Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “A thousand bucks? Hell, who do I have to kill?”

  Chapter 12: Camaraderie

  Jared and I walked across the clearing toward the tables on the north side of the island. The others were still sitting around drinking beer, but someone had started a camp fire at the northeast side of the clearing. Probably to keep the mosquitoes away.

  “You own this whole island?” Jared asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I bought it about six years ago and have been improving it ever since. That little house to the west is my caretaker’s home. That’s where you’ll be working. First thing in the morning, we’re going to pick up appliances and fixtures.”

  As we approached the group, Deuce stood up and came out to meet us. “Hi, Jared. I’m Deuce Livingston. I’m a friend of your dad’s.”

  The two shook hands then Deuce turned to me, “We’re going to have visitors in about twenty minutes. Tony, Carl, and Jeremy are lighting three more fires.”

  Signal fires, I thought. So the chopper can see which way the wind’s blowing in the dark. “We’ll need a couple of bright flashlights,” I said.

  “Already got ‘em,” Deuce replied as two whooshing sounds came from the southeast and southwest sides of the clearing at nearly the same time. Seconds later, a third fire roared to life on the northwest side. “Tony and Jeremy have them. Wind’s out of the east.”

  “This is a freaking LZ!” Jared exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Looks like we’re going to have a party tonight. Come on over to the tables and I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  We walked over to where the others were, as Tony and Dawson joined us. I said, “Everyone, this is Marine Corporal Jared Williams. Jared, you already met Commander Livingston. This is his fiancé, Coast Guard Petty Officer Julie Thurmond, these two guys are Navy Special Warfare Operator Tony Jacobs and Coast Guard Petty Officer Jeremy Dawson. That’s my caretaker, Carl Trent and this is Cindy Saturday.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” he said, shaking hands all around. Then to me he asked, “I thought you said 11?”

  “Carl’s wife is putting their kids to bed and Chyrel Koshinski, our CIA tech guru, is monitoring communications in the bunkhouse.”

  “You’re all military and government?”

  “Not me and Charlie,” Carl said. “We just look after things.”

  “There’s beer in the cooler,” I said. “And probably some stone crab claws in the pot on the stove over there. Help yourself.” I could hear the whumping sound of an approaching helicopter. “Tony, you and Jeremy, come with me.”

  The three of us walked over to the east side of the clearing, where I stood close to the tree line. I positioned Tony and Jeremy about ten feet from me at angles, so their flashlights wouldn’t blind me.

  The chopper flew over slowly, coming out of the northeast. He noticed our fires and turned west, moving out over the water. Then he turned and came back over the trees on the west side and I said, “Hit the lights.” Both flashlights came on, illuminating me clearly for the pilot to see. I spread my arms wide, then moved my forearms up and back out to the side, signaling him forward. When he was nearly over the center, I stopped, keeping both arms fully extended out to my sides and he came to a hover. I then moved my arms downward and he began descending. When he made contact with the ground, I brought my arms all the way down and crossed them, then signaled him to cut the engine.

  As the rotor blades started to slow, I heard some familiar voices. The three of us walked toward the chopper and Deuce joined us, with Jared. Deuce made the introductions this time. “Guys, this is Corporal Jared Williams. Jared, meet fellow Marines, Staff Sergeant Scott Grayson and Sergeant Jeremiah Simpson. These other two are Special Warfare Operator First Class Donnie Hinkle and Special Warfare Operator Third Class Glenn Mitchel.”

  Jared shook hands with the four men and Hinkle, the Australian, said, “Another bloody Jarhead?”

  “Go put your gear in the bunkhouse, Hinkle” I said, “before I thump your ass.”

  Chyrel came out of the newly redesigned bunkhouse as we all walked over to the tables and I introduced her to Jeremy. “Deuce, the Colonel said for the chopper to spend the night and go back tomorrow. A storm is approaching Homestead. I checked it out, it won’t bother us here.”

  Tony and Dawson doused the two southern fires and Carl doused the one on the west side of the bunkhouses. I told them to gather more firewood for the last fire, to ward off mosquitoes. Carl went to the western bunkhouse to turn in and Deuce and Julie headed to the main house.

  Before he left, Deuce said, “Wake me about 0200.”

  “I will,” I said. “We’ll let the others get some rest. Tomorrow you can assign watches.”

  The chopper pilot said he had a hammock he was going to string up in the back of the chopper and headed that way.

  “I think I’ll turn in, also,” Cindy said. “Will there be a chance to do some fishing in the morning?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good night, then,” she said and headed to the Revenge. I walked with her, so I could get a few cases of beer from the pantry under the house. “Some of your friends look pretty scary,” she said. “Is there anything I should know about?”

  “Scary to the wrong people,” I said. “These are the good guys. You can sleep sound tonight, you’ve never been safer in your life.”

  I carried three cases of beer back to the group of men standing and sitting around the fire. As I walked past the door to the house, Deuce stepped out and handed me a thermos and a mug.

  “See you at 0200,” he said and went back inside.

  When I got back to the group, Chyrel said she was going back inside to monitor the storm and would turn in soon. Carl brought out another large cooler full of ice, anticipating we might need it and I put the warm Red Stripe bottles in it. The other one still held a case and I carried it over to the fire.

  “Beer light’s lit, gentlemen,” I said. I knew what would happen next as everyone reached into the cooler. It happens all over the world, whenever military people meet up.

  “So Jared,” Grayson said. “What’s your MOS?”

  “Was,” he said. “Maybe again soon. I was 0317. You?”

  MOS is the acronym for Military Occupational Specialty. Almost always the first question two military people ask when they meet. That, and ‘Where are you from?’

  Grayson and Simpson looked over at me then back at Jared. “Sniper, huh? Germ and me are 8024, Combat Divers. The two Squids there are SEAL snipers. Jacobs is a SEAL EOD specialist and Dawson is Coast Guard Maritime Enforcement, same as Julie. Where’d you serve?”

  “Lejeune mostly,” he replied. “Did two tours in Iraq. What about the Commander and you, Jesse?”

  “Same as you,” I replied.

  “You going to join our little club here, mate?” Hinkle asked. “Seems we’re already a might heavy on long guns.”

  “He’s going back to the Corps,” I said. “For now, anyway.”

  “What about that other lady, Cindy?” Jared asked.

  “Non-combatant,” I said. “She’s here on vacation from Oregon to do some fishing.”

  “So all you guys are some kind of special team with the government?”

  “Department of Homeland Security,” Mitchel said.

  “Caribbean Counter-Terrorism Command,” Simpson added. “Deuce is the team leader, he used to be Tony’s SEAL Team CO. His boss is an Army Colonel. The Colonel’s boss is the Secretary of Homeland Security, who answers to the President.”

  “Tight chain of command. Wait, terrorists in the Caribbean?” Jared asked.

  “It’s a growing threat,” Simpson said. “That’s why our team was created.”

  “So, the Commander is okay with first names?”

  Tony took that one, knowing Deuce longer than anyone here. “When we’re around other officers we call him Commander, but when he’s with the team, he prefers Deuce. Real name’s Russell Living
ston, Junior.”

  “Deuce,” Jared said. “I get it.”

  “Best officer I’ve ever known. He was just a Lieutenant when I met him. One of those officers that never had a problem learning from their non-coms. We had a Master Chief that took Deuce under his wing and brought out the natural leader. Always look for those kind of officers.”

  “You have any confirms while you were in Iraq?” Hinkle asked.

  Jared looked at me and I nodded slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “Eight on my first tour and four on my second.”

  “Blimey! What range, mate?”

  “Nothing really long,” he said. “About a thousand yards was the longest. Most were under 600.”

  “Damn,” said Grayson. “That’s near as long as the Gunny’s shot in the Mog.”

  “Mogadishu?” Jared asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Ancient history.”

  “Maybe,” Simpson said. “But it’s still talked about today, 13 years later. The Gunny here made a 1200 yard shot at a moving target. A warlord that was beating a kid. Stuff of legend.”

  “How come you got out, Jared?” Grayson asked. That was the million dollar question. I knew it would come up and wondered how Jared would handle it. He just lost the only person he could talk to about his demons. Now he was sitting by a fire in the middle of nowhere with seven others who each had their own demons to wrestle. In my experience, warriors were more at ease talking about their psychological problems around others that had the same.

  He looked around the fire at the six men looking at him, firelight playing across their features. Then he looked at me. I could see the panic and fear in his eyes. I reached into the cooler and handed him another beer. He opened it and took a long pull on the bottle. “I was on my second tour and just a few months away from reenlisting. Me and my spotter found a high value target north of Ashraf, the nine of diamonds. This was almost two years ago. It was a pretty easy shot, a bit long at a little over 900 yards and slightly downhill, but the air was dry and no wind at all.”

  Hinkle and Mitchel nodded, affirming that while it was a long shot, it was under ideal weather conditions. “The target was stationary. Sitting in a chair, reading. We got confirmation of identity and clearance to engage. A second after the round left the muzzle, his kid stepped in front of him. She was only eight years old.” He said this last part as he looked down into the flames. “I was accused of killing her intentionally by some CIA spook and got a dishonorable.”

  “Damn,” Tony said. The others just stared at Jared.

  After a moment, Hinkle, who was sitting closest to Jared, reached over and put a firm hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Not your fault, mate. Sometimes shit just happens.”

  There was a chorus of agreements and Hinkle added, “We look though that spyglass and we see everything. We can count the nose hairs sticking out of a bloke’s nostrils. But it’s tunnel vision, mate. We have the power of life and death over the dinks in the reticles. It’s something we all have to carry. We can help ya carry it, mate.”

  Tony sat down cross legged on the ground. “My second tour in Afghanistan,” he started as he stared into the flames, “a kid walked up to me as I was dismantling an IED. Just came out of nowhere. The IED was already diffused anyway, so I guess nobody thought it a problem. The kid had tears running down his cheeks. Couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9. He held out his hand and he had a grenade in it. I could see that the pin was already pulled. Without saying a word, he just dropped it in the hole with the IED. It was a 155 round. I was wearing an explosive suit and dove across a berm into a hole, while I shouted a warning. The grenade went off, setting off the artillery round. The kid’s bloody sandals were left right where he was standing. There wasn’t anything else, though. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on that kid’s face.” Tony looked across the fire at Jared, moisture in both their eyes.

  “Your CIA spook brings us full circle, Jared,” I said changing the subject. “All of you are here tonight because of him.”

  Jared looked up at me quickly, followed by twelve more eyes. I continued, “It’s been determined that the guy Jared was talking about used undue political and financial influence to have him court martialed. He did that because Jared nearly beat him to death for insinuating he killed the girl on purpose. I’m taking Jared to DC to meet with the SecNav and have his dishonorable overturned. It’s a done deal. He’ll be back in uniform by next Monday. The CIA spook Jared beat up was none other than Jason Smith.” As Jared continued to stare at me, all the others started talking at once, asking questions.

  “Jared, after his assignment in Ashraf, Smith was tapped to head up and create a special team of highly skilled operators to counter a growing threat in the Caribbean. This team. Last winter he pissed off one too many people with his political ambitions and was replaced by an Army Colonel named Travis Stockwell. It was Stockwell that put the ball in motion to have your dishonorable overturned. With a little prodding from me, Deuce and Owen Tankersley.”

  “Owen ‘they thought I knew where the mines were’ Tankersley?” Grayson asked.

  “Yeah, he’s an old friend,” I replied.

  “Heavy hitter for an old friend, Gunny,” Simpson chimed in with a chuckle. “The only active duty Medal of Honor recipient in the Corps.”

  “Smith was transferred to Djibouti,” I continued. “In the last 24 hours we learned that he’d hired two assassins to kill his wife to get her inheritance three years ago. He hired them again to kill me and Deuce yesterday and this morning. The one that tried yesterday is dead and the one that tried this morning is in Gitmo. Smith disappeared in Djibouti about eight hours ago.”

  Jared looked around at the group of warriors around him and came to the obvious conclusion. “You think he’s coming here?”

  “He might. Or he might hire another assassin. When he disappeared, he managed to get over two million dollars from his numbered account in Switzerland.”

  “Think we should set up a watch?” Hinkle asked.

  “No, not tonight. He won’t know his second assassin failed yet and it’ll take him at least 24 hours to get here if he decides to make it personal.”

  “Why’s he want you and the Commander dead?” Jared asked.

  A couple of the guys laughed. Grayson said, “The Gunny and Mister Smith were like oil and water from day one.”

  “Last winter I was captured by a Hezbollah cell on an op in Cuba,” Tony said. “If it wasn’t for these guys here, especially Deuce and Jesse, Smith would have left me there. He wasn’t very happy about their coming back for me, against his orders.” Then he chuckled and held up his right hand, where he was missing the first digit of his index and middle fingers. “Well, they came back for most of me anyway. Hezbollah kept these.”

  Just then, the generator started up, startling the four new arrivals and Jared. “Relax guys,” Tony said. “Just the generator charging the battery packs.”

  “You have electricity here?” Hinkle asked.

  “Newly installed,” I replied. “Charges a bank of 30 deep cycle batteries.”

  “What do you guys do for fun out here?” Jared asked.

  “Mostly work,” I said. “And train. But there’s scuba, snorkeling, and fishing gear. With this many people here, everyone will have to pitch in to bring in enough to eat.”

  We talked late into the night, telling sea stories. Hinkle and Mitchel seemed to be opening up more. When I’d first met them they were aloof and didn’t fraternize much with the other members of the team. Jared seemed to relax more as the night wore on. After midnight, Tony and Jeremy said they were going to turn in. The lights from Chyrel’s part of the bunkhouse were out. Jared said he was tired and asked where he’d be bunking.

  “Come on,” Tony said. “I’ll show you. There’s six bunks left to choose from.”

  After they turned in Grayson said, “He’s having some problems, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Nightmares sometimes. He had a friend in Key
West, a Nam Vet that he could talk to. The guy killed himself a couple of days ago.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him Gunny,” Simpson said.

  “Yeah,” added Hinkle. “Bloke needs to have mates he can talk to that understand his fears.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I said. “I think just being out here, away from Key Weird will be a help. Especially having a bunch of snake eaters around him.”

  “Let’s turn in, G,” Hinkle said to Mitchel. “I think I might want to try some fishing in the morning.” Hinkle and Mitchel headed to the bunkhouse.

  “You can crash too, Jesse,” Grayson said. “Me and Germ will stand your watch. What time did Deuce tell you to wake him.”

  I grinned at the big, black man. “I said we didn’t need a watch tonight.” Grayson was usually a very quiet man, slow to anger. At just under six feet and 240 pounds of solid muscle, he didn’t need to get angry to get his point across. Like most Marine Staff NCO’s he led by example.

  “Yeah, we heard ya,” grinned Simpson. “But, we know how Deuce operates and you’re cut from the same cloth.” Simpson was taller than Grayson but a good 40 pounds lighter. His coffee colored skin and light colored eyes bespoke of mixed ancestry. “Besides, you came out here with three cases of beer and a thermos of coffee. We slept in this morning, Gunny. Go get some rest.”

  “Are you carrying?”

  “Any time we leave Homestead,” Grayson replied. “Portal to portal. Deuce’s orders.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Wake Deuce at 0200, he’s in the main house. Won’t take more than a light tap on the door. I’ll be up at 0500.”

  Since there was the chance of rain, I figured I’d forego sleeping on the ground. So I picked up my bedroll and headed for the bunkhouse. A single 12 volt light mounted to the ceiling was on, when I entered. I dropped my bedroll on the first bunk by the door, unrolled it, removed the blanket and rolled the mat back up.

  “Crashing with the troops, Jesse?” Hinkle asked from his bunk at the far end of the squadbay.