watch, psycho.”
“It’s Marc,” grinned Marc. “Why’re you guys wired so tight? Your soldier days are over.”
The merc stared at Marc, his face void of expression. “It’s your watch,” he said then slipped inside one of the single-man tents, that ringed the clearing between the campfire and the border of dense foliage.
“I’m racking out too,” said Hall as he stood, brushing dirt from his knees.
“What about the satellite?” asked Marc.
“It can run overnight. If it hasn’t uploaded by morning then I’ll call our mission lead for instructions. Either way, don’t sweat it. They’re paying four times my contract fee, so whatever’s in that satellite is valuable enough that they’ll make sure it gets uploaded.”
Marc picked up his assault rifle, checking there was a round in the chamber and the magazine was full. “You’re ex-Army Rangers, right?”
“You have something to say about Rangers?” asked Hall.
“Not me,” said Marc, with as much casual provocation as anyone could put into two words. “You know, kind of explains why you’re only getting four times the going rate.”
“And what? Because you’re ex-Delta they’re paying you more?”
“Hey, I never said they were paying me more than you,” chuckled Marc, “just because I’m Delta.”
“Delta couldn’t hold the bucket a Ranger’s pisses in,” fumed Hall.
“I’m not saying Delta’s better than Rangers,” said Marc. “I mean, yeah, Delta beat Rangers three times running in the Best Ranger Competition and that’s got to hurt. Losing at your own challenge.”
“You’ve been rubbing everyone raw from day one of this op,” said Hall. “I thought it was because you’re a class-A prick, but that’s not it. You’re pushing buttons hoping one of us takes a swing at you. That would violate their contract. Less men means the op is harder and the Adversity and Hinderance bonus pay scale kicks in.”
“That’s a very clever plan, but you’re giving me a lot more credit than I deserve. I’m just a guy doing a job. Maybe I get on some peoples nerves,” shrugged Marc, “but it’s not my fault Rangers get paid less than Delta.”
“How have you lived this long without someone fragging you?” asked Hall.
Marc chuckled, hiding the movement of his thumb switching the safety of his gun from “SAFE” to “FIRE”. “Kind of an overreaction for a little, friendly joking.” Marc sighed and the smile ebbed away from his face. “But the ones that tried only made that mistake once.”
The two men stared at each other for a long time, their faces giving no hint of their next move. The snap of the fire sounded unreasonably loud, but the world around them seemed to edge away, distancing itself from the brewing violence threatening to explode.
Halls shoulders relaxed, and just like that, the static charge dissipated.
“That’s not the way I work,” said Hall. “I kill out of self defense. Less demons to carry on my back.”
“Huh, that’s funny,”
said Marc.
“What’s funny about it?”
“My demons are the ones still living.”
Hall unzipped the front of his tent, taking off his boots before going inside. “It’s your watch.”
* * *
The jungle was a different place at night. The mingled cacophony of animal calls died away as the sun went down, knowing there was safety in silence. Night was the realm of predators and one of them was stalking the sleeping mercenaries.
Tate crept through the blackness, his movements deliberate, easing into every handhold and footstep, transferring his weight without a sound betraying him. The flicker of the mercs campfire was close enough to hear it.
At the moment all of his focus was on a thin, nylon filament strung tautly across his path.
“Monkhouse,” whispered Tate into his radio. “I have a job for you.”
Monkhouse silently apologized as he squeezed by an indignant Rosse who hadn’t wavered from his sullen anger at Tate’s decision to put the mission above his team.
Squinting in the blackness, Monkhouse moved slowly, able only to make out shapes once he was in arms reach. He felt he’d been seeking Tate forever when his fingers brushed his back.
“Found another one,” said Tate. “Do your thing.”
Monkhouse took ‘pin-light’ flashlight from his pocket and shined the minute beam on the boobytrap.
As the teams engineer, Monkhouse drew on his eclectic experience to maintain equipment in the field, build temporary structures, and in this case defuse boobytraps. How he knew about so many things was a mystery to Tate. Monkhouse hadn’t shared his past, but Tate suspected it was a colorful one.
After a few seconds Monkhouse turned off the flashlight and quietly turned back to Tate. “It’s not armed,” he whispered.
“Say again?” said Tate.
“The trip wire’s just for show,” said Monkhouse. “Look.”
Before Tate could stop him, Monkhouse tugged the nylon thread. Tate expected an explosion, but nothing happened. That didn’t do anything for the adrenaline suddenly pumping through his body.
“See?” grinned Monkhouse.
Tate swallowed his heart and held his fist up in front of Monkhouse.
“Don’t ever do that again,” said Tate.
They’d gone another twenty feet when Tate found another boobytrap. The mercenaries had set up several of these around their camp as an early warning system.
His suspicions began to tingle when Monkhouse reported that, like the last trap, this one was dormant. It didn’t make sense. Why weren’t the traps armed? Why wasn’t anyone on watch?
Tate had carefully reconned the entire camp, and couldn’t believe there was no guard, roving or concealed. I gave these mercs a lot more credit, thought Tate. Gaps in the foliage allowed him narrow glimpses into the camp where he saw no sign of security there, either. Yet he knew men were in the tents from the occasional snores.
He could have sat there all night guessing and second guessing if was a trap, or they were being watched even now, or if the mercs were really that sloppy. No matter the answer, he had a mission to complete.
Tate crept back to where he’d left Rosse and Monkhouse and laid out his plan, drawing a crude diagram of the camp in the dirt. “Think of the camp like a clock face. We’ll enter the camp from three different directions. Two, six and ten o’clock.”
“Is it a good idea to split up?” asked Monkhouse. The guilt of freezing in combat, getting his team captured and Kaiden being shot was fresh in his mind, and here he was again, being depended on in a coming firefight. Anxiety and doubts began to churn in his stomach. He inhaled, about to blurt out he couldn’t do this.
“Something on your mind?” asked Tate.
“No,” said Monkhouse. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. If he had any doubts these men considered him a coward, he’d only confirm it by confessing his fears. “I was thinking strength in numbers. That’s all.”
“Our strength is that we’ll have them in a crossfire,” said Tate. “I’ll take the ten position. Rosse, you’re at two and Monkhouse is six.”
“Great,” said Monkhouse. “Uh, where’s six?”
Of the three of them, Tate knew Monkhouse was the least skilled in stealth and chose the ‘six’ position because it was the shortest distance from their current position.
“That cluster of trees,” said Tate pointing to a stand of trees forty feet behind them. “Once all of us are in position we go in cool and quiet.”
“Slow is smooth,” said Rosse.
“And smooth is fast,” finished Monkhouse.
With a grin, Tate nodded and the men split up.
Position ‘six’ was thirty meters away, a short distance for Monkhouse to cover, but Tate had hammered into him the mortality of making noise.
He hoped to steady his mind by concentrating on each small detail of his noise discipline training. Breathe through the nose. Keep knees bent. Don’t lock the hips. Something, something path. Something heel something toe.
Monkhouse cursed himself for not having paid closer attention, or maybe he did but couldn’t remember. The memory of cowering behind that low, rock wall as gunfire ripped into the car Tate used for cover was raw in his mind. The sound of Tate’s voice screaming for help. The look of disbelief and shame on Rosse’s face. He’d failed the men he called friend. Neither of them had mentioned it since then, but Monkhouse’s guilt drove him to wonder if there wasn’t a subtext of reproach behind everything they did and said.
He battled with himself, refusing to believe fear was stronger than his loyalty, and at the same time condemning himself because he was afraid.
Here was his chance to prove to them, and himself, he wouldn’t give in to fear and he was failing miserably.
With a massive effort of will he forced himself to take a quiet, cleansing breath, and settle his mind. The fear was still there, but muted enough Monkhouse could think clearly. Move. He made that his only thought and once he took his first step the grip of fear began to loosen.
Ten meters closer to his position, Monkhouse was sweating with the effort of moving quietly. Every step demanded he gently test the ground under his boot, adding small amounts of pressure, feeling for the spring of twigs, the roll of loose rock, etc. If safe he’d slowly transfer his weight from one leg to the other. Making sure he felt stable and could keep his balance as he repeated the movement, over and over.
It’s like torture version of Tai Chi, he thought and nearly let a nervous snicker escape.
Tensed and legs burning, Monkhouse reached his destination. Through the screen of tall ferns he could see the circle of tents ringing the low flicker of the dying campfire, but there was no one visible. That didn’t mean the enemy wasn’t watching. He thought about Tate and Rosse, how far they got in reaching their positions and how soon they’d check in. Would the sound of the radio leak? Monkhouse reached up, very slowly so as to not attract attention, and pressed his radio’s earbud snugly into his ear then lowered his hand with the same care. There was nothing else to do but wait.
As the minutes ticked by Monkhouse’s tension gave way to boredom, then fatigue. He fought against his drooping eyes, or thought he was until he his chin fell forward. His eyes popped open and his head snapped back up, but nothing had changed. The jungle around him hummed, and chirped in a droning lullaby, softly drifting him to sleep.
What was that? Monkhouse’s head snapped up, his eyes went wide in alarm. There was a sound. Did I dream it? He listened, waiting for the sound to happen again. His brow furrowed in concentration. What did I hear? I don’t hear anything now. Seconds ticked by as he waited for a sound, sure he’d heard something, but maybe not. I don’t hear anything now. The suspicion persisted he hadn’t dreamed it. What am I missing?
A new expression crawled across Monkhouse’s face leaving his eyes’s wide and his jaw slack. What was missing was sound. Everything around him had gone very still.
Instincts took ove
r and his body went rigid, his chest hardly rising with breath and then he heard it. A quiet, wet gurgle directly behind him. His mind screamed at him to run. His muscles bunched, coiled to sprint faster than the wind. Go now! Now! NOW!
With super-human effort Monkhouse fought back, crushing the feral panic raging in his head until he could think again. He couldn’t outrun the nightmare lingering at his back. How could the Vix have walked up on him? I only dozed off for a moment, didn’t I? How did it get so close?
There was only one answer and it brought a gallows grin to Monkhouse. The Vix had been there the whole time. It was Monkhouse who’d snuck up beside it, not the other way around. Let’s see Tate beat that.
His grin disappeared at the sound of soft rustling further behind him. There was more than one Vix. How many he couldn’t tell and wasn’t going to risk turning his head to see.
He couldn’t stand there all night hoping they’d move away and, in fact, his time was running out. At any moment Tate would be signaling to move on the camp. Even if Monkhouse stayed still, the noise of the alarmed mercs would trigger the Vix to attack. It would charge, slashing and ripping into the first thing it hit, which was him. He had to get out of the way.
Searching his surroundings, Monkhouse saw a tree, to his left, covered in dense ivy. Safety. He could hide in the ivy. All he had to do was move, silently, with a Vix only inches behind him.
To Monkhouse, every sound was frighteningly amplified, even the brush of grass against his rising boot sounded like a bull charging through a corn field. Every inch of movement demanded absolute control and before Monkhouse had gone two steps his body and mind were in a war of wills. The muscles in his legs, back and neck were bunching and cramping, screaming for release from the rigid tension he exacted on them.
With the Vix behind him, Monkhouse couldn’t see what the thing was doing, if it sensed his movement, felt his body heat, or heard his breathing. Maybe it reaching for him. Any moment he’d feel the rotted squeeze of its fingers dig into his neck.
No! Shut up. He couldn’t allow the pain, fear, or hopelessness to consume him. He squeezed the world he knew down to a needle sharp point of focus; movement is stealth and stealth is life.
Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3) Page 14
