by Randall Wood
As soon as the man-made storm ceased, the four men rose as one and sprinted for the tree line. Entering the jungle was like stepping into a dark room. Fortunately, the night-vision goggles, with the help of the star-filled sky, helped to bring day to the night. After penetrating a few meters into the wall of vegetation, they stopped and formed a small circle facing out. They listened intently for one minute, mouths hanging open, before the leader spoke.
“Equipment check,” he whispered.
Each team member quickly felt for every piece of equipment with one hand, while the other hand kept a tight hold on the grip of their weapons. When they were done with themselves, they turned to check on the man next to them.
“All okay,” they hissed back to the team leader, one by one.
“Good.” His teeth glowed brightly in the goggles. “Welcome to Panama.”
The leader checked his watch and compass. He paused as he oriented himself with the map in his head.
“Jack, you lead off. We have eight hours to be in position. Stay twenty meters in front till it thins out a little, then push it out and get some slack.”
“Twenty meters,” Jack answered. “Got it.”
“Let’s move.”
With that they rose and moved into and through the jungle. Using the walk-dance they had developed, they avoided the vegetation and moved silently. The clearing was once again a dark and silent hole in the jungle.
• • •
Eight hours later found them on the military crest of a ridge overlooking a small valley. The journey to their current location had been anything but easy. Stopping only twice for water, they had covered several kilometers of jungle. The constant up and down of the terrain, as well as the heat and other dangers, were exhausting.
The compass had refused to work at one point due to iron deposits in the area, and two of their party had slight injuries. One was the result of a misplaced boot that caused a stumble. The injury was not to the foot, but to the hand which had reflexively grabbed for the closest tree only to be filled with quills from a black palm. With some quiet cursing, the quills were yanked out or broken off at the skin surface. In a couple of days, they would fester up enough to be dug out by a doctor, but for now, the hand was covered in a smear of camouflage makeup to make up for the loss of the cut off leather glove.
The other injury was to the eye of one of the security team. A branch had found its way around the goggles, and the eye was red and puffy—an inconvenience only. Now, two of the team, the leader and the rookie, lay wet, dirty and tired as they surveyed the valley before them.
“What do you see?” the leader asked.
“An airstrip, small hangar with fuel tanks, couple of Jeeps, small house,” Jack replied. “I’ve got a headcount of twelve, so far.”
“Weapons?”
“AKs all around. Few grenades. A 60 on the red Jeep.”
“Any sign of our boy?”
“Negative.” Jack panned the spotting scope left and right. “When’s he supposed to show?”
“Sometime in the next few days was all they could give me.”
“Well, that’s just great. Makes you wonder how they call it intelligence.”
“Yeah. Well, you volunteered.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The leader smiled at his protégée. Jack was fifteen years younger, but he showed great promise. A skilled soldier and natural leader. He had recognized it early and had taken Jack under his wing.
“Soon as they get back from scouting our way out of here, I’ll double check the routes,” he said. “You keep up your scan and start a log. Make up a schedule, too. Two men on—two men off. Six hour shifts. Find a good position for the Barrett. By the way, your ghillie suit, it really stinks.”
“Thanks. I left it hanging in the jungle for a week, like you told me to,” Jack replied. “Had to comb the bugs out when I retrieved it though.”
“Did I forget to tell you about the flea collar trick? Sorry about that.” He nudged him with his shoulder before crawling backward up the ridge.
Jack wiped the sweat from his eyes with the bandanna wrapped around his wrist before returning to the scope.
Flea collar trick? He’d ask later.
• • •
Two days later found Jack in the same spot. He noted the position of the men around the airfield. Twice planes had landed and taken off in the last two days. Always unloading or loading a nearby truck. Mostly small bags, not too heavy. That meant cocaine, cash, or maybe both. One flight carried a man of some importance, but the face was not the one they were looking for. He stood by while the bags were off-loaded into the truck, calmly smoking a cigarette. Jack had zoomed in on the face and was surprised to see it was white. The clothes were American made, stylish. The scope was connected to a camera, and a few shots were taken for the DEA guys. Otherwise, the mission had been uneventful.
A light tap on the foot was all the warning Jack had of his boss’s approach. It startled Jack. Something the man enjoyed doing.
“How are the boys?” he asked, as he laid parallel to Jack.
“Alpha, Echo, and Hotel are working in the hangar,” Jack replied. “Otherwise, nothing.”
“Bored?”
“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “A little.”
“Your first real mission. I waited nine days once for a shot.”
“How many times have you done this?” Jack asked.
“More than once,” was his reply.
An hour later, they were surprised to see activity during the normal noon siesta. The men, from Alpha through Romeo, spilled out of the house and hangar and began to put things in order. The Jeep was fired up with a cloud of smoke, and a couple of passes were made up and down the runway, stopping to remove debris that the jungle and wind had contributed. Obviously, someone was coming.
The leader reached for his throat and pressed down on the microphone strapped around his neck before speaking. “We have some activity. Get ready.”
He was answered by the double click of the microphone on the other end. They kept their transmissions short to avoid detection. He knew the two security men just over the ridge would be in contact with base on the satellite transmitter, placing the extraction helicopter on stand-by.
Jack had moved to the Barrett and taken up a shooting position. His boss moved the spotting scope on its small tripod in front of him and began scanning. Occasionally, the large arrowhead shape of the barrel would block his view, as Jack scanned the area.
The Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle was the Cadillac of its kind. With a range of over one-thousand and eight-hundred meters, it was the only weapon of choice for this mission. The hard part had been the act of transporting the thing all that distance through the jungle. At thirty-three pounds, it was not exactly light. Fortunately, it broke down into three pieces, four counting the bi-pod. They had all taken turns carrying the heavy barrel, and now the assembled fifty-seven-inch rifle stood ready to reach all the way to the opposite side of the airfield below them.
The fact that they had only brought five rounds of ammunition in the ten-round magazine would make most people wonder. But if the mission took more than one round, they had screwed up somehow. Regardless, the rifle would not be coming out with them. A rapid departure was necessary, and a shaped charge stood by, ready to be affixed to the weapon after it had been used. A timer would destroy the rifle and bi-pod shortly after they departed. Serving both its purpose and discouraging anyone foolish enough to try and follow.
The sound of an approaching plane was soon heard, and Jack saw his boss move to the right and rear of Jack’s position out of the corner of his eye. This was to take him out of the muzzle brake area. The double arrowhead shape of the muzzle brake was worse on the spotter than the recoil was on the shooter, and he did not wish to be blasted in the face. Jack turned the scope on the plane as it circled once before coming in to land.
The plane was a Cessna 414 twin engine propeller, very common in the area, and a
favorite with drug smugglers. The pilot was good, setting the gear down without a bounce on the end of the runway and holding the nose up until the last minute. The plane taxied to the hangar, where a man in a white shirt and khaki pants exited the aircraft. His presence was greeted with great respect, and he was led to the canopy out of the sun.
Bags followed and were placed on the ground next to the large outdoor table. Another man exited the aircraft, carrying a large black hard-shell suitcase. He set it up on the table and laid out a variety of equipment. He appeared to be measuring the quality of the product in the bag and immediately got to work.
“Well?” Jack asked his spotter.
He was comparing the face in his scope with the one on the paper in front of him. The hair was different. Look at the eyes, he remembered. He returned to the scope to see the man cooperating by removing his sunglasses.
“That’s our boy. The chemical guy is on the list, too, but the man in the white shirt is target one. Whenever you’re ready, Jack.” He paused to press the mic against his throat again. “Target in sight. Be ready.” He got the familiar click-click in response.
Jack took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He adjusted his elbows so his bones were in contact with the ground. The scope was already dialed in to accommodate range and elevation. The area around the position had been adjusted to account for the muzzle brake. A quick swipe of the wrist band removed the sweat from his forehead and eyes. His target was now holding agreeably still as he leaned on the table with both arms and discussed something with the other white man.
“One half-breath and squeeze,” he was prompted.
Jack took up the slack on the trigger, as he settled his sight picture on the man’s chest. The man’s open shirt flapped slightly in the small breeze, and Jack forced himself to ignore the movement. He took the half-breath, as he had been taught by the man beside him, and increased the pressure on the trigger.
The rifle roared as the trigger broke, sending the round across the valley. One thing that had awed Jack when he had first fired the Barrett was that you could actually see the round as it traveled downrange. He regained his sight picture in time to see the round tear into the man’s chest, spinning him around. The sheer kinetic energy of the round tore the right arm off with a shower of blood. The power of the Barrett left no doubt to the fatality of the shot.
Jack’s attention was snapped from the scope by the sound of gunfire. The men around the plane were shooting blindly at the ridge in their general direction. Fortunately, none of them were close, and the range was too great. Jack moved to withdraw, but a hand on his leg stopped him.
“Wait till they’re done.”
Jack watched as the men fired magazine after magazine into the jungle. Most of the fire was directed below them, where the jungle ended at the edge of the airfield. The men only knew their own weapons. Not the range of the Barrett. To conceive that the shot had come from the top of the far ridge was not in their experience.
“I can get the other guy,” Jack whispered.
“No,” The leader replied in his normal voice. “They’ll see the muzzle flash, next time. You extract. I’ll set the charge.”
“Okay.” Jack frowned, but began moving backward in slow motion up the ridge. When he had topped it and was able to turn around, he saw the two security men with rucksacks on, ready to go. He quickly doffed his ghillie suit and rolled the mess of burlap up into a cylinder before strapping it on his own ruck. He was soaked in sweat. Not all from the jungle heat, he admitted to himself.
Accepting the offered CAR-15, he took up a position facing the ridge top. He was soon rewarded with the sight of a pair of boots edging over the top. Jack grabbed a boot and pulled him the last couple of feet and then watched as he silently did the same dance as Jack had done, doffing the ghillie suit and accepting the CAR-15. He pulled back the slide to ensure a round was in the chamber before asking his first question.
“Extraction?”
“Inbound. LZ six,” one of the security man replied. “About seven hours, give or take. Just after dark.”
“Good. That’s got us out on route two. Lead on.”
“Did you get him?” the other security man asked.
The leader just pointed to Jack.
“Yeah, we got him.” Jack couldn’t help but return the grin. He felt goofy, but when he looked, they were all sporting the same silly grin.
“Let’s go,” the leader ordered. “We only have fifteen minutes before the charge blows. You lead, you’re behind him, and Jack’s behind you. I’m trail.”
They all stood and waited for the lead man to get some distance.
“Oh, one more thing,” he added. “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice shot.”
Jack nodded a thank you before turning to follow the point man. The jungle soon swallowed them.
• • •
Seven hours later, Jack sat on the aluminum floor of the Huey helicopter as it flew at treetop level over the jungle. They were soon out over the ocean and heading for the canal. The security team looked asleep, despite the noise.
Jack was too tired to sleep. He looked up to find the leader watching him. Jack had had several hours while they moved through the jungle to think about what he had just done. A lawyer in the States would have said he was guilty of murder. The only thing that separated what he had done from murder was a signature on a piece of paper. The President had decided that the man was a threat to the security of the United States, and had authorized the mission to kill him.
Jack wondered if he was any different from a Mafia hitman. He reminded himself of the thick file he had seen on the man, the many crimes: murder, drug trafficking, slavery. They had let the snipers see it all. There was no doubt the world was a better place as a result of Jack’s actions today.
Over the last couple of hours, he had made peace with what he had done. It was only then that he had noticed he had not taken a turn at point. The boss had placed him in the slack position on purpose, knowing his mind would be occupied. He looked at his friend now and got a grin.
“You okay with all this?” Sam asked.
Jack nodded and grinned back.
“Think you can do it again? I have room on my team for one more, and I’m getting ready to retire.”
Jack looked at the other two men. They were now awake and watching the conversation. He got a nod of approval from one and then the other. It was a small group. He had been accepted.
“Yeah, I’ll stay.”
“Good.” Sam smiled. “Look at it this way, Jack. He went out like we all want to go.”
“How’s that?”
“Standing up!” they all answered.
• • •
“Jack . . . ? Jack? You still with us?”
“Huh?” He turned his head to find Sydney and Eric giving him a puzzled look. Evidently, he had zoned out for a moment.
“Kinda left us there for a moment, boss. You okay?”
“I’m all right.”
“Do you know this guy?” Sydney asked.
He turned his head back to look out the window with a sigh.
“Yeah . . . Yeah, I do.”
The state of Ohio holds 44,778 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 30,001 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY-FIVE—
Jack rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at the same page for over fifteen minutes now, and still not read a word. The lack of sleep was catching up to him. He was currently on the jet with his crew en route to Kalamazoo, Michigan. The local FBI had been notified, and surveillance had been set up on Sam’s house. So far, no activity had been reported, other than someone picking up the mail. It had been determined that the man was Sam’s brother-in-law. Surveillance was then set up to watch him.
Last report, thirty minutes ago, revealed nothing new. Jack turned and rested his head on the window. The Midwest snow-covered countryside streamed past thirty-thousand feet below. He wat
ched as the checkerboard pattern of farmers’ fields appeared and disappeared. Jack had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. Should he storm the place with a SWAT team? Maybe just walk up and ring the bell? Do I hug him, or just arrest him? He was suddenly pissed at Sam for putting him in this position.
He looked up to see Sydney looking over Eric’s shoulder at the computer screen. Eric was working out well. He was over the initial shock, and working along with everybody without any problems. Sydney was right: the kid had talent. He shifted his gaze to Larry. He was a mirror image of himself. He looked ready to drop. Jack knew when to stop fighting it. Twenty minutes, he told himself. He repeated it three times as he stretched out in the seat. He took one deep breath and was asleep.
• • •
Paul was tired, also. He had been up late into the night monitoring the news networks and websites, waiting for news about Sam. Finally, he had fallen asleep in his chair, and now his neck was stiff as he worked under the truck. He had the old stereo he kept in the garage tuned to the news station, with the volume turned up high to be heard over the sound of the portable heater. He replaced the plug in the oil pan, before carefully pulling the full receptacle out from under the truck with him as he went. Despite being careful, he still sloshed a couple of large drops out onto the concrete. He ignored it while he carried the basin to a large twenty-gallon drum he kept in the corner for used oil. After dumping it in to drain, he left the basin balanced on its side to allow the last drops to find their own way in. He pulled a few quarts of fresh oil down from the shelf and was halfway through the second quart when he was interrupted.
He never heard them coming.
• • •
Jack had been surprised when they had pulled up behind the two UPS trucks. After stomping his way through the snow, he made it to the sidewalk.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Front one,” came the answer. “Second one is the real deal.”
