Certain Jeopardy

by Jeff Struecker

  Rob swung his legs over the side of the bed and, without knowing why, rose and opened the door to his bedroom. Since he slept in an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he didn’t bother dressing.

  The fluorescent lights in the kitchen glowed too brightly for the hour. He stepped to the breakfast bar and saw his mother dressed in a pink robe and matching slippers. Her disheveled hair looked as if a bird had nested there. Rob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother with anything other than perfect hair. What surprised him most, however, were her eyes. They seemed empty and dark, as if someone had spooned out her soul.

  “You okay?” Rob asked.

  Stacy jumped. “Oh, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that, especially at this hour.”

  “Sorry.”

  She lowered her head and sighed. “No, I’m sorry, Rob. I shouldn’t have snapped. You just startled me.”

  “Next time I’ll whistle or something.”

  “I haven’t heard you whistle since you were a boy. I’m fixing some hot chocolate. Want some?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Stacy pulled another packet of instant cocoa from the pantry, then poured more milk into the saucepan she was using to heat the cocoa.

  “Wouldn’t the microwave be faster?”

  “I guess so. Sometimes doing things the old way is relaxing. My mother always made cocoa this way.”

  Rob slipped onto one of the bar stools. “Whatever works, I guess. I take it you can’t sleep.”

  “I was going to say the same thing to you.” She stirred in the mix. “I haven’t been sleeping well since your dad left.”

  “How come? He’s left plenty of times before.” He regretted the tone. “That sounded worse than I meant it. Force of habit, I guess.”

  “I know it’s hard on you too, just in a different way.” As she spoke, Stacy removed two mugs from the cabinet and set them by the sink then returned to stirring the hot chocolate.

  “You gonna ask?”

  She set the spoon down. “Ask about what? You being out all night or about Chaplain Bartley?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight. Truth is, my brain is fried. I’m just going to trust you.”

  The words punched him in the chest. “I fell asleep at a friend’s, and yes, I met with Bartley. He let me drive his car.”

  Stacy turned. “He let you drive an Army-issue car?”

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those. He let me drive his ’68 Camaro.”

  “Wow. Should I be afraid?”

  Rob smiled. “No. I behaved myself. I’ve only had my license a couple of months; I’m not ready to lose it.”

  “Those are beautiful cars.” She poured the hot liquid into the mugs then carried them to the breakfast bar.

  “So why are you up?”

  “I told you. I can’t sleep.”

  “Why can’t you sleep?”

  “Just getting old, I guess.” She sipped from the cup. “Drink your hot chocolate.”

  “Mom, you’ve been nagging me about telling you what I’m doing and where I’m going. It’s time you be open with me. You never get up in the middle of the night. What’s eating you? Is it that woman in the hospital?”

  “Lucy? She’s part of the problem. I’m worried about her.”

  “The chaplain said he thinks you’re carrying some kinda burden and that I should be sensitive to it. Well, he’s right. I can see something is chewing you up.”

  “It’s nice of you to ask—”

  “You don’t get to ask what’s going on in my life and expect an honest answer if you won’t be honest with me.” He stood.

  “No, wait.” Stacy set her cup down.

  Rob returned to the stool.

  “It’s your father. The day he left I got a call from a doctor. A civilian doctor.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would a civilian doctor call you about Dad unless … he’s sick and hiding something.”

  Stacy nodded, and Rob watched as a tear began to run down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. Rob’s stomach went into freefall. He looked into the cup of hot chocolate as if it held some answers.

  “Apparently your father went to see the doctor the morning he got called up. At first the doctor didn’t want to talk about it, but I tricked him into telling me the truth. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

  “You got a right to know.” Rob was surprised by how soft his words came out. “What did he say?”

  “He wants to run some more tests.” The tears began to flow. “Not certain … blood … intestines … cancer …” Her shoulders heaved with each sob.

  A moment later Rob held his weeping mother in his arms.

  His eyes burned.

  CHAPTER 47

  JOSE’S FIRST THOUGHT AFTER exiting the panel truck was of his wife. The image of her face, the smell of her hair, the music of her laugh struck his mind with such force he almost doubled over from the pain of it. By the time he had taken his third step down the dark alley the likeness of his children played on his mind. He could hear each voice, see them sleeping soundly in their beds, arguing over which cartoon to watch, and driving him insane with inane questions. He would pay any amount of money, endure any kind of pain, to be annoyed like that again. Their mother lay in a hospital fighting for her life. They might lose her and he wouldn’t be there. Instead, he might end up lying on the street, afloat in a sea of his own blood. For all he knew, his children would be orphans before the sun set on the coming day.

  By the time he took his fifteenth step, those images and thoughts had been packed away in the vault every soldier kept in his mind. In a single fluid motion, Jose dropped the night-vision goggles over his eyes. The dark alley came alive in yellow-green hues. He started jogging. Moyer had dropped him off a little over a mile away from the target building. Without equipment Jose could jog a mile in less than eight minutes. With gear it took closer to eleven. Not track star speeds but respectable for a man his age. But even eight minutes was an eternity in a battle situation. He picked up the pace.

  Keeping close to the westernmost buildings, Jose plodded forward, the barrel of his automatic weapon pointed at a spot on the ground three feet in front of him. His eyes scanned the alley ahead and each door and window he passed. At this hour every business was closed, but that didn’t mean a janitor couldn’t suddenly emerge from an alley door with a mop and bucket in hand.

  The darkness combined with the tall concrete tilt-up buildings to form a stygian valley. He whispered, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … check that … though I jog through the valley of the shadow of death …”

  He stopped at every intersection of alley and street, peeking around corners to assess threat or locate observers. So far the only movement he had seen was a bit of paper blown by a breeze and the scurrying of a rat startled by Jose’s footsteps. In training they called this urban warfare. More and more battles were fought not on open fields but in city streets. His tours in Iraq had all involved working through dangerous streets that harbored snipers or men with rocket-propelled grenades. Pavement was the hallmark of twenty-first-century warfare.

  He had no idea where J.J. and Caraway may have gone or what condition they might be in. He planned to make radio contact once he got closer to the scene. For now, he followed the sound of the helicopter thunder. The overhead sounds had changed, doubled in intensity. Another helicopter had arrived and, like the first, was using a spotlight to search the streets. As much as it concerned Jose that there were now extra eyes in the sky, he felt thankful for one thing: The enemy just might lead him straight to his friends.

  * * *

  MOYER STUDIED THE GPS display. He was one street over from Rich and Pete.

  “Shaq, report.”

  “Target vehicles remain on previous tack. We’re following about a half mile back.”

  “Have the helos spotted you?”

  “Negative, Boss.
Best guess is they’re searching for Billy and Colt.”

  “Agreed. Jose is on foot and heading to the scene.”

  Rich’s momentary silence said more than words. “Understood, Boss. I still think we need to go back.”

  “No can do, Shaq. God knows I want to, but we stick with the mission.” Moyer heard the first syllable of a curse before Shaq caught himself. “Stay on the vehicles, Shaq. In a few moments I’ll cut up to your street and we’ll switch places so they don’t get suspicious. In the meantime I’ve got to make a call.”

  What Moyer wanted to do was radio his members on the ground, but his radio was behind him in the van. To reach it he’d have to pull over, and he didn’t want to lose the seconds. He had to trust his men, trust their training.

  Moyer slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He forced his mind to calm, picked up his encrypted phone, and punched in a two-digit number. He formulated his words while he waited for the call to connect.

  * * *

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Caraway’s words were two levels below a whisper.

  “I’m going to do a quick recon of the building.” J.J. pulled his night-vision goggles on. Both he and Caraway had used them to change the video-surveillance batteries but removed them for the close-up work with the gooseneck spy cam. Night-vision technology had many advantages but was more a problem than a help when dealing with small objects up close. When the chopper had arrived on scene and Moyer ordered the bugout, they hadn’t had time to don them again. Now with a few seconds free, J.J. decided to take a better look around the inside of the building’s work area. Night vision worked on a complex electronic principle of light amplification, meaning there had to be at least a small amount of light available. Dim moonlight worked well outside, but there was no moon inside. J.J. reached for his flashlight and turned it on.

  “What do you expect to find?”

  J.J. knelt by Caraway. “Roll on your side.”

  Caraway did, and J.J. pulled two 9mm clips from the man’s vest and set them within Caraway’s reach. He then took Caraway’s weapon, ejected the partially used clip, and replaced it with a full one.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “This is an industrial building. I’m betting there’s an industrial first-aid kit. Kick back while I go look. Feel free to shoot anyone who comes through the door—just don’t shoot me. I’m the only guy in the world who likes you.”

  “Yeah, right. We’ve been buddies for years.”

  J.J. stopped and stared at Caraway through the goggles. “We have the future to fix that.” He rose and started his search, pointing the flashlight ahead of him. The goggles multiplied the dim light, providing greater visibility than the flashlight could on its own.

  The wide room was filled with stacks of cardboard, spools of binding wire, several large compressors, and a woodworking area with sheets of particle board. About half of the work area contained parts of metal folding chairs. J.J. assumed the metal parts were made elsewhere and assembled here for shipping.

  Two minutes after he started his search, he found what he was looking for: a two-foot-by-three-foot blue metal box with a red cross and the words EMERGENCIA MEDICO painted on the front. J.J. removed the case from the wall and returned to Caraway.

  “Miss me?” J.J. removed the night-vision goggles and pointed the flashlight beam at the first-aid kit.

  “More than life itself, sweetheart.”

  “Okay, now you’re scaring me. It must be the blood loss.” J.J. removed two large steripads and a roll of Corban wrap. He placed the sterile pads on each wound and held them in place with the self-adhering wrap.

  Caraway made no complaints, but his body language betrayed the pain he was experiencing. J.J. touched the man’s face. His skin was cold and clammy. Shock was setting in.

  In the kit J.J. found a bottle of 800mg ibuprofen tablets. “Just what the doctor ordered: Ranger candy. Can you swallow this without water?”

  Caraway put the large white pill in his mouth and bit. It took four tries but he managed to force the pill down. “You know, too much of this stuff is bad for your liver.” Caraway laughed at his joke. J.J. feared delirium was just around the corner.

  A voice poured from J.J.’s earpiece. “Colt, Billy, this is Doc. Do you read?”

  J.J. keyed his mike. “Doc, this is Colt. We hear you.”

  “I am close to the scene. Status report.”

  At first J.J. couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you …”

  He didn’t want to use the word alone in case others were listening. “Are you coming to the party stag?” “Yep. Couldn’t get a date. Status report.”

  J.J. decided cryptic talk was useless. Their cover had been blown, men were searching for them, a helicopter circled overhead— better to go with direct communication. “Billy took one in the leg. I’m okay. We’re about half a click from the scene. West-facing building. Wood door.”

  “Roger that. On my way.”

  The exterior door exploded open and two beams of light pierced the darkness. Caraway was the first to fire. A half second later, the room was filled with the explosive reports of gunfire. The acrid smell of spent gunpowder clogged the air.

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF A firefight poured through Jose’s earpiece. He stopped for a moment, crossed himself, and sprinted down the alley, no longer caring if he were seen or not.

  * * *

  THE RADIO COMMUNICATION POURED over Moyer’s radio just as he hit the END button on his phone and was preparing to dial Shaq again. “Billy took one in the leg. I’m okay. We’re about half a click from the scene. West-facing building. Wood door.”

  “Roger that. On my way.”

  “Roger—” BANG. Pop-pop-pop …

  Moyer recognized the sound of 9mm pistol fire and that of automatic weapons. Something inside of him died.

  CHAPTER 48

  IT TOOK EVERY FIBER of Rich Harbison’s highly developed sense of discipline to keep from cranking the steering wheel and heading north on the next street available. Despite his reactive instinct, he kept the accelerator pressed just far enough to match the speed of the van and car in front of him. Following at this distance took concentration. At any moment the suspect cars could make a sudden turn and speed down a side street, and Rich would be impaled on the horns of a dilemma. He could accelerate and give chase, which would alert his targets that they were being followed, or he could let them slip away. A thought occurred to him. If he lost them, Moyer might feel forced to let him and Pete go after J.J. and Caraway.

  That’s when the greater principle of what he was doing came to the forefront. They were not police chasing car thieves; they were not tracking down a drug lord; they were risking their lives to keep safe a man who could further Iran’s nuclear weapons program. Rich didn’t have the look of an intellectual, but appearances—especially his appearance—could be misleading. He might be basketball tall and have the look of a dumb jock, but he was more knowledgeable about world affairs than most men. That knowledge kept him focused on the vehicles ahead. In the summer of 2008, the Israeli military conducted exercises meant to show their ability to attack key locations in Iran. For weeks the world wondered if the Middle East would become, as one Iranian leader said, a fireball.

  “They’re slowing.” Pete sat in the passenger seat rubbing his legs and shoulders. Rich didn’t have to ask. Pete was still stiff and sore from his run-in with the car. Every two hours he took pain meds— Tylenol first, ibuprofen two hours later. The in-car calisthenics were Pete’s way of getting ready for action.

  “They’re testing us to see if we’re following them.” Shaq kept his speed the same. To slow might give them away. “They’re going to figure out they’re being followed.”

  The cell phone on the seat between them delivered Moyer’s voice. “I’m behind you, Shaq. Peel off and I’ll follow for a while. Take the next street over and parallel our course.”

  Shaq looked in his rearview mirror. It took a
moment for him to spot the panel truck. Moyer drove with his lights off.

  “Roger that.” Shaq turned north and immediately increased his speed.

  * * *

  J.J. FELT A MOMENT of joy when he heard Jose’s voice. Another gun and a medic were just what they needed, but the joy faltered when he realized Jose was the only reinforcement on the way. That meant Moyer and the others must have followed the caravan. Caraway had been right. J.J. knew it all along, but an unspoken hope had taken up residence in his brain. The hope died when the wood door caved in.

  Caraway fired a half second before J.J. The sound of their weapons bounced off the concrete walls of the building. Two bursts of AK-47 fire joined the chorus then everything fell silent. The moment the door slammed open, two beams from flashlights sliced the darkness. One light dropped and rolled to the side, casting its beam along the concrete floor. The second light moved to the side. J.J. realized he and Caraway had shot the same man. How many did that leave? He knew two men had been pursuing them—Moyer had seen them exit the building. Had others joined the chase? What worried him was the van Moyer said was headed to the building. It could be filled with half a dozen armed men.

  A soft glow pushed some of the darkness from the storage room. J.J. donned the night-vision gear and peered over the bolstered work table. A man lay unmoving on the floor. He could see the beam from the other light sweeping over the body then the door frame that separated the back entry room from the cavernous work area. That was their advantage. The attackers had to come through that door to get them unless they found another door. J.J. knew there had to be other doors. Behind him was a metal roll-up, but it was locked down tight. A standard-size door was positioned next to it. Unlike the back door, it was metal in a metal frame.

  “Come on, come on,” Caraway mumbled. “I can’t stay conscious forever.”

  J.J. whispered. “I see one down. One is behind the wall.” A movement just beyond the exterior door caught his attention. “There’s movement just outside.”