Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  Almost at the tree, relief in sight, his legs began to shake uncontrollably. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes, but he wouldn’t risk the added movement of wiping his face.

  He gently pressed himself against the ivy, sinking further behind their leaves. The black silhouette of the Vix stood inert, blending easily among the inky shadows of the jungle. Monkhouse now understood how he’d missed seeing it and how close to having his face chewed off he’d come.

  His back came against the unyielding trunk of the tree as the leaves of ivy closed around him. Almost as if the Vix knew it had lost their game of hide and seek, the thing turned away and took a shuffling step.

  Monkhouse ignored the tickle of sweat on his ear as he watched the Vix, hoping it would soon leave. Annoyance quickly turned to confusion as the tickle of his ear moved to his cheek. And then to the corner of his mouth. Something was crawling on his face. His hand instinctively twitched to slap at the thing, but caught himself before making that fatal mistake.

  Monkhouse couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know, but morbid curiosity leaked the clues into his mind, piecing together a mental image he didn’t want to see. The could feel the thing’s weight, the brush of stiff hair as its legs probed his face before moving. The span of its feet nearly covered the entire side of his face from his ear to his brow, his jaw and upper lip. He nearly whimpered out loud as coarse hairs brushed his cheek and the picture was complete. It was a spider. It was a damn big spider!

  Monkhouse flew past reason, straight to the worst case scenario. It had to be a venomous spider, and he was right. He remembered the name, Phoneutria, from the orientation class about dangerous insects because it means ‘murderess’ and at the time he’d joked about reminding him of his ex-wife. The Brazilian Wandering Spider was deadly and, if startled, it was dangerously aggressive.

  The muscles of Monkhouse’s face threatened to twitch uncontrollably and he clutched at the thin vines criss-crossing the tree trunk involuntarily seeking to bleed off the mounting wave of tremors he felt coming.

  SNAP!

  Monkhouse had forgotten about the Vix, forgotten about stealth, and had broken off a handful of vines. He didn’t have to guess if the Vix heard him. It was now standing in front of him.

  Through the leaves, Monkhouse could see the Vix, facing sideways to him, lolling its head from side to side, waiting for another noise, or trying to sense if there was food close by.

  The spider’s leg found the corner of Monkhouse’s mouth and tentatively tugged at his lip, exploring for a way into his mouth. A spontaneous gasp escaped Monkhouse before he could stop it and the Vix wheeled around to face him.

  It slowly leaned forward until its face brushed the leaves, almost bumping Monkhouse’s nose. He constricted his throat against the gag reflex as the stench of putrid meat hammered him. Only rotted sockets remained where its eyes had once been, but the Vix searched with other senses. It lingered and inch away, like it was daring Monkhouse to give himself away. The spider pulled back his lip.

  The shuffling of a distant Vix distracted the one searching for him and it stood back, its corrupted senses probing the jungle around it. But Monkhouse was on the brittle edge of his limits and hysteria was winning against reason.

  The spider seemed to sense a change in the thing it clung to. Monkhouse could feel the spider become agitated. It wanted to hide in its new found lair. Unseen in the bristles of hairs of the spider’s feet were tiny claws and Monkhouse felt them scrape his teeth.

  A low, quiet, guttural scream rolled up from the depths of his gut and whistled through his teeth. He knew the Vix would kill him in the next instant, but he didn’t care anymore.

  The Vix spun around, plunging its cadaverous hand into the ivy. Monkhouse felt his head rock back at the impact as the bony hand slammed into his face. The claw-like fingers gouged bloody creases as they snapped shut… and then they were gone.

  Panting for air, Monkhouse opened his eyes in time to see the Vix shove something in its mouth.

  In a fraction of a second, his mind whirled through confusion, fear and disbelief to understand what just happened and the answer blazed into his mind like a search light.

  The Vix had grabbed the spider! He nearly laughed out loud, but something inside him barred his outburst and took over his body. For the rest of his life, Monkhouse would never be able to explain it, but something beyond his shredded mind possessed him to act. Before he knew what he was doing he pulled his combat knife, grabbed the Vix around the forehead with his free hand and drove the blade through its skull.

  The thing sagged against his chest and he pulled the blade out. Releasing his grip, Monkhouse stepped back and the Vix crumpled to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DOUBLE CROSS

  “Monkhouse, acknowledge!” hissed Tate's angry whisper over the radio. Without thinking, Monkhouse grabbed his radio and keyed it twice, signaling he was ready to go. Only then did Monkhouse realize he’d already been through two of the scariest moments of his life and now he was about to jump into another? But it was too late now. He was committed.

  Four bursts of static came over his radio; Tate’s signal to execute that plan.

  Monkhouse sheathed his knife and brought up his AK-ACR. A few hurried steps and he was in the camp. Across the clearing, Tate silently appeared like a ghost from the edge of the jungle.

  Nearing the closest tent, Tate pulled his knife and knelt. The tent wall silently parted under the wickedly sharp blade. The sleeping form didn’t move until Tate snugged the barrel of his 1911 against the his head.

  “Want to die?” was all Tate had to say to ensure the merc didn’t fight back.

  The merc remained still as Tate put away his knife then reached in and pulled the merc’s assault rifle out of the tent.

  “Hands over your head,” ordered Tate in the man’s ear.

  The merc brought up his hands and Tate slipped zip-cuffs over his wrists and clinched them up. Grabbing the merc by the cuffs he pulled him out of the tent. He tossed the automatic pistol stashed under the man’s pillow and took the knife off his belt. Then Tate sliced off a piece of the tent and stuffed it into the man’s mouth.

  He did all this on faith that Rosse and Monkhouse had captured their assigned targets. There’d been no sounds of struggle or alarm. He rolled his prisoner onto his belly with his arms above his head.

  “Make a sound and I’ll carve out your eyes,” hissed Tate into the man’s ear. It was important to keep his prisoner mentally off balance, and only a horrific threat would rattle in the merc’s head long enough to buy Tate and his men a couple more minutes.

  He left his prisoner laying in the dirt and moved to the next tent. The moment he drew his knife he was committed to action. His blade glided through the tent wall effortlessly. He parted the fabric, about to grab the merc, but the pillow was empty.

  Looking up, Tate saw the man was sitting, with his back to him, assault rifle in his hands. That he hadn’t raised the alarm told Tate the man wasn’t sure if he’d heard something, or not.

  The merc flinched, but instantly froze when he felt the Colt’s barrel press against his jaw. Tate reached over the man’s shoulder and too the rifle. The man let go with no resistance. Acting quickly, Tate bound and gagged the merc before he thought about fighting back. As he dragged him out of the tent Tate sighed, releasing his tension, as he heard bursts of static from his radio signaling that Rosse and Monkhouse had captured the other mercs.

  The refueled campfire lit the resentful faces of the captured mercenaries, cuffed and sitting side by side, they glared at their captors.

  Rosse and Monkhouse stood by with their rifles pointed away from the prisoners, in a low-ready position.

  “What happened to you?” asked Rosse, noticing the bleeding gouges on Monkhouse’s face.

  “Remember yesterday,” said Monkhouse, “when I was afraid to get shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m over it.”
/>   Rosse puzzled for a moment, but shrugged his shoulders and let it go.

  Tate recognized Hall among his new prisoners and knelt on one knee, in front of him. “Where’s your man, Bowen?” asked Tate.

  “You mean Marc?” he said sarcastically. “Considering my current situation,” he motioned to his flex-cuffed hands, “he bailed on us.”

  “That explains why your boobytraps were disarmed,” scoffed Tate. “Where is he?”

  Hall leaned to the side and looked around Tate at the tangle of disconnected cables hanging from the uplink equipment. “The same place as the satellite. The guy’s a traitor. Now I get why you left him behind on that mission.”

  Tate picked up a pebble and studied it for a moment before dropping it on the ground. “I didn’t,” he said, standing up.

  Tate looked back at the uplink equipment and swore under his breath. “I’m guessing you guys air dropped off the coast and inserted using the waterways with a RHIB. How long before he gets back to where you tied off your boat?”

  Hall tilted his head, calculating his answer. “Moving through the jungle at night?” said Hall. “Four, maybe five hours. Longer if there’s Vix out there…”

  “Count on it,” interjected Monkhouse.

  “Bastard!” said Tate, hanging his head in exasperation. “He screwed us both. He got my satellite and your boat.”

  “No, brother,” chuckled Hall. “Just you. I still have my boat.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Tate.

  “I ran ops with guys like Marc before. They all got the same psychotic vibe. So I disabled the boat. You know, just in case.”

  Tate smiled and rubbed his chin in thought. Then went to Hall’s tent and returned with his pack. “Where’s your map?” asked Tate.

  “It’s the small, black pocket on the chest,” replied Hall.

  Tate opened the pocket and took out the map. Unfolding it he clicked on his flashlight and studied. After a few moments he clicked off the flashlight. “Rosse, cut them loose,” said Tate.

  “What?” asked Rosse in disbelief.

  “Where’d you get this?” questioned Tate, showing the map to Hall. “This shows classified military locations of camps, forts and airfields. Where’d that information come from?”

  “Is that a serious question?” asked Hall.

  Tate knew the answer Hall wasn’t going to give him. The Ring. The more he discovered how far reaching The Ring was, the more he felt like David facing Goliath. Sabotaging The Ring’s efforts was making a difference. The Grave Diggers had crippled their progress, but as The Ring’s power spread out, diversified, Tate and his Grave Diggers would have less and less impact until they were nothing but an annoyance. Tate couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t how, not yet, but the Grave Diggers were about to step up their game.

  “Never mind,” said Tate.

  Rosse hadn’t moved, expecting an explanation until Tate gave him a withering glare. Grudgingly, Rosse pulled his knife and cut loose the mercs, who stayed sitting on the ground, unsure of Tate’s intentions. Hall was the last one to be freed, and like the rest of them, didn’t get up.

  “Thanks,” said Hall, rubbing the soreness from his wrists. “Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, but why cut us loose?”

  “Because of that airfield,” said Tate, pointing to the map. “As soon as Marc discovers you disabled your boat, he’ll know he’s a hunted man. Time is against him and he’ll be desperate to put as much distance between you and him as possible.”

  Hall shook his head, seething at the irony. “He’ll go for the airfield.”

  “One man can infiltrate that airfield without drawing attention,” said Tate, “and probably stowaway on a cargo plane, but…”

  “The chances of five men getting in,” said Hall.

  “Undetected,” said Tate, “without drawing a lot of fire.”

  “That’s why you cut us loose,” said Hall, standing up. “We have zero chance of getting that satellite back. Looks like he’s your problem now.”

  Tate walked over to Rosse and Monkhouse and flattened out the map in front of them.

  “I’m going after the Marc,” said Tate.

  “You mean the satellite?” asked Monkhouse.

  “That’s what I meant,” clipped Tate, in a tone that did not invite commentary. “The mercs’ll pack up and leave. Stay with them to their boat just to make sure. Any questions?”

  “Negative,” said Rosse and Monkhouse.

  Tracing his finger from the location of the merc’s boat to the airfield, Tate did a rough calculation in his mind. “He’s got more ground to cover than I do,” said Tate. “I’ll beat him there.”

  “Why don’t you radio ahead and have some troops waiting for him?” asked Monkhouse.

  “Once they get their hands on the satellite,” said Tate, “we’ll never see it again.”

  “Like that warehouse at the end of Raiders,” said Monkhouse.

  “What warehouse?” said Rosse.

  “Raiders of the Lost Ark?” queried Monkhouse.

  Rosse only shook his head in confusion.

  “I give up,” said Monkhouse.

  Tate folded up the map and put it in his pocket. “I’ll check in after I got it.”

  “Hey Top,” said Rosse. “Sorry about earlier. Not cutting them loose when you first said.”

  Tate gave Rosse an appraising look and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re good. See you guys soon.”

  * * *

  The eastern horizon was tinged with gold as the dark of night slowly faded in the pre-dawn light. Rising above a smattering of smaller buildings, the large, bay windows caught the first rays of light as they broke over the horizon. In front of the tower stretched a drab grey runway extending fifteen hundred feet in both directions.

  The receding gloom revealed the large, hulking form of an ancient C-130 Hercules transport plane as it squatted off the end of the runway. Tucked under its huge port wing, a cloud of frenzied insects circled the work-lights of a maintenance truck. Two mechanics sipped their coffee as they dangled their feet off the landing gear housing, which dwarfed their truck.

  “Hey Spud!” crackled the radio next to the mechanics. “I know you can hear me. I need a sitrep.”

  The two mechanics smiled at each other and leisurely took a drink from their steaming mugs.

  “Okay,” griped the radio, “I’m not taking the heat from Flight because the Herc isn’t fixed.”

  One of the mechanics answered the radio while randomly banging a wrench on the landing gear’s metal strut. “Don’t threaten me, Tower Monkey,” said the mechanic. “We’ve been busting our chops all night trying to get this crate airworthy. Tell Flight it’s ready when it’s ready.”

  “Come on, Spud,” said Tower Monkey, “I can’t tell him that.”

  Spud looked at the other mechanic who shrugged in agreement. “Yeah, okay,” said Spud, looking at the checklist on the clipboard next to him. “I gotta few things left, then it’s your bird.”

  Spud put down the radio and slid off the housing, dropping to the ground with practiced ease. “Bucket?” said Spud. “Do you have anything left on the critical list?”

  The other mechanic came off the housing and stuck his head inside the truck. He leafed through a work-list before taking another drink of his coffee. “It’s good enough,” said Bucket.

  “I don’t want it good enough,” said Spud, in a mocking voice. “I want it perfect.”

  “In that case it’s perfect,” smirked Bucket.

  “Well, that’s good enough,” chuckled Spud.

  Bucket started collecting the tools scattered on a drop cloth as Spud walked up the open ramp into the cargo bay. Capable of carrying three troop carriers, the current shipment of two, fully loaded, supply pallets hardly took up any room. Spud smoothed out a patch of tarp, covering the pallet, and set down his coffee mug, then gave each pallet a cursory check, making sure they were locked to the floor. Satisfied, he took his coffee, snappin
g off the overhead lights on the way down the ramp.

  Forty yards away, Marc watched from the shadows of the jungle. His clothes were soaked with sweat from pushing himself to reach the airfield in a race against the sun. He glanced at the distant control tower and then the sky, considering his diminishing chances of moving before the airfield was in full light. The clomp of the mechanic’s boots coming down the metal ramp drew Andy’s attention. He gripped his assault rifle and the moment the mechanic disappeared around the opposite side of the plane Marc broke from cover and ran to the C-130.

  Using his binoculars, Tate scanned the distant airfield hangers from the edge of the jungle. Through the open doors he could see two small, fixed wing planes. This will be Andy’s target.

  Tate caught movement from the corner of his eye and swiveled his binoculars in time to spot Marc reach the side of a C-130. Are you kidding? Marc slipped around the back of the aircraft and up the ramp.

  At the top of the ramp Marc found the ramp control and turned the handle, but nothing happened. He left the control and moved into the cargo bay, past the supply pallets until he reached the short ladder leading up to the cockpit.

  Tossing the backpack, holding the satellite, in the co-pilot seat Marc sat in the pilots seat. He sighed as he settled into the luxury of the worn, but cushioned black leather seat. His body was cut and battered from his headlong race through the jungle to reach the airfield before the mercenaries caught him. Now, in the cockpit, on a military airfield, they couldn’t touch him. The only thing left was to get in the air. After that he’d arrange to hand off the satellite to his employers and collect his sizable bonus, undiluted by having to split it among his team.

  Marc looked down from the port window, seeing only the front of mechanic’s truck from under the wing. He assumed they were still packing up their stuff, unaware of his intrusion, not that it mattered. They weren’t armed. He was.