“Let’s take a look around and make sure we’re good to go,” he said.
“I agree,” Ellenshaw added. “This is too important to just walk away from with nothing to show for it but high hopes.”
Acheson sighed, irritated by Ellenshaw’s presence even more now that the action was over.
They spent the next thirty minutes poking around the area, looking for hidden entrances, exits, or hide sites. The lack of a search dog made it more difficult—Acheson felt another twinge of regret at the loss of Zeke—but the humans were no less apt at ferreting out the telltale clues using methods other than scent. Communication with the TOC was fruitless, and Helena offered nothing substantive. Acheson regarded the collapsed mineshaft, mindful of the fading daylight. He felt worry squirming about in his gut, but there was nothing to validate it.
“It’s never easy, is it?”
Acheson turned around. A few feet behind him stood Ellenshaw, his hands on his hips, the bloodied bandage crumpled in one fist. He also surveyed the flattened hillock before them, his expression a rueful one.
“I used to do this, before you came on board. Not as artfully, and never with such great skill, but I’ve sent a few of these... things... back to Hell on occasion. And I always had a hard time believing a mission was truly complete.”
“You ever blow one?”
Ellenshaw studied him for a moment. “A containment operation? No... never, thank God. Though there were times when I was certain I had.”
Acheson motioned toward what remained of the mine. “I halfway want to dig everything up and make sure.”
Ellenshaw nodded slowly. “I understand the feeling.”
Sharon approached. She held her MP-5 in both hands, a combat stance that communicated to Acheson her uneasiness as clearly as a flashing neon sign advertised the location of a roadside diner.
“Area is secure,” she reported. “No fortified exits or hide sites, no evidence of foot or vehicular traffic that didn’t originate with us.”
Acheson checked his watch. “Okay... let’s boogie. Follow-on attack is scheduled to commence in a little over an hour. We need to be way clear before then.” The follow-on attack would be conducted by U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers carrying Longrod Penetrators, a munition that had been introduced during the 1991 Gulf War. An effective weapon, it had decimated scores of deeply buried Iraqi bunkers. On paper, their combat effectiveness stood at nearly 100%.
“Let’s saddle up, people!” Sharon said over the radio net. “We’re done here!”
The team retreated to the Humvees.
CHAPTER 3
The sun touched the peaks of the mountains to the west, bathing them in a halo of fiery orange. While Cecil drove, Acheson regarded the mountaintops from behind his sunglasses as the Humvee bounced across the desert, retracing its path to the TOC. No one spoke; there was nothing to be said. The job was done until they heard otherwise. The only thing left now was for them to get comfortable with it and perhaps celebrate the fact they had survived it. Acheson rubbed his face with one hand. Gritty sand clung to it. He had tried to scrub it off, but with no success.
“Fast movers on the left,” Cecil noted.
Acheson leaned forward and looked through the windshield, catching a glimpse of the two F-15E Strike Eagles as they slid past at 15,000 feet, their tapered noses pointed in the direction from which the two Humvees had come. Acheson had no idea what arrangements the group had made with the Air Force. More than likely, the Air Force was given a cover story, just like everyone else. Maybe they’d been told Al Qaeda had an underground hideout in the Arizona desert. Whatever worked. Acheson leaned back in his seat.
His radio headset crackled to life.
“Six, this is TOC. Steel on target,” George Sanders said over the radio. “Strike flight reports steel on target.”
“TOC, this is Six. Roger that. It’s a wrap. Start packing up. We’ll be onsite in ten minutes, over.”
“Roger that, Six. TOC, out.”
Acheson closed his eyes for a moment as the vehicle continued to hurtle across the desert at a good forty-five miles an hour. He felt the tension slowly draining out of him, leaving in its wake a jittery kind of exhaustion. He yearned to be back in Los Angeles, and the feeling made him smile. One of the most violent cities in the world, and Acheson felt safe there.
“Hey, Nacho.” Acheson looked over his shoulder. Nacho Delgado sat in the left rear bucket seat. “Zeke was tops, man. You did a fantastic job with that dog, and he went out doing exactly what you taught him. I’ve got to thank you for that. Without your dogs, some of us might be tits-up back there.”
“Thanks, man.”
“But one thing—stop getting attached to them.” Acheson nudged his sunglasses up on his nose. “Easy say, hard do, but that’s what’s got to happen. You started freaking back there, and I don’t want to see that again. Dogs I’m willing to part with. People I’m not. You reading me on this, Nacho?”
“I hear you, man,” Nacho responded softly.
Acheson pulled his SigArms P220 from its holster. He made sure there was a round in the pipe and that the hammer had been decocked. Just busywork. Something to keep his mind off the forlornness in Nacho Delgado’s voice.
###
Ten minutes later, the Winnebago RV came into view. It lay in deep shadow, as the sun was only a fiery afterglow on the horizon.
“TOC, this is Six. Crank it up and turn around, we’re getting out of Dodge. Over.” There was no response, and the RV did not move as instructed. Acheson frowned. What the hell, were the radios fritzed now?
“TOC, this is Six. You copy my last? Over.”
Cecil slowed the Humvee. “What the fuck?”
Acheson leaned forward. The door to the RV stood wide open, sagging on its torn hinges.
“Guns, guns, guns!” Acheson said over the radio. “Shake at the TOC!”
Cecil accelerated again and cranked the Humvee’s steering wheel hard to the left, sending up a cloud of dust as he veered away from the RV.
“Muthafuck!” he snarled. “We was almost gone!”
“Go around back,” Acheson told him. Over the radio: “Five, this is Six. You guys take the front, we’re coming in from the rear, over.”
Sharon’s reply was terse. “Roger that.”
From the back seat came the sounds of metal-on-metal as safeties were clicked off and weapons were cycled. Nacho and Julia were ready. Acheson pulled his MP-5 from its tactical carry harness and charged it up. Cecil flipped on the Humvee’s lights as he charged past the RV and fishtailed to a halt thirty feet behind it. Acheson, Julia, and Nacho bailed out immediately.
“Cecil, stay with the vehicle!” Acheson ordered the instant his boots hit the ground. “Keep an eye out!”
“Damn straight,” Cecil shot back. He already had his two-tone Colt 10mm in his right hand.
“Five, dismount and take up overwatch positions while we go in. Leave Ellenshaw in the Humvee, over.”
The second Humvee slid to a halt, kicking up another cloud of dust. Its doors flew open, and before Sharon Thomas could respond, Robert Ellenshaw flung himself out of the vehicle and ran toward the RV as fast as he could. Behind him, Chiho Hara struggled to chase him down. Acheson swore to himself as he ran.
He got to the RV first and flattened against the side of the vehicle next to the door. Ellenshaw pounded up and did the same, his jaw set, breathing hard and fast. The two men regarded each other for a moment before Acheson held up a hand and signaled that he would go in first. Ellenshaw nodded and shouldered his M4.
Acheson sprung into the doorway, his MP-5 at the ready. The disemboweled remains of George Sanders lay draped across the threshold, his eyes wide and staring and full of dust. His neck had been torn open, the hallmark of feeding ghouls. Acheson stepped on the body—there was no other way—and hurled himself into the RV. Two other bodies in similar condition lay inside. Their blood was splattered across the expensive radio consoles and the r
ubber-matted floor. Heather Jensen and Philip Mack had been happy people in life. They had departed it anything but.
Acheson checked the small bathroom and found it empty. The sleeping area was also vacant, the twin-sized bed unrumpled. No one had been attacked back here. Everything had gone down out in the RV’s salon.
“Where is she?”
Ellenshaw stood in the salon near the radios, and Acheson could tell his panic was cresting. Julia crept in behind him, all business. She looked over George’s body first, then at Heather and Philip. She pulled the Beretta 92F pistol from Philip’s right hand and sniffed it, then toed a single cartridge with her right foot.
“One round from Phil,” she said. “George and Heather’s weapons are still holstered.”
“Where is she?” Ellenshaw asked again, louder this time. “Where’s Helena?”
“She might’ve escaped,” Julia said. “She might be hiding nearby—”
Ellenshaw pushed past her, almost knocking Julia on her ass as he bolted out the door. “Helena! Helena!”
Julia straightened her gear and looked at Acheson, her lips compressed into a tight line. Acheson nodded. If the TOC team had gotten off only one round, then the chances Helena Rubenstein had somehow escaped the carnage and made it to safety were on the high side of astronomical.
“Five, this is Six.”
“Go ahead, Six.”
“TOC team is dead, Rubenstein is missing. Your team’s with Ellenshaw, but don’t go too far. Over.”
A pause. “Roger that, Six. Breaking station, over.”
“Roger. Six out.”
Julia watched Acheson as he headed for the door. “What’s the plan?”
“We stick to procedure. We clean up and get out of here.”
“We’re just going to...” Julia shrugged her shoulders after a moment, and Acheson reached out and touched her arm.
“The ROE’s clear on this, Jules. Help me with Sanders.”
The two of them lugged the corpse into the RV. When they were finished, Acheson stepped outside and hurried to Cecil’s Humvee. Ellenshaw, Sharon, and Chiho were a hundred yards away. The older man was still calling out for Helena.
“What’s the deal?” Cecil asked when Acheson walked up. “Rubenstein’s gone?”
Acheson opened the right rear door and pulled out a box from beneath the seat. It held six body bags. He opened it and counted out three, then closed the box and put it back.
“Stay sharp. We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.” Acheson scooped up the body bags and slammed the door shut.
“What about Rubenstein?” Cecil called after him.
Acheson didn’t answer. He loped back to the RV, body bags under one arm, MP-5 in his free hand.
Ellenshaw continued calling out for Helena Rubenstein.
Excerpt:
HACKETT’S WAR
By Stephen Knight
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004W48LZQ
“This making war for cash thing is almost starting to get old,” Otis said as he lay stretched out in the hide site. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald, black head, and his breath was heavy, almost labored. Ever since leaving the U.S. Army, he had put on forty pounds. Everyone in the company said the extra weight would kill him one way or the other. Otis presumed that meant his fat black ass was getting too slow for the battlefield, so he proved them all wrong by entering into an extreme exercise regimen that none of the other troops could match. The funny thing was, it did nothing to reduce his expanding midsection and nascent man-boobs. As long as Otis continued eating like a horse, he was going to be a hefty, hefty boy.
“Anytime you want to quit, you just let me know,” Hackett said. He was stretched out beside Otis, lying on his stomach on a hillside some 60 meters from the road. He scanned the area below through his binoculars. The humidity was high and uncomfortable, and like Otis, Hackett sweated beneath the bug spray and sun block. Unlike Otis, he was not five foot nine inches tall and two hundred and sixty pounds; he was six foot three and much leaner, tipping the scales at one ninety-five.
“I’m gone after this year’s bonus,” Otis said.
“No bonuses this year.”
“Then next year, damn it.”
“No bonus next year, either. I’ve decided I want to buy a Lamborghini in every color of the spectrum. Sorry.”
“Well shit then, boss. Guess you’re stuck with me and my bitchin’.”
Hackett smiled and surveyed the gently rolling hills on the other side of the road. “Only until I decide to fire you.”
“Man, with all the money that’s supposed to be in this convoy, we could all get a nice little bonus,” Otis said.
“The money is not our objective, Otis.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get that—I’ve been awake for the past couple of days, I know what we’re doing here, Hack. But all of that cash is gonna be right there, just waitin’ for us…”
Through the binoculars, Hackett could just barely make out the second sniper team, crouched in their own hide site. The only reason he could see them at all was because he knew exactly where to look. No one else would have such luck.
Below, the assault teams were hidden from view. Two elements lay on either side of the road. The old Ford flat bed truck they had was parked across the road, as if it had experienced a blow out and went out of control. Two of Jerry Fletcher’s shooters milled around the vehicle. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and their weapons and body armor were hidden in the truck’s cab. They acted as if they were looking for a jack. In the far distance, small boats dotted the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Fishing boats, plying their trade.
What I wouldn’t give to be on one of those now, Hackett thought. He dropped the field glasses from his eyes and removed his Kevlar helmet, taking a moment to run a gloved hand across his close-cropped dark hair. He looked over at Otis. Even though the corpulent sniper was all mouth today, he was still on the job; he peered through the M24’s scope with his right eye, keeping the weapon oriented on the road.
“If we have the time, we’ll scope out the cash. If it’s really in dollars, you can have some of it. All right?”
“And the rest of the guys too,” Otis said. “Don’t let it be said I’m a greedy muthafuck. The other guys get their share too, right? I mean, why let a drug lord keep all of that cash? It’s just immoral, man.”
Hackett sighed. “If it doesn’t get stolen from us or explode into flame, then sure.”
He didn’t see the grin spread across Otis’s face, but he could hear it in his voice. “Man, that is simply awesome. Taking a couple of million bucks from a drug lord. That’s money well earned.”
Hackett grunted and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. The targets would be arriving at any moment now. Below, a man pulled a laden burro down the hillside road. He looked like a common campesino, his skin coffee-colored from years of exposure to the sun. The packs on the burro’s back were full of some produce. Bell peppers? Hackett wondered idly. The burro’s plodding pace kicked up a small amount of dust as it walked.
“Shotgun Six, Floater. Vehicle traffic headed southbound. Three targets matching the description. Headed directly into the engagement area, over.”
The voice was loud over Hackett’s tactical radio headset even though the speaker was dozens of miles to the west on a ship outside Mexico’s territorial waters. Despite the distance, the folks aboard the ship had eyes in the sky high overhead, small unmanned aerial vehicles that saw everything. Hackett pointed the binoculars down the road. Sure enough, there was the gleam of sunlight reflecting off glass and chrome.
“Roger that, Floater. Hammer Two-Six, you are a go, you are a go. Remember, we need the principal alive, everyone else can go tango uniform if required, over.”
Jerry Fletcher’s voice was clipped but even. “Shotgun Six, Hammer Two-Six, roger all.”
“Time for some shootin’,” Otis said, as he stretched one last final time. “Then hopefully, it’l
l be time for some countin’.”
“Blessed are the beasts with the one track mind,” Hackett said. “You ready to line up on some targets?”
Despite everything, despite all the razzing he took for his weight, no one could ever pretend that Otis Johnson was anything but a cold-hearted predator. As he looked through the M24’s telescopic sight, his index finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger itself as the first red Range Rover came around the bend. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke.
“Oh yeah…”
Excerpt:
NO LIMIT
By Fred Anderson
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003LBSJT4
The westering sun hung low in the sky by the time I pulled the Jeep into the driveway. I checked the mailbox—nothing—and walked across the threadbare lawn to my two-bedroom bungalow. Bungalow. That’s what the realtor had called it when she led me on the grand tour, all four rooms of it. Shanty might be more appropriate. The cool amber light did nothing to mute the hideous teal of the flaking stucco, and so many shingles were missing from the roof I worried I might be in danger of drowning should it ever rain. Maybe it was nice forty years ago when it was built, but the ensuing years had not been kind.
I guess I could say the same about myself.
The creak of the wooden steps up to the front stoop shattered the still evening. With each step the stoop shuddered. Bits of stucco, rubbed off the side of the house by its movement, rained to the ground below, and wisps of dust puffed out of the gap between the two structures. I wondered if the whole ramshackle thing was going to peel away from the side of the house with a scream of rusty nails and dump me unceremoniously in the dirt in a pile of splinters and broken bones, but it didn't. Thank God for small favors.
Inside the house, I tugged off my tie and draped it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. I rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat, but nothing looked appealing. Why couldn’t Sara have at least gone out for a meal with me? Was I that low in her eyes now?
I opened a can of food for Mister Boogers and fed him from a saucer on the counter. Who did I need to impress? I stroked the cat as he ate, soothed by his purr and the brushed cotton feel of his fur. No matter how awful you are, or what you’ve done, a pet loves you unconditionally.
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